tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76724459744855625732024-02-06T18:25:15.008-08:00Green CascadiaSearching for Adventure and Lost History in Oregon's Forgotten Northwest -
Featuring Mt. Hood and the Clackamas
Bobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00281879570975634257noreply@blogger.comBlogger67125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7672445974485562573.post-88042932495451200822022-09-25T13:08:00.004-07:002022-09-25T13:34:57.879-07:00Bob Koscik - Searching for the Skyline<p><span> </span>Hello, I'm Bob Koscik. Perhaps you found out about me through <i>Oregon Field Guide</i>. I've been wandering the woods of Oregon, looking for traces of time gone by. For the past 20 years, my daughters Eva Rose and Terian Deveyra have been my companions through many of these journeys of discovery. I've also worked with the fine people at <a href="http://www.trailadvocate.org">www.trailadvocate.org</a> for a lot of that time. I'd like to tell you a little bit about myself and what brought me here. I'd also like to talk about the rugged, yet delicate natural places that make the Northwest so special.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifWjbKdEiCCrC0y5F77za3Lv2db1rMDc8Qi312K98PWxPFWzrRmb1ftwTnD2TQn3-HH8ROUM-qe7PY4tAUBQYpCWnb7oo6awEx5-OQ-yD6MMrN_x2lWbrxBKBnQyFHtGlKpDEC171oZs1887u2_ZH1_eeP77S2-6iyFT_sYaaIEsi2jkmG7QKGooUMZA/s4032/bob%20high%20rock%202022.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="377" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifWjbKdEiCCrC0y5F77za3Lv2db1rMDc8Qi312K98PWxPFWzrRmb1ftwTnD2TQn3-HH8ROUM-qe7PY4tAUBQYpCWnb7oo6awEx5-OQ-yD6MMrN_x2lWbrxBKBnQyFHtGlKpDEC171oZs1887u2_ZH1_eeP77S2-6iyFT_sYaaIEsi2jkmG7QKGooUMZA/w283-h377/bob%20high%20rock%202022.jpg" width="283" /></a></div><p><span> </span>I grew up in the Midwest, in Chicago Illinois, about as far removed from Oregon as you can get. It's a place of harsh winters, sprawling farms and factories - the City of Big Shoulders. The winter wind roars across Lake Michigan and slices through your bones like soft cheese. I didn't mind the weather so much; we grew up sledding down suicide hills and waited for hours for buses in the snow. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-iomXxHTNyDe0Oz496eOJL64nHRHIAn5pBnex-Moebn5SZI2JoEDw0DPlb9thpO12zmpLCXCyEs76ojFhtKmBF_j50Kx2Q74I4Hr8r1DY98e3iNR8jyqaJ8XmwikyrzcFAUxD8FiphfIil2F_uCgymmUL5t198umema6D-vGddm_hKiDt_lpLEeOCvw/s3264/20220604_162022.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-iomXxHTNyDe0Oz496eOJL64nHRHIAn5pBnex-Moebn5SZI2JoEDw0DPlb9thpO12zmpLCXCyEs76ojFhtKmBF_j50Kx2Q74I4Hr8r1DY98e3iNR8jyqaJ8XmwikyrzcFAUxD8FiphfIil2F_uCgymmUL5t198umema6D-vGddm_hKiDt_lpLEeOCvw/s320/20220604_162022.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><span> </span>As I left childhood behind, I began to notice the natural places in a different light. Sure, the woodlot preserves and tadpole pools always fascinated me. "Look, they already have tiny legs!" Time does a strange thing: it makes your world smaller. I began to go farther away from the cornfields and small prairie remnants. I wanted to see what the true Earth looked like, in a time before cities and steamships. Eventually, in my late 20's, I came home to Oregon. I hope someday that my bones will nourish the next generation of ancient forest.</p><p><span> </span>Marriage came along, and a baby. Priorities changed, but I couldn't escape the call of the old places, where time seems to stand still. I found a map while wasting time at a used bookshop on Hawthorne Street, from the early 1950s. <i>Metsker's Map of Clackamas County</i>, the map that changed my life. In 1951, the roads and clearcut forests were missing. In their place - trails, wilderness, log cabins and forest rangers. 10, 20 years later it would all change as a nation hungry for timber began to log the untouched places. By the time I arrived in Oregon, the damage had already been done. 50% of the state had been logged in a checkerboard fashion. It literally brought tears to my eyes to realize that the legend of wild Oregon was somewhat of a lie. Much of the wilderness had been taken away. In place, a maze of roads that would stretch to the Moon.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNaJF_pIXIN70xLBtYjcPd5LK-95yj9gLTYr1pOtPncmJ3n8Jz6n9McBWC78TugJp9k9YOBfEae60WQTzkcWE-i4l2zhkACdtK2hfRFrftT7Wz9CqowOaszoOgGvFgsE2InBisZqCulfTJ5zBcXjB2blNg4WKm0IuEbvp19Q51GwbNRurQhiLK2AODIg/s1039/img007.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1039" data-original-width="682" height="474" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNaJF_pIXIN70xLBtYjcPd5LK-95yj9gLTYr1pOtPncmJ3n8Jz6n9McBWC78TugJp9k9YOBfEae60WQTzkcWE-i4l2zhkACdtK2hfRFrftT7Wz9CqowOaszoOgGvFgsE2InBisZqCulfTJ5zBcXjB2blNg4WKm0IuEbvp19Q51GwbNRurQhiLK2AODIg/w311-h474/img007.jpg" width="311" /></a></div><br /><p><span> </span>But, to my great surprise, a few fragile pieces of wild mountains still remained. Places where it was still the same as it ever was, trees too fat to put your arms around. Forests that were older than some countries. And yet, everything was alive. This wasn't an abandoned Roman temple 20 feet down into the dirt; no, this place was alive and breathing. One foot in the ancient, the other foot standing here today. Where else can you experience the past <i>and </i>the future?</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNQa5is4ygWcc-JFfJ6zUtTq6lfsQK2cu_PbqF_71JPRUyxYCnytxjVJBf4EJgcwA2Re6mIwcGXoDVFBwS1mPJf-X6Vev3RGngaoIaSqou7GddvcKbkBO79mitZWJ12D-oBw97dBzorLCPIesqsP6XlSkOIFthdPh787sn-tAcwZOiLwoZEvFhw2ZIQg/s3264/IMG_6258.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="491" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNQa5is4ygWcc-JFfJ6zUtTq6lfsQK2cu_PbqF_71JPRUyxYCnytxjVJBf4EJgcwA2Re6mIwcGXoDVFBwS1mPJf-X6Vev3RGngaoIaSqou7GddvcKbkBO79mitZWJ12D-oBw97dBzorLCPIesqsP6XlSkOIFthdPh787sn-tAcwZOiLwoZEvFhw2ZIQg/w654-h491/IMG_6258.JPG" width="654" /></a></div><br /><p><span> </span>The Trail Advocate guys taught me a lot about trails - how to find and fix them, what tools to use. They also showed me how to live and thrive in a harsh place where the cold rain sometimes falls in sheets. But from the beginning I was home, again. There has always been a part of me that feels connected to these places. I miss my old wool Ranger uniform with the wrecked fedora. It seems strange that the ranger cabins are collapsed and rotten. It feels like yesterday, when you could ask for a cup of coffee from one of those ghosts.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDiCPlOp8zShaUGF5bMwFT34f--J7OMZ-9d9UB3h6EAVM5WKhbW8RM0iRbyGo-GZvsYCpFg7bYdinCXhULYHdgGGoJy_dYw1rSPkWIKwnuyrTCnnH-JlxQQjBR4nKLY6fqqCOnE0djoD3_AdnnMNOxjGXwG3EUciMbopthBrk0IMTTx6_P-S3GJQsCag/s3264/IMG_3046.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="307" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDiCPlOp8zShaUGF5bMwFT34f--J7OMZ-9d9UB3h6EAVM5WKhbW8RM0iRbyGo-GZvsYCpFg7bYdinCXhULYHdgGGoJy_dYw1rSPkWIKwnuyrTCnnH-JlxQQjBR4nKLY6fqqCOnE0djoD3_AdnnMNOxjGXwG3EUciMbopthBrk0IMTTx6_P-S3GJQsCag/w409-h307/IMG_3046.JPG" width="409" /></a></div><br /><p><span> </span>We grew up together, my kids and the forests too. The Mt. Hood National Forest became my home, and in many ways it connected me to my real self when a city just makes you crazy. I began to realize that some of these trails were, perhaps, as old as the forests. Native people have been here for at least ten thousand years. Just imagine that. The United States is only a couple centuries old, and our future is tenuous at best. But the people who lived and thrived here became part of the land. Their cultures were a very celebration of survival, in a place of plenty. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVOKP8xuq-z4Af0ODsfSQRTVCUbr7rbUmxyr9LY0zy5aBGkjUa01KWU142mdYHLM0td13eJp0a_OyvLfpcnS9BpbwqkkCROZelZ30UYZMWnrKWXyGJbhBOrz2hNDs-ReTwVJcV_D1I0tD9C-BqTRZbohhY_rh6oCY8psgHhGU26u7UwuV51yRNSI5mAg/s3264/Lemiti%20at%20night.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="511" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVOKP8xuq-z4Af0ODsfSQRTVCUbr7rbUmxyr9LY0zy5aBGkjUa01KWU142mdYHLM0td13eJp0a_OyvLfpcnS9BpbwqkkCROZelZ30UYZMWnrKWXyGJbhBOrz2hNDs-ReTwVJcV_D1I0tD9C-BqTRZbohhY_rh6oCY8psgHhGU26u7UwuV51yRNSI5mAg/w682-h511/Lemiti%20at%20night.JPG" width="682" /></a></div><p><span> </span>Some of the old trails are long gone. US26 crosses the south flank of Mt. Hood, but before that, it was part of the Oregon Trail: the Barlow Road. Close your eyes and imagine this place without the screaming trucks billowing black smoke into the clear air of the mountains. There, through the dark forest ahead: a well worn trail that has felt the feet of many generations. It's still there, but buried under the thick tar of progress. The people of Warm Springs called this land home, and left very little damage behind. They managed the forests through natural processes, such as controlled burns. But the Earth was, and still is Mother. Today, the sounds of commerce and industry have spread through out the globe. Clearcuts are no longer just a local phenomenon. We are eating the Earth alive.</p><p></p><p><span> </span>Other trails have survived. The old ones, the ancient routes that would take you someplace sacred. There aren't many left - some are popular recreation trails, others forgotten for 200 years with fat firs growing right in the middle of the trail tread. When you go to these places, there is still a strong energy that has been there all along. You realize that the past is just a concept. It is this searching that brought me to the Oregon Skyline Trail.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmKJyUTiFlT0uvw9dpPhHhZdzIT4G-g4e3IXFvXIkDKG6SobkaxRs6wZ0b5Shf5PgO3p_PNSSQ-Kmo556mWp5Tjl1UcnLV-efhVQAUo8ZGgdYesItt1NlGmJ36l8VctX9OZxOHBG7tJwZecj0PBvN-zNZrLkPGNnkCR11-uxxyEtKI2Z30_pYHS3IRLA/s3264/OST%20at%20Pinheads.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="559" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmKJyUTiFlT0uvw9dpPhHhZdzIT4G-g4e3IXFvXIkDKG6SobkaxRs6wZ0b5Shf5PgO3p_PNSSQ-Kmo556mWp5Tjl1UcnLV-efhVQAUo8ZGgdYesItt1NlGmJ36l8VctX9OZxOHBG7tJwZecj0PBvN-zNZrLkPGNnkCR11-uxxyEtKI2Z30_pYHS3IRLA/w419-h559/OST%20at%20Pinheads.JPG" width="419" /></a></div><br /><span> </span>In the summer of 2016, my life was changing yet again. On the eve of divorce, I decided to continue my research into the Oregon Skyline. It had been created with great excitement in 1921, only to fade away into oblivion just 30 years or so later. Equipped with a fat packet of vintage maps and research materials, I started in Government Camp with the intention of finding the lost Skyline Trail. Two months later, I sat my sweaty pack next to the sparkling waters of Olallie Lake. It was over 100 miles of searching, but with my daughter's help I found it, the Mt. Hood National Forest section at least. In 1921, the Trail continued another 200 miles to Crater Lake! Imagine the lost miles yet to be discovered.<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQHuE89cWlJ32xKb3O-3UrpVOfAz0xL5onULjRXVrVYmgpJl1vIU_lcb5rHctrYBjCAETrI1m8azJPah5TfgbEKRTKqemCmfI3_nEo5cqTmUOFgu418_nTn4Gk2CP0cs2IIsPrlO3o0jsqYS5ki4kRVP_-dEym5VeuDZz0q6sihv8KS-xL_xAAwVHVlw/s1024/IMG_20160722_102852_zpshed2xydb.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="388" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQHuE89cWlJ32xKb3O-3UrpVOfAz0xL5onULjRXVrVYmgpJl1vIU_lcb5rHctrYBjCAETrI1m8azJPah5TfgbEKRTKqemCmfI3_nEo5cqTmUOFgu418_nTn4Gk2CP0cs2IIsPrlO3o0jsqYS5ki4kRVP_-dEym5VeuDZz0q6sihv8KS-xL_xAAwVHVlw/w517-h388/IMG_20160722_102852_zpshed2xydb.jpg" width="517" /></a></div><br /><p><span> </span>These explorations became a manuscript, and over time it has evolved into a book. <i>Searching for the Skyline </i>has now been professionally edited and will soon be in publication. It tells the story of the Skyline Trail, as well as the spiritual discoveries that come from spending so much time in a sacred place.</p><p><span> </span>From the beginning, the PBS series <i>Oregon Field Guide</i> has been my favorite. The show literally takes you to the most special places within our borders. For a half hour every Sunday, little Eva would climb on my lap to watch "Papa's Stories". That was certainly our special time, her little legs crossed just like mine as we sit in silence, completely lost in the stories. Steve Amen, the executive producer of the show became my all-time hero and Eva's first TV celebrity. "Who is that, Eva?" I would ask. "Steve Amen!". I looked forward to seeing my friend all week long. The stories inspired me to look deeper into the subtle nature of wilderness. To find little traces of things that you wouldn't normally notice.</p><p>About year or 2 ago, <i>Oregon Field Guide</i> was looking for stories for the next season. At the time, I was wrapping up <i>Searching for the Skyline, </i>and my life was changing yet again. I thought to myself, "well, this is a good chance to put the story of the Oregon Skyline Trail out there." </p><p>I talked at length with producer Ian McCluskey, who was fascinated with the adventures of the past. He grew up in Oregon, and has always been very interested in the natural world and those who left their mark before us. By August 2021 we were out in the wilds of Mt. Hood putting together a video story. The star, or course, is the Oregon Skyline Trail and our search for meaning. It was one of the greatest honors of my life.</p><p>For the Oregon Field Guide story, along with a radio interview, please see:</p><p><a href="https://www.opb.org/article/2022/09/03/oregon-skyline-trail-mount-hood-cascades-crater-lake/" target="_blank">https://www.opb.org/article/2022/09/03/oregon-skyline-trail-mount-hood-cascades-crater-lake/</a></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj7TpJNuKVJvKO6Na-fDuD8bJzrQnI2oY5pbbae_GlntR-Z_dz-eSH_Yl0P7GA_6p6vyb2VXLWuXQT1kI_YwkaurhctRyeA0cUFynIgYMuniwnPpeklXfCt3gzsw9usjSqHJZNrxrehATbzOdNneOofW2SQDmdRma1IeaYq7j17ac7zZa8cC3VsVBkMQ/s3264/IMG_5939.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="340" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj7TpJNuKVJvKO6Na-fDuD8bJzrQnI2oY5pbbae_GlntR-Z_dz-eSH_Yl0P7GA_6p6vyb2VXLWuXQT1kI_YwkaurhctRyeA0cUFynIgYMuniwnPpeklXfCt3gzsw9usjSqHJZNrxrehATbzOdNneOofW2SQDmdRma1IeaYq7j17ac7zZa8cC3VsVBkMQ/w453-h340/IMG_5939.JPG" width="453" /></a></div><br /><p><span> </span>Why am I doing this? True, I'd rather be alone in the forest contemplating deeper thoughts and enjoying the autumn bliss. I've had enough of gunshots and the violence and stress of urban life.</p><p>I've only been doing this for a couple of decades. But during this time, I've seen the ancient places shrink before my eyes. A narrow dirt road from the Twenties becomes a gravel highway for the logging trucks. An ancient trail through even older trees is removed from the Earth forever, the blazed giant trunks carried away on the backs of trailers. All that is left is the blazing hot sun baking a shocked soil. Piles of smaller trees, cut down and piled into giant hills. Then the fires come, from climate change, from careless campers with campfires during extreme heat events. Right in front of us, the ancient places are shrinking. If this much damage has occurred in 20 years, then we don't have much time left if we want to experience these places.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZa1o8cpoPNxUyVg0uG-L__QSFynV4yCEdETJ2eOeri4tIncbs-qT1KoksZhu5BR8O3_cclUW4vlVt2aGyM82KwiqGUwjuGhxpr4HrCyQo7uOycZgti0oIdyrG4uPcfUX8gs51Aqxm_a6HtxOD1-Ql2rIuX-zEpr4mFooieue7A3oI5pysNdXsvHMozg/s3264/IMG_6865.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="390" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZa1o8cpoPNxUyVg0uG-L__QSFynV4yCEdETJ2eOeri4tIncbs-qT1KoksZhu5BR8O3_cclUW4vlVt2aGyM82KwiqGUwjuGhxpr4HrCyQo7uOycZgti0oIdyrG4uPcfUX8gs51Aqxm_a6HtxOD1-Ql2rIuX-zEpr4mFooieue7A3oI5pysNdXsvHMozg/w520-h390/IMG_6865.JPG" width="520" /></a></div><br /><p><span> </span>Temperate rainforests like this are only found in the Pacific Northwest. Here, the steady rain for 9 months nourishes a green land of ferns taller than your shoulder, trees that reach two hundred feet into the heavens. Once, an unbroken forest of wilderness stretched from coast to coast. Can you imagine? There was no Indiana or Pennsylvania. There were many nations in between, all speaking different languages and celebrating Mother Earth with their own words. These days are gone, and bringing them back would be impossible. We are here today. We are here with only the scraps of an intact Earth, just little pieces. What is left will take your breath away and give you back your senses. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim7Qns5R58kYkOL2zh_-L3a6kXNyLNggBXqnkBFshbGgvW3VVAJbOZN6xq8lHympzggCs8UT4XZeegZBh-TkDzhoqSlrxPCdB1pSXewFIOB1MoaYJ63EiBrMe521ZlnuT5yVkjmL6uz15wiNZVH7e44fNVW2ay3los9Tv9ZtZriMDgT0COixBThXA2rA/s3264/20220722_161750.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="398" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim7Qns5R58kYkOL2zh_-L3a6kXNyLNggBXqnkBFshbGgvW3VVAJbOZN6xq8lHympzggCs8UT4XZeegZBh-TkDzhoqSlrxPCdB1pSXewFIOB1MoaYJ63EiBrMe521ZlnuT5yVkjmL6uz15wiNZVH7e44fNVW2ay3los9Tv9ZtZriMDgT0COixBThXA2rA/w531-h398/20220722_161750.jpg" width="531" /></a></div><br /><p>Join me out there! Let's become whole again. And please keep your eyes open for <i>Searching for the Skyline </i>later this year. If you love forests than I'm sure the story will resonate with you. Thanks for reading and I'll see you later.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi52EahKGWOhJYAkjoBPw1iCa2zPsx1jePheNTKW26ybBvEcGqIltw-2ZSOnAzkppLnT2Ji8HkWu_4pvZo1q79c6Wm1om5zCcKt4tEkDlFp9kUtCrywomlkSDhPk4z7e5ubHU9Ms2HxKQt9C6GaG8rH1EP11oILPDluRKVI-uK-8p6euZdA2MgP16A7Mg/s1516/img009.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1516" data-original-width="1023" height="505" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi52EahKGWOhJYAkjoBPw1iCa2zPsx1jePheNTKW26ybBvEcGqIltw-2ZSOnAzkppLnT2Ji8HkWu_4pvZo1q79c6Wm1om5zCcKt4tEkDlFp9kUtCrywomlkSDhPk4z7e5ubHU9Ms2HxKQt9C6GaG8rH1EP11oILPDluRKVI-uK-8p6euZdA2MgP16A7Mg/w340-h505/img009.jpg" width="340" /></a></div><br />xhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14122909465947147162noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7672445974485562573.post-21997106862319161862022-05-01T16:17:00.000-07:002022-05-01T16:17:21.495-07:00Ethics, Rain and Confusion (September 2009)<p> Part 3 in a series of unpublished articles that I didn't want to lose into the cracks. Here we return to S. Fork but a season later, now almost October.</p><p>It was great to experience this place in it's wild days. Today, the habitat will take a long time to recover to what it was. But what is 1000 years to old Mother Earth? A millionth less than the breath of a moth.</p><p>They called me Hambone in those days, and a few still do. The Bus Camps were taking on steam...we were also getting more bold with remote locations and bad weather.</p><p>I make no apologies for the ramblings of this younger man, but I do support his cause for it is mine as well.</p><p>"Ethics, Rain and Confusion"</p>What a jumbled mess my head is. Maybe it's the stockpile of intoxicants, the change of seasons, or just encroaching madness. Does anyone else feel crazed after spending time without a roof, then returning? Today has been especially powerful, I feel like I'm in a funk. Too many conflicting feelings; perhaps it should be handled in the land of no-thought, where all peace arises. Perhaps the mountains are stained by too much beer. But I do know that merriment and the bond of rekindled friendships touch more than can be defined.<br /><br />Plans made way in advance crumbled like old wet cracker boxes. As I started my sunny Friday, bright and early with kindergarten delivery, I felt a sense of sadness, alone in a crowd as my kid mingled with the pool of other children. As mercury drops they form and dance as one. Soon fighting traffic and crossing guards, I knew I'd be alone and far removed from this workday bustle. Companionship seemed like a lost ship as I drove further away, high into the bright Old Cascades. For weeks I've studied maps, searched for written history - to only be dropped into the reality of the place, far removed from inkstains and imagination. This was real. A spinning dividing green sea, defining logic or understanding met my gaze as the road lifted like a rocket climbing thousands of feet into this leafy maze. It almost seemed too much to eat as one meal.<br /><br />Arriving onto the knob-top peak of the world at nearly 5000' encased under deep blue skies, I tacked up an old hubcap and smiled, king of lofty peaks.<br /><br />The day passed slowly. Funny, some times I feel a deperate need for solitude. This day was different. I felt a strong need for kinship, for connection of a deeper human source. But instead I sat perched in perhaps the lonliest loft in Oregon, biding my time and watching the slow sweep of the second hand on my chipped and well worn Walgreens watch. I amused myself for a spell climbing ridges and chasing ghosts, but dreaded a twisted ankle down the slippery slope of a recovering clearcut. How can a path turn into an impassible tangle? Time, the great void enforcer. None can detangle from the Great Web.<br /><br />The night fell splendidly, slowly as the finest silk gauze, thin as breath, smoke flowing with temporary form and caressing the hills with the milky glow of starlight.<br /><br />"Where is everybody?" I thought, spoke, paced and yelled.<br /><br />Hours pass. "this is most disappointing" I frown, as midnight approaches. Every jet is a VW, every breeze tires on gravel. I note that most flights are heading south with frequency, then taper off as the night progresses. I see Portland twinkling orange in the far off valley, and wonder how the people I care about are doing on this fine lonely night.<br /><br />Suddenly, the sound of motors pierces the night. I am bathed by headlights, crabby and reluctant for company once the moment has arrived. I am tired at this point and in no mood for chit chat.<br /><br />Maps, the wires that hold the current of knowledge have been forgone this vast evening causing a delay in human delivery, but at least everyone arrived safely. It is not an easy path up to South Fork, it's like the road itself is Coyote the Trickster, intent on confusion. "Every road will take you there". Perhaps, but not to this place. It's ridiculous that a road even exists where a helicopter or some sort of buzzard would roost, but it's ordinary in this armor clad world. For a spell at least, until the Earth again folds in like cake batter and all is made new again.<br /><br />In spite of my mood, it was very good to see my friends in such an unlikely place. We watched the stars dance, and nearly the sun slip from the shadows but the call of slumber was too deep, and well earned by this time.<br /><br />I am awakened by the tinny dance of raindrops on the thin steel above my head. As promised the rain has arrived, ocean borne clouds streaking and dropping their heavy payload as the new dawn races quickly behind. Suddenly it is daylight, and the mists are howling past. It is time to face the water element head on. Soon I am soaked, but enjoy a hearty breakfast and a hot cup of tea. It is not cold, just wet wet wet and the clouds are hurtling sideways. The boys set up camp a bit down the road from me, so I become the High Count on the hill, overlooking the serfs down below. It is a position I hold with great power and I'm sure they still tremble with fear at my might.<br /><br />Fortified and with some deliberation we decide to head down the old trail to Memaloose in the rain. With little dogs providing amplification to footfalls, I slowly fall behind as I chop brush on the soggy hillside so the trail can exist as an independent entity. Once again alone, but too busy now to care I slowly make my way down the mountain to the glorious gray lake, veiled in rain and clouds, washed away by the watercolors of the cold earth. Soon, it's time to head back up the hill and we repeat the performance, I lagging behind to clear trees and bushes, history denied root, but this failure quickly extinguished by my mindless chopping. "why do I do this?" I wonder...<br /><br />Back on top I marvel at how autumn has become, as witnessed by gentle hues of golden and red in the huckleberry bushes, soon to sleep for another winter. At the lake it is still summer, with a green quilt and ripe berries fat for the picking, but here on top fall dances with the rain.<br /><br />As clouds begin to part, and the day slowly drops, we cheer momentary breaks of sun, as the glorious orb appears like the moon thru these racecar mists. Alas we are forced to endure the gray until evening approaches. Various whiskeys appear and the fog of my own brain seems to escape out my ears and mingle with the clouds. Great Discussions ensue, "does a man have an ethical duty to project God thru their lifework?" The results are still undetermined. The jury is questionable at best.<br /><br />As a huge stump is carried like a coffin up the night road, a growling comes from the darkness. No, it is the insane Gypsie scaring the crap out of us. Thank you again for that. A Sasquatch bride sits lonesome this evening, missing their true counterpart.<br /><br />Sleep comes quick. As another new day approaches, the mists do finally part allowing the splendor of God's Green Earth to explode below in all directions. But it is time to pack and deal with the red dirt encasing everything, red mud ash from eruptions before an atmosphere.<br /><br />And then the numbing drive home, snaking down miles of pothole roads, into the womb of human creation, the grids snaked out, the streaked peaks fading into the background like a Jr. High lunch, forgotten, eaten, gone but causing an intense self fortification.<br /><br />These places seem to exist in a dream. My bus is only a lozenge dissolved under the tongue, while my eyes soon dart awake, fearful, full, and facing the light at whatever cost and internal consequence. One can plan and read all about it in various papers and personal anecdotes, but only when the poison pen is destroyed and the viscous paper extinguished can a person truly experience these mysteries of life.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg47KffY6u_fiJFgVikwu4PmR-mdJkLPs24YsAGf5SNTl9pToQbAYxGLA4NBuTUPsjulhsRiYFS83Zf8s9dOT-xqPkerK7vltmioaT8FgLVo-8wOimhWiA024-nhSF33oEOalfPYGOd0l-R_AOEQKTUfFsI4xNAWPdAUQetWSUUAgrTNpF7UAS7EGat9A/s3151/IMG_6616%20(2).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2363" data-original-width="3151" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg47KffY6u_fiJFgVikwu4PmR-mdJkLPs24YsAGf5SNTl9pToQbAYxGLA4NBuTUPsjulhsRiYFS83Zf8s9dOT-xqPkerK7vltmioaT8FgLVo-8wOimhWiA024-nhSF33oEOalfPYGOd0l-R_AOEQKTUfFsI4xNAWPdAUQetWSUUAgrTNpF7UAS7EGat9A/w533-h400/IMG_6616%20(2).JPG" width="533" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; 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This is a continuation of recent "classic" articles written by yours truly in the watermelon days of summer. I wanted to get them into circulation before I keel over from too much fun. Little Eva featured in this story is just about to turn 18 and head off to college. I still remember this trip so clearly. Life is ridiculous, isn't it?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I'm also sad to tell you that the forests on these ridges are completely dead for many miles. They were killed in the fires that swept the Northwest two years ago. It is a land of complete devastation that is still closed to the public. It will be very different out there. But of course, Nature rebuilds at a schedule far greater than our own tiny lives. Those of us alive today will never know the ancient forests that will return to this wasteland. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Strap on your pack, don't forget the sunscreen...</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">"A Mountain to the South"</span></p>It was just the lovely Eva and I, up on top of the giant's head we now call a mountain. Yes folks, 3 days with a 5 year old in the wilderness. She is becoming a great camper.<br /><br />We arrived to clouds swirling past, after traversing the usual potholed post apocalyptic forest service snakeroute, climbing nearly 5000' into the abused-but-still-beautiful Clackamas foothills. I fretted about potential snow, but those fears were unfounded, as only a couple tiny patches still sat in sheltered bowls. This is good news for highcountry camp season - it's open!<br /><br />So we sat for a while, gathered slimy wood for a meager smoky fire as the clouds shuffled past like puffed ghosts. Eva remarked how we were "breathing clouds" and indeed this was literal, as our exhalations slid down the onramp and flew down the misted freeway.<br /><br />She went to bed, I stayed up for a spell until the clouds came into camp with reinforcements, dropping a cold wet blanket on the camp and filling me with enough spookies to call it a night and hide under the sheets.<br /><br />After a long cold night, the new day sun broke through, dragging a blue sky behind like a much loved rag doll. Being a student of history, I took the opportunity to revisit 1910 with newly appointed Ranger Petey and myself. We made plans to hike down to Memaloose Lake and pick up our Forest Service horses, freshly watered and rested. Then, to ride to the Cold Springs ranger station. Of course most of the trails have been abandoned 70 years, the ranger station just a dream in some granddad's craw, and the fire lookout a scattered pile of rusted nails and windowpanes melted into unique blobs...but that did not stop the intrepid rangers on their rounds.<br /><br />We did hike down to the lake, shining gloriously in the new summer sun. The trail up to the peak of S. Fork Mountain is an original forest service trail, constructed around 1900 but probably older than that. It is not officially maintained (as a sign proudly proclaims at the base of the mountain), but it is in excellent condition regardless. We spent the day chopping brush, and even make it back up to the top in spite of frequent whining. It's hard to be little as 1000' in elevation beckons.<br /><br />Of course the horses were nowhere to be seen, curse the beureacracy. And once on top, we were dismayed to find the trail to the ranger station nearly obliterated with time, a disturbing fate. What remained of the rangers themselves is still a mystery.<br /><br />The views! Spectacular. One can see many vistas and all local volcanic peaks, as far north as Mt. Rainier and 3 Sisters to the south. At night, the lights of Portland twinkle orange and strange, weird to see littered across the valley as we sit up high among the beargrass and crescent moon.<br /><br />Nails, however are a very real hazard on this lofty perch. The 1960s were a strange time in our nation's history. Besides the race riots and other colorful adventures already burned into our collective, our penchant for natural resource extraction took a feverhold as many miles of solitary-purpose roads were stabbed into the crumbling highcountry. Historic sites such as backcountry ranger stations and high peak fire lookouts were simply burned to the ground to avoid the bookcost of maintenance. I suppose fire is the great purifier; or at least does a damn good job of rearranging molecules. Even the Indians would seasonally burn their prized hunting grounds and mountain berry fields for their own personal gain. This weird grasping for history seems to create more questions than clarity, but it is an interesting trip to puzzle out how it felt 100 years ago when these magnificent clearcut lands were nothing but miles and miles of ancient wilderness. We are spoilt, the land has been spoiled. But inbetween it's glory in excess as always.<br /><br />Spending a few days on top of a mountain with just a little one whom I love as much as breath certainly gave me a unique perspective. Although there are moments of pure madness, such as a bottle of OJ dumped all over the camper cabinet and floor, the moments of true love and gentle bliss soaks into consciousness until everything else is swept away in the high wind.<div><br /></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMuvncSlyfclDjNRYr4ottz8On-CaON66H9-htQv6jERGFEJxzqAKUW1sXz9edJQzKxcFhha6akMvpKWlD9hsTBJ2r801zFJkWgrWJQ0UOjfb8X4Z17MgWA-vM28lpamQu9C8FquxKU7VR4rD_vyxEy3C-HYFrb77NV88nqZqk-vCj2F_FJ6AiojvGlg/s3264/IMG_6003.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="432" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMuvncSlyfclDjNRYr4ottz8On-CaON66H9-htQv6jERGFEJxzqAKUW1sXz9edJQzKxcFhha6akMvpKWlD9hsTBJ2r801zFJkWgrWJQ0UOjfb8X4Z17MgWA-vM28lpamQu9C8FquxKU7VR4rD_vyxEy3C-HYFrb77NV88nqZqk-vCj2F_FJ6AiojvGlg/w576-h432/IMG_6003.JPG" width="576" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; 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In between the sleeping mice I discovered a few essays that I wrote quite a few years ago. All of the tiny zeros and ones surely have even tinier particles of dust, I'm sure that's how it works, isn't it?</p><p>I present to you, a journey to the near past. I don't know about you, but my personal life is nothing like it was 15 years ago. I'm a man now, and not really thrilled about the idea of maturity. Perhaps I was then too; then again I was born at the age of 102. Fifteen years gone by like they never happened at all. Just stories to tell. </p><p>Well, first an update: After the hellish fires of 2 years ago, the Clackamas is still closed for "recreation" *whatever that means? Anyway, Highway 224 is open from Estacada to Ripplebrook, where it becomes Forest Service roads. There, it's closed until further notice for repairs and hazard tree removal. 2 years barred from my beloved lands, it has been difficult to be sure, for a lot of people who love the Old Cascades as much as I do. </p><p>Ironically, the campground where this story takes place has been destroyed by the Forest Service. Used by Native People for thousands of years, it was later improved in the early 1930s by the Civilian Conservation Corps. The crews of young men constructed outhouses, fireplaces, picnic tables, and trails. In the early 2010s the USFS decided to dig deep trenches along the road, preventing the public from entering the historic campground and destroying the wild feeling of the area. It is most disappointing, for it was a really beautiful place to camp for a few days. The dappled light is most pleasant, like a green stained glass window that keeps changing colors. </p><p>When these lands reopen: let us remember how sacred they are, and how much it sucks to be kept out of God's Backyard. Let's not fuck it up with unburied poop piles and mounds of your garbage. </p><p>PACK IT OUT! BURY YOUR WASTE! Do what's right for the next family that comes along to camp.</p><p>Are you ready for this? Of course you are, it's Sunday afternoon here in gloomy Portland and the spring seems grouchy today. Let's dream about summertime...just imagine the smell of roasted August forest litter...caramel tea...</p><p>"Thoughts on Twin Springs" </p><p><span style="font-size: 15.6px;">Oh! Once again the tentacles of society had wrapped a stranglehold upon my frame and spirit. One too many idiot-act witnessed from too close had driven me to a numb anger and strange disconnect. I had had enough and desperately needed to flee this manufactured place. At the grocer’s I couldn’t distinguish between sliced ham and canned olives but somehow made it thru the carnival shelves with enough provisions for an Arctic Month. With a heavy head I pointed southeast with bright hopes for this cloud to be extinguished. I would be traveling solo for this trip. It’s important to experience connection with one’s own half; ultimately it’s all we ever have although we do our daily dance with ghosts with names. I was feeling remorse to be without my comrades, but as I was eloquently reminded “shit happens” so I directed no hostility towards their better natures. Instead, I drank fully from the cup of freedom, so little tasted in our geared world.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: 15.6px;">These mountain roads, these forever free places seem to slip from our grasp like so much sand. They’re never easy to get to these days of artificial barriers and psychic discord that we must swim through to escape the undertow. Don’t forget: George and Rebecca were once free and in love with everything before the claws of empty materialism locked them into their falsely verdant plastic-palace. Each water-filled pothole is merely a signpost telling of the true nature of our Ship of State, each ripped apart forest and mud-bloodied meadow screams volumes. But, destruction and rebirth are more than mere laws to guide; they are everything in this reality we co-create. Otherwise our world-pores would become clogged with so much spent discard. Fires, carnivores, mold, radiation doing it’s invisible dance; they all free us from the stack of so many carcasses so we may venture forth as the new sun drips from the next horizon. But what to make of oil upon water events? Of shredded trash bedecking grand old firs like so many grotesque streamers? Of the very flesh of the earth ripped open to gleefully display her bleeding orange? Yet somehow this is all To Be, for someone to bare sad witness and fill our souls with the coldest empty day of deep winter. However maudlin, it is important to spend time dwelling in these supposed unfortunate acts for they define the divine. Sometimes it’s what we don’t do that defines the purity of our hearts and the strength of our better natures. We are all in this together.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: 15.6px;">Dodging these potholes and snaking through these stained but magnificent acres I am soon delivered to my place of rest: a cathedral of noble firs doing their part to recycle ancient basalt lava into dirt and a host of other simple elements. The gentle wind makes the impossible storied branches dance and scatter the jeweled drips from our fond celestial orb as it slips silently westward and down. Untold multihued mushroom caps burst and pop madly through the dense brown duff and leaf litter, only to spread their spores so the snaked miles of invisible mycelium can continue to grow and feed upon what other organisms have deemed waste. Interesting how that works, nothing is wasted in a closed loop beyond imagination. Soon, the stars slip from the shadows. The moon beams like a gleaming pumpkin faced child eager to still seek each new mystery. Each tree joins with the dark to form a net where secret nocturnal affairs take place. What is foreboding is merely a matter of perspective; each creature has been equipped to exist in a very defined set of circumstances.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: 15.6px;">I am quickly at peace in this place. I am a sponge for all this peace dripping like a thousand Mexican altar candles, flickering and holy by act alone. A man can smash or caress, there alone lies our painful fate. Somehow, the world is born anew each moment.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: 15.6px;">We, as humans experience failure in every pointless act, because ultimately every act is pointless. It’s impossible to exist as master in these places of constantly unfolding miracle, impossible to hold onto our fragile empty selves in a land were we are smaller than the most insignificant mouse. We exist in various states of denial to dull the knifepoint of pain that randomly stabs us through the loss of something special. Hal remarked how different our world would be if each peak were topped by a shaman silently praying, instead of miles of forested ridges, empty but for a few noxious-spewing mechanisms. But it is all choice: how deep are we willing to look into our pain and insignificance? How will we use these blood lessons after the silent teacher has lectured?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: 15.6px;">History is just a Japan wind over Nebraska.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: 15.6px;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: 15.6px;">“Nothing in nature will harm us if we are not scared and treat her with respect”</span></p><p><span style="font-size: 15.6px;">-Tom Brown Jr.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: 15.6px;">My Illinois days and hot Virginia nights haven’t prepared me for this place. But for the first time, perhaps ever I did not feel like an invader into this land. It was really just a matter of intent, to make a stand against my own fears and inadequacies and to realize that I simply belong here and nothing will hurt me if I radiate peace. This changed everything, I felt as peaceful as a monk in a 100 year coma, simply by exercising free will. Strange things began to happen: a tiny mouse stared me down, absolutely fascinated. The world opened up, just for me. Tiny birds flocked and landed right next to me. Maybe it was just a matter of looking, I don’t know. As the sun drifted across the sky like a balloon I roamed the hills alone, seeking history down old trails, looking for magic tied into the rocks and soil. I like old maps - they exist as a snapshot in time, telling of what was considered important during that brief flex in the flux. In 1915 the “Plaza” as this brief flat is called was quite the place to be, an intersection of ancient cross mountain routes, lush springs for man and beast, and the beginnings of the U.S. Forest Service administration including a backcountry ranger station complete with wood stove and crank telephone. 100 years later, all is gone and insignificant except for the old trails. Why they still exist is a mystery in this age of petroleum powered everything; why walk?</span></p><p><span style="font-size: 15.6px;">An immense fire blackened these ridges around 1900 as by design. Evidence still remains, many blackened stumps peeking out thru the underbrush, and trees no older than 100 years. But again by design a new forest had taken hold, using the same molecule-seed that has drifted on the winds for untold ages. In time it will again be ancient and exhaling, but for now is content to be an adolescent stretching it’s new limbs.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: 15.6px;">And then, in a blink it’s time to go. My spirit may be forever laced through the ferns and moss covered rocks, but I too am human and must be among my own kind to participate in the damage, splitting so many atoms and dumping so much noxious juice into an unwilling biosphere. Where do we go? How do we stop this machine that threatens to eat us whole? One thing is certain – it is dreadfully fearful to witness a race lose its connection to our source. Unless each of us makes the effort to connect with the natural world we are doomed to eat ourselves whole, like the symbol of the snake consuming it’s own tail in a loop. Twin Springs or Hackensack, it doesn’t matter much in the end. All I know is there is a shortage of reverence in our most holy of places, and we our burning the very bridges that lead to our freedom. All I can do is to encourage every man woman and child to spend at least a day fully aware in a sacred place, and let the lessons speak to you without words. Then, take this basket of fruit home and offer it to your friends. And don’t forget to eat a peach yourself.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyxetYyPJTScUuWZnbRi1C2CCu74UzK9FH-I5RHVKmizrucc6MQ_kA-LMG5wY5rE55bD-dKVMf2dT1wXqcgjfUEPsgB8qjaBwFHI_vVY9ML6ETW_BZ4GCJ1PoVSfxuHFlIJNGSjl_ySwcKWOiy86ne_UjODvFcZrbpd04lRVTnwcj6lde_vr_jWH9-4Q/s2016/DSCF9802.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyxetYyPJTScUuWZnbRi1C2CCu74UzK9FH-I5RHVKmizrucc6MQ_kA-LMG5wY5rE55bD-dKVMf2dT1wXqcgjfUEPsgB8qjaBwFHI_vVY9ML6ETW_BZ4GCJ1PoVSfxuHFlIJNGSjl_ySwcKWOiy86ne_UjODvFcZrbpd04lRVTnwcj6lde_vr_jWH9-4Q/s320/DSCF9802.JPG" width="320" /></a></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; 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text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIeXUrgAhr2tts_FUxrHtEK9hjLR7PW--IDW43aIPXe5nNe40kpEMtHotbtnUNJiFkfrEjzU0A60nT-xRCFcI3-8M4yUkvf6SzuWsHHqpIdXUwQWqVDAQt6wJ8HWVzCaCcEYzWvt9tt65DnezZVTNvGOcd_vZW52fr030Q0SZ1SbZQYXblIEhE2Z6T_g/s2016/DSCF9875.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="248" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIeXUrgAhr2tts_FUxrHtEK9hjLR7PW--IDW43aIPXe5nNe40kpEMtHotbtnUNJiFkfrEjzU0A60nT-xRCFcI3-8M4yUkvf6SzuWsHHqpIdXUwQWqVDAQt6wJ8HWVzCaCcEYzWvt9tt65DnezZVTNvGOcd_vZW52fr030Q0SZ1SbZQYXblIEhE2Z6T_g/w330-h248/DSCF9875.JPG" width="330" /></a></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizOVWuQ00zl1rvqGuO02LQnJXkMYppC4l2Q_DB32XXIW6C4u5kVZ38Hng_1mjUKVyQfddd03i07e2rFn0owoWFO6DZ243c_UXoOv5Zl9w1RHqO2ZKhn6ruWkXddGAlkmToGtoSk-iXgzBVt8cQlJQHlysZPmqPW7HDVoWMjl6mcednPRqlKlcgpefAMw/s2016/DSCF9873.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="460" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizOVWuQ00zl1rvqGuO02LQnJXkMYppC4l2Q_DB32XXIW6C4u5kVZ38Hng_1mjUKVyQfddd03i07e2rFn0owoWFO6DZ243c_UXoOv5Zl9w1RHqO2ZKhn6ruWkXddGAlkmToGtoSk-iXgzBVt8cQlJQHlysZPmqPW7HDVoWMjl6mcednPRqlKlcgpefAMw/w614-h460/DSCF9873.JPG" width="614" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKJU2bKbi1XHwX8z311BcpP6hlGr8XZCQN0eul10uR-7dsNIiylwLhmztL5g_8R8W0o6VsAorpsYQyquI5_IU8Woepe-FTngFBwyvtgai9v6LiUClkMcqwKUndtZXkt9C95AVmkZ1uo2_7PBRtzjwn_PoFOxEmaFJp-YVY83EYLYNDrpDbGL6gWMJ9Og/s2016/DSCF9888%20(2).JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="588" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKJU2bKbi1XHwX8z311BcpP6hlGr8XZCQN0eul10uR-7dsNIiylwLhmztL5g_8R8W0o6VsAorpsYQyquI5_IU8Woepe-FTngFBwyvtgai9v6LiUClkMcqwKUndtZXkt9C95AVmkZ1uo2_7PBRtzjwn_PoFOxEmaFJp-YVY83EYLYNDrpDbGL6gWMJ9Og/w441-h588/DSCF9888%20(2).JPG" width="441" /></a></div></div><br />xhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14122909465947147162noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7672445974485562573.post-52556693828450871462022-02-06T18:44:00.001-08:002022-03-06T12:26:45.276-08:002021 the Year of Covid and the Wilderness<p> 2021 was the most fucked up time in recent human history. We are all still collectively recovering from the trauma of the past two years, still in the grips of an isolating pandemic with seemingly no end in sight. Ever tired of our tiny bubbles, the bonds are breaking in our families and in our societies. Old inequities are finally eroding the iron base of this great nation, and the entire structure seems perched to collapse. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiAHy1nBUIljuOWgzEZi_EM8AkOqv2KGHk3P2XUlJoewp9LfJIpTPoX_mu-RuiaA1EfUsqTHtolAdhdTdA_A2oalIs3Xb59E7THLwPiqsIPIUjYCfQvwXtdoTOigGhT7EFfY9usPN3cPL5nu4ppG7QiwSGWhgmo7qvLVCZniYVN1yuEqef5weuI55h2oQ=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiAHy1nBUIljuOWgzEZi_EM8AkOqv2KGHk3P2XUlJoewp9LfJIpTPoX_mu-RuiaA1EfUsqTHtolAdhdTdA_A2oalIs3Xb59E7THLwPiqsIPIUjYCfQvwXtdoTOigGhT7EFfY9usPN3cPL5nu4ppG7QiwSGWhgmo7qvLVCZniYVN1yuEqef5weuI55h2oQ=s320" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">The natural world seems to be crumbling like a poorly fired clay vessel. Record fires, unprecedented drought. The ancient ice is melting while thousand year old trees go up like Roman candles. We are choking on our own fog and vomit.</span></div><p>Astrologers have been predicting this time of chaos and rebirth for some time. We have begun the Age of Aquarius, a time of death to old and outmoded ways. This is the end of a 2000 year cycle where we say goodbye to the Age of Pisces. We are entering a time of discovery, of innovation and progress. I know very little about Astrology, but it does seem to fit the spirit and intensity of the times. </p><p>Like all of you, I have weathered 2021 with a nervous uncertainty. "Will the forests stop burning?" I asked the Earth with alarming frequency. "Will we ever gather again? Can we sing music and laugh with one another?"</p><p>The answers to these questions still evade us. I celebrated the beginning of 2021 with an almost paranoid caution. I had rekindled a bond with the love of my life, a woman who I dreamed about before our union. Between the fires and other global heartache, our bond grew stronger as it weakened from within. I loved her with my life, but it didn't matter. Like the destroyed forests it was just a suggestion of a tree, a charred trunk that lacked any structure at all. Are we betrayed by the shape of a burned forest? Is the snake really a rope?</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhBSUrXiSMBdl0-eCM7s_twCZAssoydS0I69ijzmR4UJrqETNbE3wf97KiqlGB-pMON7Hb7KnLk413lfBy6B0Eu_sDYc7ePfvLxRzzAzijSnYQHSGiFQ0tJKhPoz1McE-pEu5RXDl16MAFZDWKsabhvdIsqC_7Z5K5hqj96sqJgVjsKjswZERKHDayxMQ=s3264" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhBSUrXiSMBdl0-eCM7s_twCZAssoydS0I69ijzmR4UJrqETNbE3wf97KiqlGB-pMON7Hb7KnLk413lfBy6B0Eu_sDYc7ePfvLxRzzAzijSnYQHSGiFQ0tJKhPoz1McE-pEu5RXDl16MAFZDWKsabhvdIsqC_7Z5K5hqj96sqJgVjsKjswZERKHDayxMQ=s320" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p>Nature never ceases to heal and amaze. When the shit really hits we all retreat to our green Mother. She is always there, and will always gather us close in Her arms. This is the one lesson that I take away from the complicated mess of the past two years. I have found that even fire has been brought about to purify our world. We are all carbon, and fire allows us to see the content of our bones and bodies.</p><p>A lot of people have been affected by the recent trauma of Covid and race wars. Freak storms that cause never before seen damage. We have all run weeping into the forests and through our fragile meadows searching for an escape. Are we a frog in a pot of water slowly boiling alive? Never before have I seen so many humans crushed into natural areas like city tenements. In between the 1000 year old trees lies a camp culture borne from drug abuse and homelessness. Suburban families who have never weathered a night in the woods leave behind piles of excrement and mounds of soiled toilet paper to melt into the woody duff. Drunk young men have left a litter of broken bottles, thousands of red shotgun shells that stain the floor with plastic. A car cut into sections and left abandoned aside the wilderness. We can see what they left behind, but we can never know what they took back with them.</p><p>Did you make it out alive? What lessons did you learn from the past year of hell and miracles?</p><p>I'm still nursing a very wounded heart. I grieve for my people. I struggle with my own significant losses, the loss of my beloved and the bittersweet sadness of watching my daughter grow up and independent. Most of all I'm deeply affected by the accumulated loss of our natural areas. Electric mycelium runs from my fingertips deep into the rich soil, into the trunks of trees and through the eyes of bats. I feel the weight of an immense fir snag as it collapses and crashes into the ferns with a crushing thud. I'm the scattering of birds that flutter away excitedly in the flecks of dust in the sunbeams. I'm also the quiet sky at night, the moment between the calls of owls and a soft rustling breeze that barely disturbs the darkness.</p><p>How do we begin again? Again? See over there? Nature, and she is smiling at you. Take Her hand. She will show you the truth. She will laugh with a child's joy, her sweet melody pours over you with the tinkling of small diamonds. You will be torn apart and sewn back together backwards. Suffering will ultimately set you free. Each violation from a mosquito's tube will be a gift that clatters with an accompany of crashing thunder. She will teach you to see without eyes.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjXlFOix1lrE5nuwLtZcBBPbYYPvcKlyU_LJfpWtV-C9nIaRbJ66caQlJRoAzYEBNF56kCf6d3E3BTjrMcU8K1VeDl8807k93-_nNBUxJPDxBY4dMwnQBD4asweaZgUnVvsIU5c71Bdud3DjN1-fTr1YlUGzpQ3Shwdafy8oyCR15LPXcJIQGKWgxwK1w=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1836" data-original-width="3264" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjXlFOix1lrE5nuwLtZcBBPbYYPvcKlyU_LJfpWtV-C9nIaRbJ66caQlJRoAzYEBNF56kCf6d3E3BTjrMcU8K1VeDl8807k93-_nNBUxJPDxBY4dMwnQBD4asweaZgUnVvsIU5c71Bdud3DjN1-fTr1YlUGzpQ3Shwdafy8oyCR15LPXcJIQGKWgxwK1w=s320" width="320" /></a></div><p><br /></p>How did I leap into 2021? <p></p><p>It began with such a deep love I feel I will never recover. She became part of the blue flame that runs through my nerves. I have not felt so connected to anther human being. She made me feel whole and overflowing with joy. Was this equal? Some live in a vault without windows. Only painted scenes cover the walls.</p><p>My year started on the Oregon Coast, in the pounding rain and the oysters. Will this be a new start? Can I finally leave the hurt and failure in the past? </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh0_LrbKqN8WHq32RP-lW9HjaQ6tZ7D1dMY8aekFNL6JPeZ7OXXAw7hBFBioN8zfcpMlu5VOY8jvilALCV_M8LgEvYZ8J6D-lFirnSDZibjfhUamUGfu-CE3w6xs8GWQoncWQdTjPF3fcLfwSA6cv7zIG0VVdzplXsSthxNReYO9OzjelX1hwbEEkJVqA=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1836" data-original-width="3264" height="264" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh0_LrbKqN8WHq32RP-lW9HjaQ6tZ7D1dMY8aekFNL6JPeZ7OXXAw7hBFBioN8zfcpMlu5VOY8jvilALCV_M8LgEvYZ8J6D-lFirnSDZibjfhUamUGfu-CE3w6xs8GWQoncWQdTjPF3fcLfwSA6cv7zIG0VVdzplXsSthxNReYO9OzjelX1hwbEEkJVqA=w469-h264" width="469" /></a></div><br />Soon back into the city. The months of winter struggle, job and toil. The woods are frozen and buried in deep drifts. Dark nights and damp to the bone. Finally, spring. The season slowly folds into sunshine and the clouds melt away for a day or so. Bees begin to hum around the musty gardenbed. Snow beds dissolve into rushing rivers filled with icicle trout. Are the rushing waters attempting to speak?<p>It has been a long time since we have been able to share each other's company. It has been a great joy to celebrate the mountains with my friends, but a global pandemic sure makes it difficult to gather and breathe each other's poison air. This spring was different. "It's surely almost over," we console. "We're safe out in the woods at least." 6 feet apart and please don't give me the plague. </p><p>Screw it. Let's have a Volks Camp. It's been too long.</p><p>March is the traditional "first camp" of the year. As we have discovered, the east side of Mt. Hood is accessible much earlier in the season. The snow melts into the muddy ground. Soon the yellow basalmroot blooms will carpet the tan soil. Snow will still fall in great white flurries. A golden afternoon may fade into a blaring sunset, with purples fighting orange over the love of red.</p><p>"Little Badger?" I ask the few friends still left who are brave enough to face each other. At the last minute, she will not be coming. Should I even go without her? It is a tough decision but I promised I'd be there. Eva is counting on me. Everyone is expecting ol' Hambone to ramble on about lanterns and "you people". With some reluctance I pack the Bus and we continue on course. The edge of the high desert, where forest can not exist. It's just too damned dry.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEidxq-4NOe13mMjRBOW3T0r4YxsNNZ_-AMbq8pGDybYRmuQfkyKhEVRn5gtU7uxaBpACE1Eb-iYYJaod0qKsCeyvbN9QQodn3C9nEaaV1KM_gRpYPFDDKywuyT9G-Er-MGyTnX85sJxaXYctwUdr0p2f3s80hXUvoVS9DhW2_pOiKHd286_996PmlS6MA=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="321" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEidxq-4NOe13mMjRBOW3T0r4YxsNNZ_-AMbq8pGDybYRmuQfkyKhEVRn5gtU7uxaBpACE1Eb-iYYJaod0qKsCeyvbN9QQodn3C9nEaaV1KM_gRpYPFDDKywuyT9G-Er-MGyTnX85sJxaXYctwUdr0p2f3s80hXUvoVS9DhW2_pOiKHd286_996PmlS6MA=w428-h321" width="428" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>sunlight! it's been a while</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;">I have a habit of searching out the forgotten parts of our world. Here at Badger Creek, there were a number of trails that were replaced by roads and lost. This trail once climbed from the creek canyon to the top of a ridge. At the top is a lovely old camp to bask in the sun like a lizard. No rain! Can you imagine?</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi5Gc6iAL9ksLB4nMVFIMqFwBpFC3CCdTqnya-7tgtEi6ZubRc5rm_BxF1pxdJds6YZY2dC9ohTTC-AJ35psiTV2TrDYnO3r3PokRUV9kUPeH7CWUXfVwdXMqise-Gr4PhVYumizZa-QjLtLeY_FrbHFHdo9Rl78iK1oFzi8iCP2PEBKbO4DZ4zWyQQKA=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="534" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi5Gc6iAL9ksLB4nMVFIMqFwBpFC3CCdTqnya-7tgtEi6ZubRc5rm_BxF1pxdJds6YZY2dC9ohTTC-AJ35psiTV2TrDYnO3r3PokRUV9kUPeH7CWUXfVwdXMqise-Gr4PhVYumizZa-QjLtLeY_FrbHFHdo9Rl78iK1oFzi8iCP2PEBKbO4DZ4zWyQQKA=w400-h534" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Eva and Randy make their way up an abandoned trail</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEib7dzvte6XcKtAk7mJJJe9YBTGjLOPSQya6D-8x6LspH5ED70SxXrRd3aclr3i8SHYWsOM6HJBHD1AGYhxvx-88vQtBLy2jw9g6lJbY4qOdmK34PYYvod8Rmmma80bvxBeRu0lwouAqo5aaDEaAV9yd8kWeTipkNBpjy_VM96otH8J4sySVfO0e1Z_UA=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="408" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEib7dzvte6XcKtAk7mJJJe9YBTGjLOPSQya6D-8x6LspH5ED70SxXrRd3aclr3i8SHYWsOM6HJBHD1AGYhxvx-88vQtBLy2jw9g6lJbY4qOdmK34PYYvod8Rmmma80bvxBeRu0lwouAqo5aaDEaAV9yd8kWeTipkNBpjy_VM96otH8J4sySVfO0e1Z_UA=w306-h408" width="306" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Eva, almost all grown up</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhC5uGsNcB5tSuANUp2CFOXr7Vi5pwQtUJ61td7bwMHtKSDF8RMfcUo6lO47tPHmxsAehWO2zLsrltizWwHJzQJGcbTE74LAfefX9y6d6MyaMw9hTPslOSlbrcNLErhqmkF8Y_Lk8ZxN7_nm1RAyFT6rlVLW8NBdmBLGJBY-dBpX4JloQ1oWBhflnmXuA=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="470" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhC5uGsNcB5tSuANUp2CFOXr7Vi5pwQtUJ61td7bwMHtKSDF8RMfcUo6lO47tPHmxsAehWO2zLsrltizWwHJzQJGcbTE74LAfefX9y6d6MyaMw9hTPslOSlbrcNLErhqmkF8Y_Lk8ZxN7_nm1RAyFT6rlVLW8NBdmBLGJBY-dBpX4JloQ1oWBhflnmXuA=w353-h470" width="353" /></a></div><div><br /></div>Back to the solemn camp in the afternoon shade. The creek is crashing nearby, chatting like an excited preschool class. The water flows and bubbles, knocks under rocks and talks continuously. Did you hear that? Were those voices coming from the creek?<div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgUs5JhSYxmsN0siLAc1J5e8FhGEOu7kYK_mjkxraFKjualksD17Nhp79yMKoovomXtBAhyvRgyJbh2N1Idmpz7ztRD8i7-RkZKBd_gUJbHUp8n0NU_Y7CfGNEFUwJPjD_u2rPjiV_h9zgQN3kLUdFSrp-OMwOPA4kfgIeHYwJaTdtxr91YzTpfvZq2nA=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><i><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="323" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgUs5JhSYxmsN0siLAc1J5e8FhGEOu7kYK_mjkxraFKjualksD17Nhp79yMKoovomXtBAhyvRgyJbh2N1Idmpz7ztRD8i7-RkZKBd_gUJbHUp8n0NU_Y7CfGNEFUwJPjD_u2rPjiV_h9zgQN3kLUdFSrp-OMwOPA4kfgIeHYwJaTdtxr91YzTpfvZq2nA=w430-h323" width="430" /></i></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>CT Ham Co. circa 1900 and still at work. Where will our plastic crap be in 100 years?</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhw6RuHodGo5wPrIsWLmPVQ6zjHUPydLWII4xVobqM76SYeyO_Fo8r12eSVX2tNTzVyhA7QRkxI6KOhsTRrk3AhP9b8k3q7HZE3awOCSYTf8-5p0uMsJvzzEzwiMFnY-wwMRei5ju6z1CBIUZwRHkqSWZGCk1qVXaI0g_A8ZKhpEgq4HIqhlI8dWAxaBg=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhw6RuHodGo5wPrIsWLmPVQ6zjHUPydLWII4xVobqM76SYeyO_Fo8r12eSVX2tNTzVyhA7QRkxI6KOhsTRrk3AhP9b8k3q7HZE3awOCSYTf8-5p0uMsJvzzEzwiMFnY-wwMRei5ju6z1CBIUZwRHkqSWZGCk1qVXaI0g_A8ZKhpEgq4HIqhlI8dWAxaBg=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhbseYU0Wh31czvay2-GXsf76-RQaRq358faCIpMxNm49fL3-9AflBFEKem2KxbI4wv6nvdULB-1i6SnRaiB1xGOB-C_3YgFblVAwKTmSFy7ivxObVT5tXZFKOxM-DHsf_RaU9mFP2qvegWoe-7CcKf5vyKXynsqX2WFgQUscJX1v0iwXVOw86Xt5MgkA=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="351" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhbseYU0Wh31czvay2-GXsf76-RQaRq358faCIpMxNm49fL3-9AflBFEKem2KxbI4wv6nvdULB-1i6SnRaiB1xGOB-C_3YgFblVAwKTmSFy7ivxObVT5tXZFKOxM-DHsf_RaU9mFP2qvegWoe-7CcKf5vyKXynsqX2WFgQUscJX1v0iwXVOw86Xt5MgkA=w468-h351" width="468" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Randy and Robb share a moment in the afternoon warmth</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEicYdlbihXIfwDvQbiDEyN5XJCrd7nnBvgEBSnP-ZH_ZkWFcmEJvhZvOQb8sOnE7Foin07E5QBEAlWvF4fRJqggg4VohpL7t7PC1Cx-8sKJq7y9YS7cFD1qEbYM2RIRlQlw98Lxlw4f39oIRCaorUhWdgSs6woBCwQUTe_b1E1-T_1eR6N_pqXbqyOd6Q=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="545" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEicYdlbihXIfwDvQbiDEyN5XJCrd7nnBvgEBSnP-ZH_ZkWFcmEJvhZvOQb8sOnE7Foin07E5QBEAlWvF4fRJqggg4VohpL7t7PC1Cx-8sKJq7y9YS7cFD1qEbYM2RIRlQlw98Lxlw4f39oIRCaorUhWdgSs6woBCwQUTe_b1E1-T_1eR6N_pqXbqyOd6Q=w409-h545" width="409" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>I can't sit still/let's go on a hike! With Jasan Robb, Jill, and Eva</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjv-vGMqzqmdLO8QCtIMFH8wgldGf2hiNp6b0UGBl9vqccDOFy8qkr4kLV0pCcX-9WH50AZCsFH88fgJsHgH9tGCJc8H-foguPe3Q4WuY--dapd1DTCBZM1Eu8aJfCVB8czEmPfIyW0YCAExYkhl-IAwOKcZf-x0M22Ir7fR6trZx-L8mxEEk-V5oaBZw=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="507" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjv-vGMqzqmdLO8QCtIMFH8wgldGf2hiNp6b0UGBl9vqccDOFy8qkr4kLV0pCcX-9WH50AZCsFH88fgJsHgH9tGCJc8H-foguPe3Q4WuY--dapd1DTCBZM1Eu8aJfCVB8czEmPfIyW0YCAExYkhl-IAwOKcZf-x0M22Ir7fR6trZx-L8mxEEk-V5oaBZw=w380-h507" width="380" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>A special place on Badger. Can you feel the peace?</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhd4tvtkr07BS7NN84h0GGjinlUM2Xk0XGxNfIO071LnTHoM7QLMBLvZRYZOseHZ9B2KE5Hgsc0chU16jMZG7npSMGFqwNtWCWf9oS9xxxXcI6BRY_wiHqQHr3qiRITGUwE4zPiys52sPe8310v9Q-HLVXM77MKS61DNoZrXxhgHWV_hPnzeSlfmyaPEQ=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="390" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhd4tvtkr07BS7NN84h0GGjinlUM2Xk0XGxNfIO071LnTHoM7QLMBLvZRYZOseHZ9B2KE5Hgsc0chU16jMZG7npSMGFqwNtWCWf9oS9xxxXcI6BRY_wiHqQHr3qiRITGUwE4zPiys52sPe8310v9Q-HLVXM77MKS61DNoZrXxhgHWV_hPnzeSlfmyaPEQ=w519-h390" width="519" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Stephan plucks a tune in the afternoon chill</i></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjHr_-IM2PiR_LCZkF2d_q5v6Yqu5faDIidUsw365gTcrz8Ug_HPNYPqVr8jjlINdcZoGYpnMB--xu62vK_gAzVRTe_CCUf_WQHk_Sx_T-JhcOLcCdx3IhcnGz9KNPwRZ5yooBiWiSS8wTdXCw2_nF8cfYu6EnJVtEU2K0PspFd3a1ywvyrIfFX2nMQjQ=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="434" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjHr_-IM2PiR_LCZkF2d_q5v6Yqu5faDIidUsw365gTcrz8Ug_HPNYPqVr8jjlINdcZoGYpnMB--xu62vK_gAzVRTe_CCUf_WQHk_Sx_T-JhcOLcCdx3IhcnGz9KNPwRZ5yooBiWiSS8wTdXCw2_nF8cfYu6EnJVtEU2K0PspFd3a1ywvyrIfFX2nMQjQ=w578-h434" width="578" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Stony Stumble 2021! The tradition continues, let's wander the nighttime woods. Sure why not.</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgfscVlWo91LxK7gpLkn9Yr9tSuHCXxfRsrVI1JsAsheUW4lJPXHhAQZZp2B2Z7CJjG5Hm13hf4HSoRMp3pUZWQ6hNt02L16rSomaI44KDZoYitKUQS1yfRBYUe-DipouUOjbyvytznIZRtdMVruQLB23az4Nk74aBJ4EdOEEHwSzVW3Op2mmvKd0NnMA=s720" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="720" height="427" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgfscVlWo91LxK7gpLkn9Yr9tSuHCXxfRsrVI1JsAsheUW4lJPXHhAQZZp2B2Z7CJjG5Hm13hf4HSoRMp3pUZWQ6hNt02L16rSomaI44KDZoYitKUQS1yfRBYUe-DipouUOjbyvytznIZRtdMVruQLB23az4Nk74aBJ4EdOEEHwSzVW3Op2mmvKd0NnMA=w570-h427" width="570" /></a></div><i>Hambone Me, Eva and Jasan keepin it real</i></div><div><br /></div>We share laughter and food, sweat and relaxation. The heat of a muted sun and the frost at midnight under a confection of starry night. The days rush away with a smile and it's time to go home. Back to that other reality of traffic and noise. And oh yeah, don't forget your mask. </div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjoSlrLFNE7I7St6BJ3_Yi11AQ4DFEzNlGTwwyiB_ojF8kA5fWGuaoIV_WvIqjFv6oeo1REeoKDu7SyXYs2fmSZbeUWXFehZ0AeuRj9BfowJjaPVchLoRJz9sDZfQqGGNmNZGBhEjwHMdKTIrBq_fngDBBsMv1cPScr6xP4mLJoaYgtXdhZyIRyqh-B4Q=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjoSlrLFNE7I7St6BJ3_Yi11AQ4DFEzNlGTwwyiB_ojF8kA5fWGuaoIV_WvIqjFv6oeo1REeoKDu7SyXYs2fmSZbeUWXFehZ0AeuRj9BfowJjaPVchLoRJz9sDZfQqGGNmNZGBhEjwHMdKTIrBq_fngDBBsMv1cPScr6xP4mLJoaYgtXdhZyIRyqh-B4Q=s320" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Even in the city, Nature continues to yell at me like an old Brooklyn cabbie. "Heyy Bobb-eee come on out here! Sometimes all you can do is get away for an afternoon. It's not enough, but better than nothing. An hour from Portland you can still find patches of ancient forest if you look hard enough. For this lucky day, we have Eagle Fern Park to roam around the soggy ferns. While it is small, the trees are impressive and have somehow escaped the saws. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgFGOXCzvTFkBD6QOwRaKOzZaunu2ULt_DzLB-rarpR2EkM5KVmcWTmM3laSbezTXlHKoehSfaI7PxHJBm8n2-M9DssYIErZHOPZFvTxnwEerYSkRUqo3VhWeaMi2V0Xtw2ia9M6tno_RScDe4b2aNUYtxs487S94Yzb4woPe0fb3hvw1SZ4jqN0vBgIA=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="339" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgFGOXCzvTFkBD6QOwRaKOzZaunu2ULt_DzLB-rarpR2EkM5KVmcWTmM3laSbezTXlHKoehSfaI7PxHJBm8n2-M9DssYIErZHOPZFvTxnwEerYSkRUqo3VhWeaMi2V0Xtw2ia9M6tno_RScDe4b2aNUYtxs487S94Yzb4woPe0fb3hvw1SZ4jqN0vBgIA=w451-h339" width="451" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Eva at the gates of Eagle Fern Park</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;">I'm feeling weird. I just received my first Covid shot and really should be resting somewhere warm. Instead we're having a spacey adventure. It seems like something I would do. Woah, don't fall off the mountain ya dizzy assed adventurer. Eva just laughs.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEixDcPIBFB6qFX176igeN_-L4_seRDGmlJw79m6U8IXY0yjiSeLdELNZtwG62Vpu0x6qFTIdbzxptjAgE4gKadoCmI8yF8y9TDbGiPaR-PvF18W_JKes48aQgZRNzmriPAq7zNbr5ZsPsUy8pj10C5jtEIgrofQRSmDIiagCP9O9mnQhsa6VXtJpAV5EQ=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="385" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEixDcPIBFB6qFX176igeN_-L4_seRDGmlJw79m6U8IXY0yjiSeLdELNZtwG62Vpu0x6qFTIdbzxptjAgE4gKadoCmI8yF8y9TDbGiPaR-PvF18W_JKes48aQgZRNzmriPAq7zNbr5ZsPsUy8pj10C5jtEIgrofQRSmDIiagCP9O9mnQhsa6VXtJpAV5EQ=w289-h385" width="289" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgXvSrRGdvs9Gph7ku5JuPTqF2hkjOdHR5xDXufCQt_BJX-hxZLhJEZtMMagLKWvuzoZb6leRul2YaqLIkBqDi1Yi_wXWjgxqa_HyhDTPKHdmC-Zxhzp7mhgrfeHDxQq93IaY_-nWYAgt0b0QsAvXdDgTKq1PsvnUNu1d9I1dgFyilBbcPsEcY-n11GVw=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgXvSrRGdvs9Gph7ku5JuPTqF2hkjOdHR5xDXufCQt_BJX-hxZLhJEZtMMagLKWvuzoZb6leRul2YaqLIkBqDi1Yi_wXWjgxqa_HyhDTPKHdmC-Zxhzp7mhgrfeHDxQq93IaY_-nWYAgt0b0QsAvXdDgTKq1PsvnUNu1d9I1dgFyilBbcPsEcY-n11GVw=s320" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj6HMwlZoI3A9XUtXHfPvbG65bTih6_ysHh1MZDiGX7RQsPZm_21gsMN208W8JLin89SK7WpSJWNveWWBgo1RmhXvd8ybqD1dGN2TvFluhvkXCxgisoE7S2xqWCR2vBeLfhvSLkQ8H8OB3Lh8tburEGtVpp5n-EN6KrSkPgUQ6mZbf0fr7jtQR2-TEZXg=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="708" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj6HMwlZoI3A9XUtXHfPvbG65bTih6_ysHh1MZDiGX7RQsPZm_21gsMN208W8JLin89SK7WpSJWNveWWBgo1RmhXvd8ybqD1dGN2TvFluhvkXCxgisoE7S2xqWCR2vBeLfhvSLkQ8H8OB3Lh8tburEGtVpp5n-EN6KrSkPgUQ6mZbf0fr7jtQR2-TEZXg=w531-h708" width="531" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgeBBxLf0Rrjf_yNRjWTE-W87Q4pjvAyiNdumTS3I2MJavg0QJAn9p1BkMm_ZzQ0xzRSXoYd8KlS6RGcULSqCNO3Eiq8AYQ7zaumOwc81d6WN8wuKuAGeIpqx5B8WNCam_-SfBKqb1JjHXxnG0WVgkVjtaEPXmp_OP4ylyg9-11SBCR9JF-wprMpUx-Rw=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="512" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgeBBxLf0Rrjf_yNRjWTE-W87Q4pjvAyiNdumTS3I2MJavg0QJAn9p1BkMm_ZzQ0xzRSXoYd8KlS6RGcULSqCNO3Eiq8AYQ7zaumOwc81d6WN8wuKuAGeIpqx5B8WNCam_-SfBKqb1JjHXxnG0WVgkVjtaEPXmp_OP4ylyg9-11SBCR9JF-wprMpUx-Rw=w384-h512" width="384" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Eva crossing Eagle Creek 2021</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhF2_r-aUlrqPdzn_LPdYl91unE44dwO_hQF1wL2hseBLQgCHBA425dJv8pl4zXt-ClU9accUURF2ahaH2Cxjo75GUlLjbpMOxUNTtOX_hETuxRvptEJlXoKZv9xB-FXwYmGUUWuYC6j3jzQNtHdesVOdRZkNG6DfSFo1lK2dZrZjjH_ssZok9zsjbvZw=s2016" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="518" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhF2_r-aUlrqPdzn_LPdYl91unE44dwO_hQF1wL2hseBLQgCHBA425dJv8pl4zXt-ClU9accUURF2ahaH2Cxjo75GUlLjbpMOxUNTtOX_hETuxRvptEJlXoKZv9xB-FXwYmGUUWuYC6j3jzQNtHdesVOdRZkNG6DfSFo1lK2dZrZjjH_ssZok9zsjbvZw=w389-h518" width="389" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>same place, 2008 with Erin</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;">What do you want with me, Time? Is this some kind of joke? Well I'm not fucking laughing.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi46T5tilOFnIZC1dxAqHj5ZCRwKtE9UVrtgy_TibB6mB149Fip5sCeRz2Wa2z0igHjmNsn5Y4P19lJ_DUzHHzyStI_m5JNsYAa6mAwcRSlTK0BVIgiat2RX7V6QGRBZ4CcgL2oaT2qaFSIEu6Myo0-V_KZxePYgNtLD-nr-YESpmsoPPviLWlQYJi07g=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi46T5tilOFnIZC1dxAqHj5ZCRwKtE9UVrtgy_TibB6mB149Fip5sCeRz2Wa2z0igHjmNsn5Y4P19lJ_DUzHHzyStI_m5JNsYAa6mAwcRSlTK0BVIgiat2RX7V6QGRBZ4CcgL2oaT2qaFSIEu6Myo0-V_KZxePYgNtLD-nr-YESpmsoPPviLWlQYJi07g=s320" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>It's my birthday. 52 are you kidding me? How the hell am I a half-century plus? Screw this let's go camping. Back to Badger Creek. It will be one of the best camps of my life with so much joy and connection. Three days to explore Badger Creek.<div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhb0hnLs-BdMBFpLR0UZVidKXbjmZ96CRmN59AXpJeecTwpUPCFof-EtGtTXT6QTjmwRyw5Fah7AsrlkoeuH2zenz3HBFQNJuidZlFI_mxElv4gxGw0vSVmi9fNNpqBzpOIHyQP01JQvzf574E_mR2gdpMMbR4G4TMm0l6yug_Qrh4izBDSitSR6T_ksw=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhb0hnLs-BdMBFpLR0UZVidKXbjmZ96CRmN59AXpJeecTwpUPCFof-EtGtTXT6QTjmwRyw5Fah7AsrlkoeuH2zenz3HBFQNJuidZlFI_mxElv4gxGw0vSVmi9fNNpqBzpOIHyQP01JQvzf574E_mR2gdpMMbR4G4TMm0l6yug_Qrh4izBDSitSR6T_ksw=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgIedxeYo32MLDtKBlwpGb9e6mUWbqKUj0ISeLB5c-tZQRkdq-byT8Rad4zlmQFyU6LT8-rFh9SkaTAm3XykPPo797mmqVVjqIE0ZKpnEfQ8riaatEHwykpFQNkh_0quclAS4_Po2B2Y12s7tITpfM22mWYMCjDGdvb7EyeupIyrgn-ciChFpoZOS7fBQ=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="719" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgIedxeYo32MLDtKBlwpGb9e6mUWbqKUj0ISeLB5c-tZQRkdq-byT8Rad4zlmQFyU6LT8-rFh9SkaTAm3XykPPo797mmqVVjqIE0ZKpnEfQ8riaatEHwykpFQNkh_0quclAS4_Po2B2Y12s7tITpfM22mWYMCjDGdvb7EyeupIyrgn-ciChFpoZOS7fBQ=w539-h719" width="539" /></a></div><div><br /></div>It is the first day of turkey season. After two hours of searching the dark forest roads for an open campsite, we finally settle into a pleasant spot on a high ridge, where a twinkling sky is already putting on a show. The stream of trucks passing by is truly endless, every 5 minutes another Ford filled with desperate hunters crashes down the washboard road and churns up dust clouds. We just huddle closer and laugh about it. Happy Birthday! And it's all that I want.<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">Gluggggluggg gobbble! Gobble guggggulggug! Turkeys are yelling at each other thru the thin woods. All of these hunters and no one is finding a turkey to kill. They're all too wise for you buddy. I guess I'm a turkey too.</span></div></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgNai6f5B2D8FazXv7MfXni86tb0iL_QsVAqscigEcVshsOlBke6xPfkhv61x3WOWDYED79X-ka7eEtVjk31aG9LT05Vmn4WXbZgz-ZPR5M_ltNWFO1IvPkFTYj1YbRofKL5vKzM9IARfEPWmbV_aZmF6mufnT567bYvTeTqUzs1y_9XxgJ9a0l60U9pA=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="513" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgNai6f5B2D8FazXv7MfXni86tb0iL_QsVAqscigEcVshsOlBke6xPfkhv61x3WOWDYED79X-ka7eEtVjk31aG9LT05Vmn4WXbZgz-ZPR5M_ltNWFO1IvPkFTYj1YbRofKL5vKzM9IARfEPWmbV_aZmF6mufnT567bYvTeTqUzs1y_9XxgJ9a0l60U9pA=w385-h513" width="385" /></a></div><div><br /></div>It's the end of April. The snow is finally melting from the middle elevations. Let's go for a hike on the Fanton Trail. Once one of the earliest trails on the western Cascades, it's now on the edge of national forest and receives it's fair amount of abuse. On some days you will be greeted by motorcycles, illegally ripping up the dirt with their shrill engines.</div><div>We are joined by a couple of boys who have never been on a wilderness hike. They aren't impressed. Weary boredom soon takes hold. No matter, the low snow will send us back. </div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjo9Nzza-7VIWI22_3JL-KBTjj-aCiET_8ejKXLEoqBqIMOiqfxUcEYazb11n_3mAef4pL7b2CIm8PN0dKjem13Vt1zqkJJAN_oyWulII1r2FeeGPgOoVcon7PRot4xVvMNtB6m9GbFwcXfLHc5cOAEmSsCfEuv97m3ZG92vruiwG2VJhe-PSYhVQqPfg=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="509" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjo9Nzza-7VIWI22_3JL-KBTjj-aCiET_8ejKXLEoqBqIMOiqfxUcEYazb11n_3mAef4pL7b2CIm8PN0dKjem13Vt1zqkJJAN_oyWulII1r2FeeGPgOoVcon7PRot4xVvMNtB6m9GbFwcXfLHc5cOAEmSsCfEuv97m3ZG92vruiwG2VJhe-PSYhVQqPfg=w382-h509" width="382" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgmXmHxsAVAaUYUPcJ2Eh8aIl9JUtsN6232Prm8rdM9iFxnYwos0D9Ba2naiFy-Wv8YxC_sb7F8b7jwtEeiIWeqEC0G-143D-z6k4MYrl7JSTn8X30n-N6UnYslV0sC2kw9CuiRsTYz96vkQ1xGe2KCCp8kBRYYndZWIP3oCjYShDI-rDzP0trqu-I9fg=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="508" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgmXmHxsAVAaUYUPcJ2Eh8aIl9JUtsN6232Prm8rdM9iFxnYwos0D9Ba2naiFy-Wv8YxC_sb7F8b7jwtEeiIWeqEC0G-143D-z6k4MYrl7JSTn8X30n-N6UnYslV0sC2kw9CuiRsTYz96vkQ1xGe2KCCp8kBRYYndZWIP3oCjYShDI-rDzP0trqu-I9fg=w381-h508" width="381" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Almost to Squaw aka Tumalo Mountain</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;">Another month passes. Our gardens bloom and trees explode with flowers. It's a rich time of green and every color in between. Did you see that blue sky? Nothing is more surprising after an eternity of rain. Colors!</div><div style="text-align: left;">It is time for another camp. Let's go somewhere new. The Clackamas is still closed from the terrible fires.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg1yxVzXcl73qObDTV4N1VDd46HcZGyoEB91AUBSIOG-EqhM8N7GdpuMcaVf2yQcsZTmhzwlvJIK-TxJdIOE-YnPLhFZ9h4PmJ-G9a3aic5IbyPExLq9NP3KS4ltCcsHCCSYLuzxYDbQ2iM3sWKGnuyoldXXEsCyjmyn-uAUPbtP_6aGPgOdgVF3ON_5A=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg1yxVzXcl73qObDTV4N1VDd46HcZGyoEB91AUBSIOG-EqhM8N7GdpuMcaVf2yQcsZTmhzwlvJIK-TxJdIOE-YnPLhFZ9h4PmJ-G9a3aic5IbyPExLq9NP3KS4ltCcsHCCSYLuzxYDbQ2iM3sWKGnuyoldXXEsCyjmyn-uAUPbtP_6aGPgOdgVF3ON_5A=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;">Quartzville Creek looks so promising on the map. A deep river canyon lined with old growth forest. The maps, however, do not show you the sketchy meth-fueled camps that follow the river for a good twenty miles. They do not tell you about the constant traffic and the clearcut hillsides.</div><div style="text-align: left;">A carabiner breaks! The hammock crashes to the earth and bruises 4 delicate cheeks. And it is the last straw, a weekend is ruined and the cars continue to stream by. Randy doesn't feel safe leaving camp gear unattended. I have had enough. Fuck you Quartzville I'll never come back. There aren't any photos to provide testament. Trust me. Maybe the lack of evidence is evidence itself.</div><div style="text-align: left;">...</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">It is almost June. The year is already half-over. Soon there will be an historic heat wave that bakes the Northwest. Temperatures of near 120 degrees scorches the earth for days and we just huddle in the dark with an air conditioner struggling to keep the heat at bay. We have been talking about taking her kids camping. Although they have never known the wilds, I am looking forward to showing them a sacred place in the wilderness. Let's go back to the Eastside. I know somewhere special.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgzetN4dRw3ZhnrhLchkehjvMT3TF7Zp8GrgbQJbVzWXNI4Hy-kYgr4SvEJe6yPcenKQ2TEC9B8bCxYSY_DIuALLjucfR7Uhs8yMfmGIz4CyS0B2ca_WykoxP6cFIGRDtZ7_gJymjmoio1GPVqMrCuKlDb0DfeTsbecQ_sUjdqplMFf21QgL61R_kIfRA=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="599" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgzetN4dRw3ZhnrhLchkehjvMT3TF7Zp8GrgbQJbVzWXNI4Hy-kYgr4SvEJe6yPcenKQ2TEC9B8bCxYSY_DIuALLjucfR7Uhs8yMfmGIz4CyS0B2ca_WykoxP6cFIGRDtZ7_gJymjmoio1GPVqMrCuKlDb0DfeTsbecQ_sUjdqplMFf21QgL61R_kIfRA=w450-h599" width="450" /></a></div><i>Badger Creek in her deep summer canyon</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhs3K8SltM3VGAMMub16TCiB_r6sZnP-3QUe_Xfpv3vaR-x9LTTnsFwNhn1DXZqgtB7C4CbnRgqGMkX6OH2GZgSN866NKkdktdJOgnCuLuzHIIRnku-SftN-J8rhNCJmnVA6tcZi738J0GNj8SjrsfKQKydUiz7uwL9RbumYhcTAxFYlErVdkxCZvT-YQ=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="506" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhs3K8SltM3VGAMMub16TCiB_r6sZnP-3QUe_Xfpv3vaR-x9LTTnsFwNhn1DXZqgtB7C4CbnRgqGMkX6OH2GZgSN866NKkdktdJOgnCuLuzHIIRnku-SftN-J8rhNCJmnVA6tcZi738J0GNj8SjrsfKQKydUiz7uwL9RbumYhcTAxFYlErVdkxCZvT-YQ=w675-h506" width="675" /></a></div><i>old growth forest below, sagebrush oak desert on top. All because of the creek.</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The weather is hot and it keeps getting hotter. We hike down to the creek with much consternation. We play Whiffle Ball in the dusty asters, the yellow blooms like miniature sunflowers almost everywhere. I throw a lazy pitch and get a Whiffle right in the throat! Serves me right. She reads them pirate stories as the night chill gathers and we're soon asleep in the celibate Bus. It is fun, and also not fun like a camping boot-camp. They are having a good time I think, but also seem pretty miserable. Being exposed in Nature is often hard work. We get used to air conditioning and electricity. All of the convenience with none of the effort.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I sing them one of my silly songs and we all laugh about the verses, this crazy guy Bob dragging you into the woods. I hope that they will remember the experience with some fondness. For me at least, it's an honor to know that I brought the wilderness to their lives, at least for a few days. It's not easy to forget.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgDwFEYufJ9BjVreiagwBphBs2SrCn-9awV9eSp4NoWDF47nK4lAQ2XmDc3mFGXLSfeUGCJM0kM4WlKIU9AWv4MZepu-pRp8Na8OXNDMuTTFYMpu6Vwi0YWpLkoWiw1lZBXkKNqXMH5BOn8ScjPWkBW1zxQ4Xmu66_vyXPsUZJal2kCd9x5-psjgD22cw=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="363" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgDwFEYufJ9BjVreiagwBphBs2SrCn-9awV9eSp4NoWDF47nK4lAQ2XmDc3mFGXLSfeUGCJM0kM4WlKIU9AWv4MZepu-pRp8Na8OXNDMuTTFYMpu6Vwi0YWpLkoWiw1lZBXkKNqXMH5BOn8ScjPWkBW1zxQ4Xmu66_vyXPsUZJal2kCd9x5-psjgD22cw=w272-h363" width="272" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">July. A month without a camp and it's the best season to be wandering the Cascades. The bus is packed, let's go! I want to take you to High Rock. </div><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjyxSSHvf3x8rtQqjy7eDSHcs3L-Qd1GKVRwl9IkdXS0sLhWeS2s0eymaJdr-lAiRuiHawzrIaRK4yIYGW3uqeK0z8qhPSejkEw6Zl-f-21Ii3JUr1hXN_4cENjDkIEJ50r186NL-usix-W5KHX_q_FCR7-BhPbVxca3pGp8_rNcc8h08drra5Fvmzmzg=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjyxSSHvf3x8rtQqjy7eDSHcs3L-Qd1GKVRwl9IkdXS0sLhWeS2s0eymaJdr-lAiRuiHawzrIaRK4yIYGW3uqeK0z8qhPSejkEw6Zl-f-21Ii3JUr1hXN_4cENjDkIEJ50r186NL-usix-W5KHX_q_FCR7-BhPbVxca3pGp8_rNcc8h08drra5Fvmzmzg=s320" width="240" /></a></div><div><br /></div>We have another fight. She doesn't want go. She won't talk to me. The bus gets unpacked.</div><div><br /></div><div><div style="text-align: center;">...</div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;">The end of July. Summer continues to bake us in our shoes and cauterize all wounds. Eva and I are going to our most sacred place in the Salmon Huckleberry. They call it Draw Creek these days, I wonder what the old names are? Eva has come into her sense of self in this place, at the dawn of her expanding consciousness. It is her favorite place to be, I'm sure of it. I have my own encyclopedia, memories that will stay with me forever. Sacred time on an old orange blanket. Finding trails that have been lost for 50 years. Laughing and bleeding at the same time. I want this place to last forever, then I will dwell there in a secret cabin that defies time. I will befriend generations of deer and amuse ten thousand owls. I will become old man of the creek and the moss will be my beard.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhxSt8br8hsurHT0yCbw3pzDposUTGN67oIzBep9nrhvoUgupyfCWJP6swgeHaR3cgvMzjoDQFk1zJ1qKKjCNau1uO21D9Gk9FO6vigUYJz5zrprIAzi1FwEgljv8p2MZjZEWd7ebAxdDH5LGmdN4dGoEIFSwLJeC4ysE0mjDw3F81tRbzJvyhYAX75Cw=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="521" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhxSt8br8hsurHT0yCbw3pzDposUTGN67oIzBep9nrhvoUgupyfCWJP6swgeHaR3cgvMzjoDQFk1zJ1qKKjCNau1uO21D9Gk9FO6vigUYJz5zrprIAzi1FwEgljv8p2MZjZEWd7ebAxdDH5LGmdN4dGoEIFSwLJeC4ysE0mjDw3F81tRbzJvyhYAX75Cw=w695-h521" width="695" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i>a climax forest of old growth helmock. Only this small valley survived the fires from the 19-teens</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEju2-c1sVktDgcW0PscgwTxv91oVirI5H9f7fWVe7aljq_6OdkZ9PzQJCKsNO0_jbBifQOiJlbjfzNHPIuA_2eI5a9F19Q_ylxG4cN7lZjuygqRkILrn3mhN1t3igF0jPSOeQVOWy-8sb_i-IbvvF_BB7QNkwBHlITD0eKVkqgjkGr7e463nvmOQt0fvA=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="388" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEju2-c1sVktDgcW0PscgwTxv91oVirI5H9f7fWVe7aljq_6OdkZ9PzQJCKsNO0_jbBifQOiJlbjfzNHPIuA_2eI5a9F19Q_ylxG4cN7lZjuygqRkILrn3mhN1t3igF0jPSOeQVOWy-8sb_i-IbvvF_BB7QNkwBHlITD0eKVkqgjkGr7e463nvmOQt0fvA=w518-h388" width="518" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Eva and Mama Bus</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhBZ4-RiciKchEbhAsbNZ6G6RQC3zovi2ynoQKbLv1T8QJ1ELmcEK703Fa4YLRbCvnCVjLzxmhsKgTqbJXMmuLsP0V2bm8fFmpYMVacoVKLUTvEBrHwpgLwsF06iHNfbf63YoT7_kLP0pYtQyZfxNer4gH0KAI1q_-_TJVOVU5YTP0D0-V2uVrB1si39Q=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhBZ4-RiciKchEbhAsbNZ6G6RQC3zovi2ynoQKbLv1T8QJ1ELmcEK703Fa4YLRbCvnCVjLzxmhsKgTqbJXMmuLsP0V2bm8fFmpYMVacoVKLUTvEBrHwpgLwsF06iHNfbf63YoT7_kLP0pYtQyZfxNer4gH0KAI1q_-_TJVOVU5YTP0D0-V2uVrB1si39Q=w360-h480" width="360" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>to the Salmon River</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjUDFFCO-kGbvRkZG2YirC3cEGzcJU3eEnllN6RcqACJVU6BE2lVZyLwbPwONMGamfm6xzrleP4Q9m0O6wLqpudLjmYFpWjKq-5yvpSN_1rPRJ8YFtg-nfmbXiJCZbRaOLd4XM0mRjvWGm8hHBPj9BDRx-rbSBgGqL9BTsJpkmqjBBf66OJFVt9JSV5Hg=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="432" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjUDFFCO-kGbvRkZG2YirC3cEGzcJU3eEnllN6RcqACJVU6BE2lVZyLwbPwONMGamfm6xzrleP4Q9m0O6wLqpudLjmYFpWjKq-5yvpSN_1rPRJ8YFtg-nfmbXiJCZbRaOLd4XM0mRjvWGm8hHBPj9BDRx-rbSBgGqL9BTsJpkmqjBBf66OJFVt9JSV5Hg=w324-h432" width="324" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>Three miles down a trail so abandoned that it has forgotten its own name. Someone has been down here recently! What are the odds? It was certainly a Trail Advocate, probably Don or Rob. It's another two miles to the end. "What do you think, Eva?" Her sweaty red face says she's had enough. I hear the beers calling my name, time to head back to the comfort of camp and the singing creeks. I only miss her a little bit here in this sacred place.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi1OGPPugcDm9zI4jEn2Ti67M2YqdQvIcXkjw6bqmvGnDiQQPaNfn4U1iWXmINLTMKvW2azikthpi0fyFwaQsxx7KKeJXogx8kag3a7I6E7GC357Xj8FmoV3N91K1TtdPLzljMCoHMrN47MVF-rvLNI0EZwOj4WuHvpf-kg6coy2gGz74rBn93851SaUA=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="602" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi1OGPPugcDm9zI4jEn2Ti67M2YqdQvIcXkjw6bqmvGnDiQQPaNfn4U1iWXmINLTMKvW2azikthpi0fyFwaQsxx7KKeJXogx8kag3a7I6E7GC357Xj8FmoV3N91K1TtdPLzljMCoHMrN47MVF-rvLNI0EZwOj4WuHvpf-kg6coy2gGz74rBn93851SaUA=w452-h602" width="452" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhjW6m6dU1065djzSYZVxGX77WatHDIr4ETYWpmErJvglDDARvTWByUzSSIFfyk6OsPHeOGh5X3qbUNJlcg3X60nfOl7_walzY5hN5e9sbsUxK-VgfWxlSSAk_RaB3ebROfLBKYo2zIAvgDLfw2YW_6wyF8ac5TnYYzQsS-wQ_NjaryNOjrtNijfhu4HQ=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="523" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhjW6m6dU1065djzSYZVxGX77WatHDIr4ETYWpmErJvglDDARvTWByUzSSIFfyk6OsPHeOGh5X3qbUNJlcg3X60nfOl7_walzY5hN5e9sbsUxK-VgfWxlSSAk_RaB3ebROfLBKYo2zIAvgDLfw2YW_6wyF8ac5TnYYzQsS-wQ_NjaryNOjrtNijfhu4HQ=w393-h523" width="393" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>my girl</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;">August brings a most incredible experience! Truly life changing.</div><div style="text-align: left;">When I came to Oregon over 20 years ago, the PBS series <i>Oregon Field Guide</i> became my inspiration to explore the incredible riches of the natural world. Each and every Sunday, Eva and I would wait and watch with great excitement. She would sit on my lap in entranced silence, the scenes and stories of beautiful Oregon leaving her quiet with wonder. They became a sort of blueprint for the life of adventure we both wanted to live. </div><div style="text-align: left;">As you may know, I have been researching history and lost natural places for a number of years. I have written a book about the Oregon Skyline Trail which will be published soon! How thrilling to find out that Oregon Field Guide wants to do a story about our adventures along the Skyline. For four days in August I will be the host to a forgotten part of Oregon's important history. It is really a dream come true.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhTG0VKH1PZrOLSdIT_IxeaSGK523Hfrx7IBseKVLYaUVF9E_dbaZcdcuA_gybgR9poLLfaQ9AzggkHgxwr_-0NU--hZt8Nq30vs6-oY5P6DASgdQ6ZqMBbnIBWdmwhOukHJjZYmBlmGEkLoLSXPYVCQP8ICgccqV89W9wXO3vsm9k9hWYFm3GyDt0ZIA=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="364" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhTG0VKH1PZrOLSdIT_IxeaSGK523Hfrx7IBseKVLYaUVF9E_dbaZcdcuA_gybgR9poLLfaQ9AzggkHgxwr_-0NU--hZt8Nq30vs6-oY5P6DASgdQ6ZqMBbnIBWdmwhOukHJjZYmBlmGEkLoLSXPYVCQP8ICgccqV89W9wXO3vsm9k9hWYFm3GyDt0ZIA=w485-h364" width="485" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Mama Bus all pretty</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgTR3gNvRXxvpL1ncuei04Rz-ZHppKJQyeNhyBwVGAmVOiiD1N69_y-xZ23-1eWhsj-egU8RZW9XLQ5s0ajjdD0Op4sTui7Wdn3_Qtf1CztbS1mY1e6MbWiPQfHJpOItlhpYNXlYiYKxx2F92UWyNGzB5lQu0b3MFm0VIWXgVCqFE6qBMDFksZrEw9RZA=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="384" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgTR3gNvRXxvpL1ncuei04Rz-ZHppKJQyeNhyBwVGAmVOiiD1N69_y-xZ23-1eWhsj-egU8RZW9XLQ5s0ajjdD0Op4sTui7Wdn3_Qtf1CztbS1mY1e6MbWiPQfHJpOItlhpYNXlYiYKxx2F92UWyNGzB5lQu0b3MFm0VIWXgVCqFE6qBMDFksZrEw9RZA=w511-h384" width="511" /></a></div><i>Are you ready, Eva? I'm not sure who is more nervous</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgjQS0osnpNp4zYRv-adELvh6vOjihSnA5eqVeVTkf5KiA-8rr3KJcp6bynPVtTqWcSy-OcHCflIFZIYI2jE-MqrYxMSCJKFZyluoVOncOciU7wd_iNYS1sxTxub80lT2RSpMI0Ep202mg6-kh0VJKfwFMJUCEXdiKRJsZpQGN4dmRipYZsoZO1NBSusQ=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="284" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgjQS0osnpNp4zYRv-adELvh6vOjihSnA5eqVeVTkf5KiA-8rr3KJcp6bynPVtTqWcSy-OcHCflIFZIYI2jE-MqrYxMSCJKFZyluoVOncOciU7wd_iNYS1sxTxub80lT2RSpMI0Ep202mg6-kh0VJKfwFMJUCEXdiKRJsZpQGN4dmRipYZsoZO1NBSusQ=w378-h284" width="378" /></a></div><i>Skyline Trailhead at Summit GS</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;">It was a very intense experience, it is wearisome to be "on" for many hours each day. the crew was smaller than I expected, just the producer Ian McCluskey and the photographer Kevin Freeney with a crazy assortment of cameras and drones. We begin at Government Camp and ended the shooting at Olallie Lake, just like the storyline in <i>Searching for the Skyline</i>.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> After a summer blazing with white hot heat, we encountered many cold gray skies and the fingers of icy breeze tickling under the flannel. It rained a bit, just tiny shower droplets that soak the scrubby green brush of salal and huckleberries. By the time we arrive at Olallie a few days later, a brilliant sun casts the lakes in heavenly hues. The burned forest from the previous year's fires gather around the lakeshore with their blackened trunks, trying to get a better look at the action.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> It was difficult to recognize that my little trail partner for the past 17 years will be off to college soon. When asked about it during an interview, I had to hold back my emotions for they were very strong.</div><div style="text-align: left;">PBS isn't sure of the release date, this spring or even autumn. But it will come out in 2022 please stay tuned! We're both very proud to be part of something so important. Truly a dream neither of us could have predicted. I can only hope the message of conservation will make some sort of difference no matter how small. For the first time I truly feel like an Oregonian.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjd4vFi129187UIzUlhQueFzdnKcMI0-Xn57lDOtPmBnK6A9Cg6KqK6uXD6jorGVPkzEgmzWvarSmvBR1H3s6KmjGQKKq25xp8p3VK3hgoIJDCekwAfxXDi3Mwu022oy7MnwYvhstKUYGq0Zup24xOX799A3nGEr3d3UOppLjfbGUkxXsbhV47FFtURNQ=s720" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="720" height="441" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjd4vFi129187UIzUlhQueFzdnKcMI0-Xn57lDOtPmBnK6A9Cg6KqK6uXD6jorGVPkzEgmzWvarSmvBR1H3s6KmjGQKKq25xp8p3VK3hgoIJDCekwAfxXDi3Mwu022oy7MnwYvhstKUYGq0Zup24xOX799A3nGEr3d3UOppLjfbGUkxXsbhV47FFtURNQ=w441-h441" width="441" /></a></div><i>ol Hambone plucks out a tune on the Skyline, photo by Ian McCluskey</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;">Shooting is over! Let's go back to Portland. Eva needs to go home. I have another week off! And can't wait to have some Nature time.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgv115PxLeX0l47tgj-27QdB3msiytEK21g8OnP1sMJ_VoC30vRu33bX7OXU2LBWS6Nbu3V7pv00lUEMVrwgQUdV1fz7V_vkuSp_Qv32lX6J3Dt8YkstPL_xRGNaL9PeaWPiLYPL1QjNn4cQ68iqZGhaficOVd-RGeQbXv4SvBpvZThOsSkE5TP3smpXg=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgv115PxLeX0l47tgj-27QdB3msiytEK21g8OnP1sMJ_VoC30vRu33bX7OXU2LBWS6Nbu3V7pv00lUEMVrwgQUdV1fz7V_vkuSp_Qv32lX6J3Dt8YkstPL_xRGNaL9PeaWPiLYPL1QjNn4cQ68iqZGhaficOVd-RGeQbXv4SvBpvZThOsSkE5TP3smpXg=s320" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhtXC3PiZ-AegOKly61p5LOLUZbz33sj2o74JfKR6-SRvBzcPAxD4_0SAINH4_E3eBZN6rrs0DSEBW9COvqU8PXdIGm380-J5FiQLQ0NHJdJsOBVWI5SQKqlaa-nrzWq01QlBYNjINCbbNuEU79Xc3IjJL83xbs_R_LAGzmXwX9zBevfHHRvHSXSdahqA=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="488" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhtXC3PiZ-AegOKly61p5LOLUZbz33sj2o74JfKR6-SRvBzcPAxD4_0SAINH4_E3eBZN6rrs0DSEBW9COvqU8PXdIGm380-J5FiQLQ0NHJdJsOBVWI5SQKqlaa-nrzWq01QlBYNjINCbbNuEU79Xc3IjJL83xbs_R_LAGzmXwX9zBevfHHRvHSXSdahqA=w651-h488" width="651" /></a></div><i>yes, baked at Fred Meyer's. Tremendous irony.</i><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEikM9SuQgQ-YjoZyXEE1rz-PTFeOEc4mZ2gC3_Ihy8nxtERli1bK8n8ctzqLhksv4p4ylLCdoDKUiIOYb7LpOWNnaappc7ej7SLRJhO0tDKYBt4GayHn-TmLmrJX2y52XJ2cKmIUWC1Gc63rFi12UTwdLsPXPCePqOHb5jRrPeUKCZwvha8q-tPl9x1pA=s2576" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2576" data-original-width="1932" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEikM9SuQgQ-YjoZyXEE1rz-PTFeOEc4mZ2gC3_Ihy8nxtERli1bK8n8ctzqLhksv4p4ylLCdoDKUiIOYb7LpOWNnaappc7ej7SLRJhO0tDKYBt4GayHn-TmLmrJX2y52XJ2cKmIUWC1Gc63rFi12UTwdLsPXPCePqOHb5jRrPeUKCZwvha8q-tPl9x1pA=s320" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;">It wasn't a very good camp. A disaster, in fact. Our communication degraded by the hour. It was time to go home a few days early. Blue again under the promise of wilderness? Such sadness after a life changing event? What the hell. The high mountain lake doesn't care.</div><div style="text-align: left;">Never mind, Bobby. The wilderness Mother is always there for you.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj8qZbbGL-3xoEajoDqLT3biD_e5WtRz7oZ45ddRmgWU8swFWal-CzcjmNEYyS4RZCZLnxKZaOtdJSnC2ivw4jIGA2vAXMWEDUrpdMmvsf2LHeePaKEudJultqkayozO6UsG_jyyQqzCnYT9iiGIN4QkpK7KrIjjJlFV-vfo7sXG2LWYB9BJzC6d1UY6Q=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="419" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj8qZbbGL-3xoEajoDqLT3biD_e5WtRz7oZ45ddRmgWU8swFWal-CzcjmNEYyS4RZCZLnxKZaOtdJSnC2ivw4jIGA2vAXMWEDUrpdMmvsf2LHeePaKEudJultqkayozO6UsG_jyyQqzCnYT9iiGIN4QkpK7KrIjjJlFV-vfo7sXG2LWYB9BJzC6d1UY6Q=w315-h419" width="315" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>looking a little tattered after 52 years of camping...</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEivgroHl_OnKePYPIKv-fvbP1GOVMUH4UYGH2lY4FAxU7caInb1VeWzZFwQtjS2xwEmqlI2M8Y5ZGAu5TIw3INfFcnaLZnI8SUEALwXDMJHjQBB7glapGFrlpj2byYiT1xnRBxEL2msH0fu9huVKYa1Z2TrTynrlBhbAz0FOA3eTe2b8jzNXNUhjsMkZQ=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEivgroHl_OnKePYPIKv-fvbP1GOVMUH4UYGH2lY4FAxU7caInb1VeWzZFwQtjS2xwEmqlI2M8Y5ZGAu5TIw3INfFcnaLZnI8SUEALwXDMJHjQBB7glapGFrlpj2byYiT1xnRBxEL2msH0fu9huVKYa1Z2TrTynrlBhbAz0FOA3eTe2b8jzNXNUhjsMkZQ=s320" width="240" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>September. Another camp? It is Labor Day and summer is slip sliding away. It has been a very hot summer and the fire danger has been high. We haven't enjoyed a campfire since June and the homeless camps are on fire. A bunch of lanterns in a circle doesn't quite cut it. Patricia and Ian will be joining me. Ol Ruckman too. Let's go to Dry Meadow, what do you guys think? "Oh you're the one who knows this stuff! It's up to you!" </div><div style="text-align: left;">I don't know, but I do enjoy the company immensely. Especially in times of trouble. Music and wilderness friends will heal everything. This I absolutely guarantee. Warranty written AND implied. The last thing I want to be is an expert. Perhaps a co-conspirator. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhbiC_1mDX8GCg1wS04J2JmR0BJrrFjt91PqSeIIOhaJHOeknO9mv1eC4hu38MhYT6-lLkPEP2oGCX0y7D8U3i7jCzz5U_XAEgRlsmaC5Mg6mGARMzuDINqyBWx0m8j83YIgkCSBz-XHl_-H9yNiq0KnVUPHR5FmcNYkR0eGJ8_ylzwryKq-SBsVzNIBA=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="348" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhbiC_1mDX8GCg1wS04J2JmR0BJrrFjt91PqSeIIOhaJHOeknO9mv1eC4hu38MhYT6-lLkPEP2oGCX0y7D8U3i7jCzz5U_XAEgRlsmaC5Mg6mGARMzuDINqyBWx0m8j83YIgkCSBz-XHl_-H9yNiq0KnVUPHR5FmcNYkR0eGJ8_ylzwryKq-SBsVzNIBA=w464-h348" width="464" /></a></div><i>Bertha Bus keeps ticking for 50+ years</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhSDlT0e_gbiBO1me1SGKswTKGYu1xa8oKJmzlWDrC7vt87uCJKSOysTuI8PBhmrLEUmINP41qIHxSjfGwqxLgXisKEWf_K4JMR5G8OzEw3RKTf7WC_-jFrP57S2y-oawPK32qOjQT2KZmK5qoNrHp_7xycre9qIe_iQ_ItzQoeQdS1ZRjLtuSxoloeyg=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhSDlT0e_gbiBO1me1SGKswTKGYu1xa8oKJmzlWDrC7vt87uCJKSOysTuI8PBhmrLEUmINP41qIHxSjfGwqxLgXisKEWf_K4JMR5G8OzEw3RKTf7WC_-jFrP57S2y-oawPK32qOjQT2KZmK5qoNrHp_7xycre9qIe_iQ_ItzQoeQdS1ZRjLtuSxoloeyg=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg0Io25XWWgWoWpCP-6VtxFsZn3sueBAiutyEe1FuQox7t_q7woc0rk5FfDqnwQpyGDm8lthmF4xYM3qqo5-FI1IciHQ1AhlUeJQZZwrz6Kg4VIwl3NqLZruLT6DO_PBrYYe6hozkgbGi9skHiALlYRldSwooQ6e377AmviacyqNU7-FHPpBhWuWaQxQw=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="627" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg0Io25XWWgWoWpCP-6VtxFsZn3sueBAiutyEe1FuQox7t_q7woc0rk5FfDqnwQpyGDm8lthmF4xYM3qqo5-FI1IciHQ1AhlUeJQZZwrz6Kg4VIwl3NqLZruLT6DO_PBrYYe6hozkgbGi9skHiALlYRldSwooQ6e377AmviacyqNU7-FHPpBhWuWaQxQw=w470-h627" width="470" /></a></div><i>Neal doing the "pelican"</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgbv7oEZtU8Nnd11PRLcElg9dhKaD2Hvka_cU6-TJIr6BlxkIFqV_QKYYNAYJcfPwBEdzq2tBFR2PwJlCM2nZWmbX2rCIn9I51AK2ctFJR8K2b9x6MIbPExqP0vuKVTW_0_VIf_gW3cba5-7ma0QhvLlOdE-fX0MhgTi90Hw6RZGKHT5tWvTJw0GDj3AQ=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="448" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgbv7oEZtU8Nnd11PRLcElg9dhKaD2Hvka_cU6-TJIr6BlxkIFqV_QKYYNAYJcfPwBEdzq2tBFR2PwJlCM2nZWmbX2rCIn9I51AK2ctFJR8K2b9x6MIbPExqP0vuKVTW_0_VIf_gW3cba5-7ma0QhvLlOdE-fX0MhgTi90Hw6RZGKHT5tWvTJw0GDj3AQ=w596-h448" width="596" /></a></div><i>Ian and Patricia. They are so sweet together! a truly kind and loving couple.</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiEVptOEsi9GUXcaoPtEcTWrYW5lp-vo6LwMOiyWQGWiBaM2ZAsRRWs7V7EZadJXX30qT_28xq0mIncarduCb62bWDdE4pGBgR13jNG6BelEGpSxQY6dPTlwhXy3JiKtkWXWLt9D64NDhwZvoquccu63qLO90ElPRMiagG3goRVYtm_tkR-poxHUg7BSw=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="537" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiEVptOEsi9GUXcaoPtEcTWrYW5lp-vo6LwMOiyWQGWiBaM2ZAsRRWs7V7EZadJXX30qT_28xq0mIncarduCb62bWDdE4pGBgR13jNG6BelEGpSxQY6dPTlwhXy3JiKtkWXWLt9D64NDhwZvoquccu63qLO90ElPRMiagG3goRVYtm_tkR-poxHUg7BSw=w714-h537" width="714" /></a></div><i>buzzzzzzzzzz! A hidden hornet's nest nearby? But they never gave me any trouble.</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjZzksYvBpOssbB3E2EKOPlK_un-VGlZqP1-TNj-v6RBSkztAMj7jeKh6VQvXVnA_Skad44KHGbP9EFfx8HvkWJHP1n_VYPzVeOtc98RuGqmYnZdOMCcXrAbH4-M4CaVANpvzcsaMx0nsty0Iy_FsbRyOMO6Di45xeu48z6qCnTekf2e7RkOxoDXphVQg=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="323" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjZzksYvBpOssbB3E2EKOPlK_un-VGlZqP1-TNj-v6RBSkztAMj7jeKh6VQvXVnA_Skad44KHGbP9EFfx8HvkWJHP1n_VYPzVeOtc98RuGqmYnZdOMCcXrAbH4-M4CaVANpvzcsaMx0nsty0Iy_FsbRyOMO6Di45xeu48z6qCnTekf2e7RkOxoDXphVQg=w431-h323" width="431" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The meadows are bright and crisp as the sun. Good beer flows with effortless company, and another whiskey yes please. It's not at all necessary but very appreciated. Everything tastes better in the forest. The Skyline ran right through here! Yes, but those are just words and it's hard to believe under the umbrella of jet traffic.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhzV-QcCX-r2V5bv4JnIuLFnLs6EP5PKXQVkBO8Wd0KeI5w3m9c1wJyGdmZqPxPHj_XAUCGYbQNinSk9Nzv1Gmk-DTyoX08h3LCQ-Q7U-jzyHZBgPrxetEbAq_ALnXSe_er1c6vbI5VJ0LQUp4-lb85ty6Wkn6QtQAzc3RZkLwUfoKU4JaXSFxu-HrILw=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="563" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhzV-QcCX-r2V5bv4JnIuLFnLs6EP5PKXQVkBO8Wd0KeI5w3m9c1wJyGdmZqPxPHj_XAUCGYbQNinSk9Nzv1Gmk-DTyoX08h3LCQ-Q7U-jzyHZBgPrxetEbAq_ALnXSe_er1c6vbI5VJ0LQUp4-lb85ty6Wkn6QtQAzc3RZkLwUfoKU4JaXSFxu-HrILw=w422-h563" width="422" /></a></div><i>in-between the dusky crossroads of autumn and the sun, Ian</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgwqANe31lyXiruzBhibFVHLYve1478d_fn5skO3JCtaN7XchV9L6g2yeUeKc29kXMyxjADAIsyiQlzOXMT2YK2_FqCFOW44H-I8vBWSKgXsBinwi7kEcxc4OBileuJghXiVATLCys7IPDWfm4y0EAgjCXEWcIR4tj6J9bYGLi88f1J9XST8IFOE3ppCg=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="392" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgwqANe31lyXiruzBhibFVHLYve1478d_fn5skO3JCtaN7XchV9L6g2yeUeKc29kXMyxjADAIsyiQlzOXMT2YK2_FqCFOW44H-I8vBWSKgXsBinwi7kEcxc4OBileuJghXiVATLCys7IPDWfm4y0EAgjCXEWcIR4tj6J9bYGLi88f1J9XST8IFOE3ppCg=w523-h392" width="523" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg1lYe9cog9tECMUnEgGGSuUwxlH10_fTSEC52sHDhKO83HkwyVM-LV53M7RI47QYYhngEfsyn1F_eFZPAn3NtIUR1kRI1JQkMYYq61V8ZaHifyufhrZjk9baFHnpwN7Ruo2Qi9agCI2FcFXsan-Z4V5tv5htPxnbNtqqYh2pc8BUOfexeydzvXJ-lpCg=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="348" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg1lYe9cog9tECMUnEgGGSuUwxlH10_fTSEC52sHDhKO83HkwyVM-LV53M7RI47QYYhngEfsyn1F_eFZPAn3NtIUR1kRI1JQkMYYq61V8ZaHifyufhrZjk9baFHnpwN7Ruo2Qi9agCI2FcFXsan-Z4V5tv5htPxnbNtqqYh2pc8BUOfexeydzvXJ-lpCg=w464-h348" width="464" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiH0J0_MEAOkDN47szU3mkbFu1WourRzOjohtpNAiboCEXg43wWqtizri7Q60PwTH-fh1lqbAAky9yexlotPCTxj9Iv-caCmhKl55SJqgK0mFgnjIK2o3UNq_FN3hDPa7Q6HISXzOYohhFxrLN8ovAXZLdyu0tdnGEGVVhLghS7rKmRexbU5KYQFJzuPg=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiH0J0_MEAOkDN47szU3mkbFu1WourRzOjohtpNAiboCEXg43wWqtizri7Q60PwTH-fh1lqbAAky9yexlotPCTxj9Iv-caCmhKl55SJqgK0mFgnjIK2o3UNq_FN3hDPa7Q6HISXzOYohhFxrLN8ovAXZLdyu0tdnGEGVVhLghS7rKmRexbU5KYQFJzuPg=s320" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>Night falls, and I don't. A Stony Stumble with Patricia to the end of the road while everyone else is asleep. It is far enough to stumble. The lanterns seem like lighthouses in the dark.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh5e3yZen7kFoV8CGvrwvKq3SZ5FiQOV5OLZr7MYUHPh6gyVDYnGeSkITdxgIbFHgZNmDoGr3Vyb325Rzl6noNv5lbqULdUAYJRdllkbP4nF3epnyFiXpR7Wa2eksWOJaM2ACDR_4H0b50GjBT8A37SRp59u_4f5XsyyHsDbm3kyn3_2JQ7lErfYzQ1Kw=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="591" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh5e3yZen7kFoV8CGvrwvKq3SZ5FiQOV5OLZr7MYUHPh6gyVDYnGeSkITdxgIbFHgZNmDoGr3Vyb325Rzl6noNv5lbqULdUAYJRdllkbP4nF3epnyFiXpR7Wa2eksWOJaM2ACDR_4H0b50GjBT8A37SRp59u_4f5XsyyHsDbm3kyn3_2JQ7lErfYzQ1Kw=w443-h591" width="443" /></a></div><i>A gift! Patricia's mosquito screen fits my bus. Thank you!</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEirzQ7dNUdfuQINRcxBxeGmWwBNegtMZZMErkqQEs7TRCeWH-vSVPboQSUzysL3iGb-urwe0I3gpy-5eq95lKFU74E6uT7usZc1loHWTAqcXWY0lCfrmP_3mnmSm2NAhmyWDw5E-7-sPS5OSAOexV0WIhmScNAJZtBpnIdK6WMgQQd8MPYyHjiRSUkSqg=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="588" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEirzQ7dNUdfuQINRcxBxeGmWwBNegtMZZMErkqQEs7TRCeWH-vSVPboQSUzysL3iGb-urwe0I3gpy-5eq95lKFU74E6uT7usZc1loHWTAqcXWY0lCfrmP_3mnmSm2NAhmyWDw5E-7-sPS5OSAOexV0WIhmScNAJZtBpnIdK6WMgQQd8MPYyHjiRSUkSqg=w441-h588" width="441" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">We left Neal standing there. He's still there to this day. Some say he's as old as the hills. Others say that's a lot of ageist bullshit and they are probably right.</div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;">There is a committee that has been formed that periodically sweeps off the snow and feeds him hoagies and IPAs. You can contribute here: [link]</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">...</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">In between the isles of the passing seasons, a lot of life happened that is contrary to the spirit of this story. There was deep love shared, communion and miscommunication. A great distance began to form without knowing it, like a hidden pocket of air in the ice. It is hard for me to see the faults in someone I love. I can see my own quite clearly and they often guide me, sometimes to lesser places. I had a hunch that my life was about to shift, but just a hunch and not a prediction. Instead of discussing any of this, I present to you a September salad created by Eva with the last of the garden vegetables. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhP5dVb4bBBMedPnxqekh5IggmthNt-wU3ICh0iCd4yd4pfwPFZ1q4AfU8OkqaOacHR0_QwsCnLOshrf_fff2zhNraUx2vMNtt9EJLC_jtduh54M1d_N9sFbxQvXZdJaD2gTyo5hmw9PKyQx5SkH3knoAasd1YNwZcCzLKNIuoiuxNve6hxzp3t8s-Q_g=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="563" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhP5dVb4bBBMedPnxqekh5IggmthNt-wU3ICh0iCd4yd4pfwPFZ1q4AfU8OkqaOacHR0_QwsCnLOshrf_fff2zhNraUx2vMNtt9EJLC_jtduh54M1d_N9sFbxQvXZdJaD2gTyo5hmw9PKyQx5SkH3knoAasd1YNwZcCzLKNIuoiuxNve6hxzp3t8s-Q_g=w422-h563" width="422" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhDfcUzvf5LrsaGjQInSIBsSYLKebYzpn3DNocBqwUTvJCnW7wO1fTcEygYYKbjaLD6hNpmEJQU5rRDRtO6r7UGkzgH-pa1mEv7kyBBUTfTViqjELIMYnRYOWkXhYP6ieXIoY_fVWCAAW7SS5uUAn55GC-l_SlZwriSU2RpY_hnSRLKdrLVoJmGHAkIIw=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="411" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhDfcUzvf5LrsaGjQInSIBsSYLKebYzpn3DNocBqwUTvJCnW7wO1fTcEygYYKbjaLD6hNpmEJQU5rRDRtO6r7UGkzgH-pa1mEv7kyBBUTfTViqjELIMYnRYOWkXhYP6ieXIoY_fVWCAAW7SS5uUAn55GC-l_SlZwriSU2RpY_hnSRLKdrLVoJmGHAkIIw=w548-h411" width="548" /></a></div><i>and a counsel of elders at the Lucky Lab. With Hal, Randy, Joseph, and Neil</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEivco2DZwlJ-pPoaYbeORBu6mYDOCz2Ne4wRUi-AV4gV01qPlvJ6PxqugO_ED3yJQIn4Q4ZweU1vz79DNQBvpnYGibp-HGhyT5tsbs4MuzIYp-L8HtdsmSzpGZ8iVeOjP7IMmE7dx9kQhalkopYHdB1JQS86-etkVVscmreCS0_JxBeacr7obF1-eIBJA=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="313" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEivco2DZwlJ-pPoaYbeORBu6mYDOCz2Ne4wRUi-AV4gV01qPlvJ6PxqugO_ED3yJQIn4Q4ZweU1vz79DNQBvpnYGibp-HGhyT5tsbs4MuzIYp-L8HtdsmSzpGZ8iVeOjP7IMmE7dx9kQhalkopYHdB1JQS86-etkVVscmreCS0_JxBeacr7obF1-eIBJA=w235-h313" width="235" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">October arrives like a jack o lantern in some kind of hurry. "Where you goin bub? Some kinda hurry huh?" I'm not ready for autumn. Summer was a wash, between the Covid and the world on fire, the canceled camps and arguments. My dearest daughter Terian is getting married! This means I'm off to Chicago, my hometown. I haven't been back in over a decade because these damn forests have stolen my heart away. I'm a mountain man now.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhgl1ciMvI0tIyqfp6eG381YRbh-yFPZ6gXhxywDDDVNQwvN_PpsNhx8tyPtc9nXaICa5XWihKesbmC4EYEPf6tQ-b6BcqGP07Usp6DCIe7CRfVICbn8rXp75pyCU5NsgssRlAwoIT_IoJuk7i-ghy3GBCbzm73LvVpCz1VNMFld2hg-qB-8SS_hgJs4g=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="565" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhgl1ciMvI0tIyqfp6eG381YRbh-yFPZ6gXhxywDDDVNQwvN_PpsNhx8tyPtc9nXaICa5XWihKesbmC4EYEPf6tQ-b6BcqGP07Usp6DCIe7CRfVICbn8rXp75pyCU5NsgssRlAwoIT_IoJuk7i-ghy3GBCbzm73LvVpCz1VNMFld2hg-qB-8SS_hgJs4g=w424-h565" width="424" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">12 seconds off the plane I'm back home again. Da Bears for sure.</div></div><div style="text-align: left;">Impossible to get the coal tar grit out of the man. It's there for life. Da Bears.</div><div style="text-align: left;">Although this has little to do with Oregon wilderness (!) please allow me to share a few photos of the trip. It was such a beautiful wedding, I was a slobbering joyful mess. So proud to be a Papa! </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEisBNpuvZ5tRZMtyUw9wTclEh9OHYclXBjQ_fbl-Bw-LIOAhsx4HL9YgW0FED-_yvPT4NbnPIpSjryPxIJvcto04_cKZrH767qUe9LHslqg9NCUpDr5yGgvnaR2QMXF7YAC7Q_HiJTnuAbeIX8mg81TlbOt2ZUpS-MpA41PWamQy_Mhhfc69SD5NNMbqg=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="367" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEisBNpuvZ5tRZMtyUw9wTclEh9OHYclXBjQ_fbl-Bw-LIOAhsx4HL9YgW0FED-_yvPT4NbnPIpSjryPxIJvcto04_cKZrH767qUe9LHslqg9NCUpDr5yGgvnaR2QMXF7YAC7Q_HiJTnuAbeIX8mg81TlbOt2ZUpS-MpA41PWamQy_Mhhfc69SD5NNMbqg=w489-h367" width="489" /></a></div><i>Terian and Eva stuff their faces in Wicker Park</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg9ykefwlQb5mH92mkU5gIq-wW2bNdDlYYsNWopWFb9HUIglET9BEQe1yPLDztIkDxghJUwjfieyo5GiuDPhteh46Vr5BdloBHfoEvtt2vYxXaOZahVR3rQtfwZy_kXyuJErUFGePsfYq1O4mlqeZ6zgQGSb8j2Jmr9a4b6dYTYxMsClLGSn79LALBpzA=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="522" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg9ykefwlQb5mH92mkU5gIq-wW2bNdDlYYsNWopWFb9HUIglET9BEQe1yPLDztIkDxghJUwjfieyo5GiuDPhteh46Vr5BdloBHfoEvtt2vYxXaOZahVR3rQtfwZy_kXyuJErUFGePsfYq1O4mlqeZ6zgQGSb8j2Jmr9a4b6dYTYxMsClLGSn79LALBpzA=w391-h522" width="391" /></a></div><i>your author lived here many years, on the 3rd floor</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjuq1gXpm91JoeqOKnp0QHnNYOwZ6SHTvrk93c5V4Xv_fDIyXGmxOSA8KJSsIDd7r1fVqysmYXYuJ8fuGzisuSupkvEhml38tQo-p-Sphz3mGoE90olTj7Sza_KnrE6KLHnF4mrJ4KBnsu0goTeuNFa8sjtOHDRu3Em0Ph0jPYJuutTiBs5KVQu33NkKQ=s3264" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjuq1gXpm91JoeqOKnp0QHnNYOwZ6SHTvrk93c5V4Xv_fDIyXGmxOSA8KJSsIDd7r1fVqysmYXYuJ8fuGzisuSupkvEhml38tQo-p-Sphz3mGoE90olTj7Sza_KnrE6KLHnF4mrJ4KBnsu0goTeuNFa8sjtOHDRu3Em0Ph0jPYJuutTiBs5KVQu33NkKQ=s320" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Bob at Margie's Candies</i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjRiPDw2R9VjqaiFc7488tX9BZdBvUuXqex5ptFqYsKQWtoBVPaCHDzVUuqYPRZWwvzArfGgotWsdJ7cZ9p-rE46kqN1Gowuk8H4INLRLd1Ek-g81YG-RUnl-a2UsLpMa2eThVFRkB1LeqbuJpKpypWAJkz4x-CSi7BC_JtdbxGlwE3D7PycDMApNT4pg=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="327" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjRiPDw2R9VjqaiFc7488tX9BZdBvUuXqex5ptFqYsKQWtoBVPaCHDzVUuqYPRZWwvzArfGgotWsdJ7cZ9p-rE46kqN1Gowuk8H4INLRLd1Ek-g81YG-RUnl-a2UsLpMa2eThVFRkB1LeqbuJpKpypWAJkz4x-CSi7BC_JtdbxGlwE3D7PycDMApNT4pg=w436-h327" width="436" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Here along the dense North Shore of Lake Michigan, the Gold Coast, I'm startled to find a bit of native prairie has been restored. This used to be cut green lawns, now it is full of native Midwest plants. It is really special to see in such an urban place. A small token but someone cares. How wonderful to walk through the winding paths! Just beyond, the mountains of architecture line the canyons of Downtown.</div><div style="text-align: left;">My kind of town, Chicago is. The most skilled yet humble place I've lived or visited. One hell of a hot dog too.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhKaLhEEDzUMVmB_AlnWAlmwTE8-0QILLx0o-CErUdEkZPuLCONsi_L2U4B7C8CQBn5E5PIR5OBAXoWx52AVnYwVrtBjnZywtvpwmBHcHulUMR6bTcUtbfCzPHAjjI4FTUrmNoyQuiAmmt4FYsvbg22aW0ok9oxdTCLTyWrdOOZRK2VkWFxTg5y_pD-wQ=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="471" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhKaLhEEDzUMVmB_AlnWAlmwTE8-0QILLx0o-CErUdEkZPuLCONsi_L2U4B7C8CQBn5E5PIR5OBAXoWx52AVnYwVrtBjnZywtvpwmBHcHulUMR6bTcUtbfCzPHAjjI4FTUrmNoyQuiAmmt4FYsvbg22aW0ok9oxdTCLTyWrdOOZRK2VkWFxTg5y_pD-wQ=w627-h471" width="627" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh7DoG8Vh_LRbWOTpmEAGG5_hgLKUMEo7Juy8VFI7DYelmx2huOPIVxesra1tACBdCRSTnK3QuIn18n-PgBIt4Zw5g__fesHAuF10qncUVDcaWT3WhWkO0w953fP_wVLJu587xjAydDRpRYmCX7tEDrASw68DRdpXtAeZt7rUOOCgIjcSwW2cBN-QpdWw=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="307" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh7DoG8Vh_LRbWOTpmEAGG5_hgLKUMEo7Juy8VFI7DYelmx2huOPIVxesra1tACBdCRSTnK3QuIn18n-PgBIt4Zw5g__fesHAuF10qncUVDcaWT3WhWkO0w953fP_wVLJu587xjAydDRpRYmCX7tEDrASw68DRdpXtAeZt7rUOOCgIjcSwW2cBN-QpdWw=w409-h307" width="409" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjEvPwWajJz0SycaJo8ZPD-7NsKvfYZlCtpleX6-f7jE711GzlCrUumvNPrs50RK2cuuxcgdZVUwOYiUkHN1inub1wcF1YvrdRbE_uIrjIxpV0_wdwhp_J1iuNxSc7u5BCb7Tj105cIs6jp9pEt_G2sZwEvixVaCQSawAP7xYUQckc59bEwbST3F1k6VA=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="470" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjEvPwWajJz0SycaJo8ZPD-7NsKvfYZlCtpleX6-f7jE711GzlCrUumvNPrs50RK2cuuxcgdZVUwOYiUkHN1inub1wcF1YvrdRbE_uIrjIxpV0_wdwhp_J1iuNxSc7u5BCb7Tj105cIs6jp9pEt_G2sZwEvixVaCQSawAP7xYUQckc59bEwbST3F1k6VA=w628-h470" width="628" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>Chicago AKA "Wild Onion"</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhgUvU-akVahVC04Fdc1QP9uuOIoFtk__3UQoOphWBtwkvsKvdq1_RIAEZLPlAogT8DbmMhwl4DhNH0rCD_tiY07w13WgVU9kVJe9C0SqXkzJB8LcGWIgdzSYsmf-3YbM3BeA9SKbFD4XvVJnwJkmzjZKARw9AYDWnHx4K5Lmpevu7FQZG_ZjvlHrjiNQ=s2576" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2576" data-original-width="1932" height="516" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhgUvU-akVahVC04Fdc1QP9uuOIoFtk__3UQoOphWBtwkvsKvdq1_RIAEZLPlAogT8DbmMhwl4DhNH0rCD_tiY07w13WgVU9kVJe9C0SqXkzJB8LcGWIgdzSYsmf-3YbM3BeA9SKbFD4XvVJnwJkmzjZKARw9AYDWnHx4K5Lmpevu7FQZG_ZjvlHrjiNQ=w387-h516" width="387" /></a></div><i>And a wild happy night with my old friend Bill Wagg. Over 30 years I've known this guy.</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;">October falls away. November and almost the end of the season, and the end of this story.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhFqZe5OjNH9tANhHK3ByaELTdzhpSg8jByUm_HK8Bj7EBZ48PeKPhyYscYClN76NY4Xb5EIEzAAavshJcaXInWBbdOtviqRX0EjobxN57a-jWa5yRzUrt2pXOAgDxa_oq9Yk_JS8B7cP9OgEBD-DhFyU7zg_w_AH2L7oE7V3A8rBkz4lt0_lyoFZBwdA=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="560" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhFqZe5OjNH9tANhHK3ByaELTdzhpSg8jByUm_HK8Bj7EBZ48PeKPhyYscYClN76NY4Xb5EIEzAAavshJcaXInWBbdOtviqRX0EjobxN57a-jWa5yRzUrt2pXOAgDxa_oq9Yk_JS8B7cP9OgEBD-DhFyU7zg_w_AH2L7oE7V3A8rBkz4lt0_lyoFZBwdA=w420-h560" width="420" /></a></div><i>Autumn sunset at Vista House on the Columbia River Highway</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;">One last trip. She is taking me to Breitenbush. It is unusually warm and dry for this time of the year.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhK27mcdbZhzu7L7Jtbvvry1x7UQjQiR4ti0EDwexTj3ZzT0CU86p7a5_3QdVc8ZeOc2qbP7r1SC3YDZzQKz5Xvl_Q0v1x2SCzbVSv0zLjj8Sf_54i5gCSL_MT4Idneu65-q0YrFVvxf8B7SpKBDd38Jzd2sWKEx0szc-JI4UW19hpPJ-fcJBFh4DgHhA=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhK27mcdbZhzu7L7Jtbvvry1x7UQjQiR4ti0EDwexTj3ZzT0CU86p7a5_3QdVc8ZeOc2qbP7r1SC3YDZzQKz5Xvl_Q0v1x2SCzbVSv0zLjj8Sf_54i5gCSL_MT4Idneu65-q0YrFVvxf8B7SpKBDd38Jzd2sWKEx0szc-JI4UW19hpPJ-fcJBFh4DgHhA=s320" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi-QJ2MwqQjGHcaIPf7lYjQjdY3MY-0qU6C8cn2GVuokI6DpzWE4WpyuguMDbBzg8Ga9SNCjt7QTvDx_x8qh-d2YUJaJI-PeGCTsAfuqKfr9UFSKnBuPsERWxt_1USFxmQHVznCUNBYyZsMYQrYu0fykS4WirIU40NaHReBArKStHWbIbuMW6pOAI21dA=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="465" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi-QJ2MwqQjGHcaIPf7lYjQjdY3MY-0qU6C8cn2GVuokI6DpzWE4WpyuguMDbBzg8Ga9SNCjt7QTvDx_x8qh-d2YUJaJI-PeGCTsAfuqKfr9UFSKnBuPsERWxt_1USFxmQHVznCUNBYyZsMYQrYu0fykS4WirIU40NaHReBArKStHWbIbuMW6pOAI21dA=w620-h465" width="620" /></a></div><i>Yoder Store. Just like me, in service since 1915</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">It was one of the best trips of my life. My lower back was in intense pain, but it didn't matter. I was with my person in the healing waters of Breitenbush. The fires tore through here too. How difficult to see your favorite memories erased from time and space. The little cabin village from the 20s now just a vacant lot. We stopped at Silver Falls on the way home. She held my hand up the muddy trail, to help me along. In a few days, she would walk away for good.</span></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEir5nt8pjOFJOC0hblVod_vOmD1bXj4XlLAynejzm8XPCs9RiOqXSFrrMt1aZD2wDx7ULrz42kHrePyxYuy2DxG2xv4j1eGthDo_Y6Wbfr3CamVIPhffGRyajDANhoeTXcOffybOkg8-ajddjAaLol2YcLpj-4VuJC_GsAD-qZ6B5Slw9wkOXxg5OvjvA=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="319" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEir5nt8pjOFJOC0hblVod_vOmD1bXj4XlLAynejzm8XPCs9RiOqXSFrrMt1aZD2wDx7ULrz42kHrePyxYuy2DxG2xv4j1eGthDo_Y6Wbfr3CamVIPhffGRyajDANhoeTXcOffybOkg8-ajddjAaLol2YcLpj-4VuJC_GsAD-qZ6B5Slw9wkOXxg5OvjvA=w425-h319" width="425" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">December. Sauvie's Island with Eva. Just a jump away from Portland. This place used to be densely packed with Chinook communities but now it's rural farmland just outside the Urban Growth Boundary. Strange to find yourself in farmland when the city is so close by. The dismal rain is creeping in. And the clammy damp which will remain until May.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi1vk2mp0Keu_ipkLbvyvsIPBP8hoPcOIgUpUGoxpqaWYg3ocG684ebOAJEmAwsH2cGfOilku6Bs8AsZHjPQQSMuCBVvNnHkc5hjK9H8zeIs7kF_HEfIu9nzgFe7qVDqZzRU6J1kjNofV7KbkiY-HQHW_m7oNiRWllOYKbcMMtPmudokyHKaROIxSvC4A=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="619" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi1vk2mp0Keu_ipkLbvyvsIPBP8hoPcOIgUpUGoxpqaWYg3ocG684ebOAJEmAwsH2cGfOilku6Bs8AsZHjPQQSMuCBVvNnHkc5hjK9H8zeIs7kF_HEfIu9nzgFe7qVDqZzRU6J1kjNofV7KbkiY-HQHW_m7oNiRWllOYKbcMMtPmudokyHKaROIxSvC4A=w464-h619" width="464" /></a></div><i>Eva in the cottonwoods</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEianKxXNFvGg2snx3DMO7oxSK-PoFWUX85eCo2Ta6EKNMgvvsXw6DgCyOa4XdclgIYm_lgUfBxuO5O1AR3kVbMf1P3OHsLF-LOxSIyyZQLf9pkI9EVgyG1G9_OKvfTHKeN9BSNnB_l4hCYu04EGTTs3h3YCFJK05PPsblfPn6zlMlixHu7xf8_Ep_13UA=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="367" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEianKxXNFvGg2snx3DMO7oxSK-PoFWUX85eCo2Ta6EKNMgvvsXw6DgCyOa4XdclgIYm_lgUfBxuO5O1AR3kVbMf1P3OHsLF-LOxSIyyZQLf9pkI9EVgyG1G9_OKvfTHKeN9BSNnB_l4hCYu04EGTTs3h3YCFJK05PPsblfPn6zlMlixHu7xf8_Ep_13UA=w275-h367" width="275" /></a></div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">The Solstice. When everything dies and starts new again. Hal and Stephan are going shooting, do I want to come with? Not particularly but I miss you guys. It will be better than sitting home lonely.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi2KlHxyGFziafO8S6ggLRrRo6H6XNnLSxYYheY3NvZ3lRlqrK1wIsBYaB9PEoCZDCx9cWH9G0ILxkcihciQzc7jPz9Pi4YfOXzXRoHVph6dZKnAE4lE1e_9zF64tZw-JkC3dC6m8hebxZGF2-IFya8Wo9HPzShees1WIbAQ04F3kxK-K54jkkVD4C7DQ=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi2KlHxyGFziafO8S6ggLRrRo6H6XNnLSxYYheY3NvZ3lRlqrK1wIsBYaB9PEoCZDCx9cWH9G0ILxkcihciQzc7jPz9Pi4YfOXzXRoHVph6dZKnAE4lE1e_9zF64tZw-JkC3dC6m8hebxZGF2-IFya8Wo9HPzShees1WIbAQ04F3kxK-K54jkkVD4C7DQ=s320" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The Yacolt State Forest, growing back from a fire 100 years ago. A very impacted place filled with roads and clearcuts. Shooting galleries filled with trash. POP POP POP!!!!!! Man those guns are loud.</div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjvaYWACdwWohU_xcjsHp3bQ1DqaxP8gewKLOjimJO2xwhvlxr2C-3tAzrl21if7XFBiz2xHkwnP_VsLxeNP8kTA7w42C_QEAlt6GcdLcTwxdA16r-TxwP4ERBhcbuTJJg5W8R4M8ntjbyn5zasxJF9TcB57UR5RmCTUIKR1h-AbG-rGPt4SMVCOuMwMg=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="350" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjvaYWACdwWohU_xcjsHp3bQ1DqaxP8gewKLOjimJO2xwhvlxr2C-3tAzrl21if7XFBiz2xHkwnP_VsLxeNP8kTA7w42C_QEAlt6GcdLcTwxdA16r-TxwP4ERBhcbuTJJg5W8R4M8ntjbyn5zasxJF9TcB57UR5RmCTUIKR1h-AbG-rGPt4SMVCOuMwMg=w467-h350" width="467" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>It was better than staying home alone. When your friends give you love when you're hurting.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEidjiyV7fnvrdRK6uL1EYGQS9PISBVY_5YlEwi_NrUtB7rGOK0mZJKGg3zlAi_O0exMKvHemSwFfloIa7ERfrZOmUCNhBzlMxsl3OmF4kpuqWR_6FqwnAg_G2Vl0i2cxVUIDWpryiC1UpCRkkOtGM1oV9zwdwA_gr9MehOljnc_y1yE1rwrztfyB7Eu2Q=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="461" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEidjiyV7fnvrdRK6uL1EYGQS9PISBVY_5YlEwi_NrUtB7rGOK0mZJKGg3zlAi_O0exMKvHemSwFfloIa7ERfrZOmUCNhBzlMxsl3OmF4kpuqWR_6FqwnAg_G2Vl0i2cxVUIDWpryiC1UpCRkkOtGM1oV9zwdwA_gr9MehOljnc_y1yE1rwrztfyB7Eu2Q=w346-h461" width="346" /></a></div><i>Stephan and Hal warm their buns between rounds</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;">December is here and I'm in denial of the cold rain and long nights. A VW Holiday light parade? Sure why not. Especially because it hasn't stopped raining for weeks and the whole Northwest is flooding.</div><div style="text-align: left;">Randy, will you come with me? Sure.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgJIbsEN9eL_UJv3h2HIB9-kGGZq-CFQukXvVwKIugMMmJV54ORdEtJGwZD2X0ixWApulqYTplMB9W5uGuriGTQBBj7KnYJkvmYDZppidf4hqZB1_VXX5QQqauLuq-U86yc7ySoeJEJEeUf4UPooi3ESV6G2J_FRHBLTLNWl6NHFhmQQK0Tica5p2JIog=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="319" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgJIbsEN9eL_UJv3h2HIB9-kGGZq-CFQukXvVwKIugMMmJV54ORdEtJGwZD2X0ixWApulqYTplMB9W5uGuriGTQBBj7KnYJkvmYDZppidf4hqZB1_VXX5QQqauLuq-U86yc7ySoeJEJEeUf4UPooi3ESV6G2J_FRHBLTLNWl6NHFhmQQK0Tica5p2JIog=w426-h319" width="426" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjDlXWugQAI2tSo4dbBi7n7FvK_DXoQjVhtvEsngV-kFAZPZFf6HBZ3zmMbQarBhMpFuWukVpOBU4ZIqNFNC6kQB4NA64DFUzfmIIeWZAG9OOKGZVypQdBko1jj4KE494Hxk7kL6MnV1Y9XD6cZbmnv5GNg9ufUt4BvyiVTEtIg7gTXwNINu_Q6u0wvjA=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="504" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjDlXWugQAI2tSo4dbBi7n7FvK_DXoQjVhtvEsngV-kFAZPZFf6HBZ3zmMbQarBhMpFuWukVpOBU4ZIqNFNC6kQB4NA64DFUzfmIIeWZAG9OOKGZVypQdBko1jj4KE494Hxk7kL6MnV1Y9XD6cZbmnv5GNg9ufUt4BvyiVTEtIg7gTXwNINu_Q6u0wvjA=w671-h504" width="671" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiOMrGvmrLM7jjiIv2r-t0ij6chKsgo5eO_g_nVHlIYd8-wtK-WCZA6vVfR39rEz1XkO_8yeICCGTrlradOeU-QWzzHd_AkEbHlseA-X8KHfUcbBMCJKDE-kdBnD1JfE8p1U39S_233Z0NkFJAbhy8E9xS8ojO2pHZUZdh6o1HIOz_uEdQ_Z2eACsCNSA=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="313" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiOMrGvmrLM7jjiIv2r-t0ij6chKsgo5eO_g_nVHlIYd8-wtK-WCZA6vVfR39rEz1XkO_8yeICCGTrlradOeU-QWzzHd_AkEbHlseA-X8KHfUcbBMCJKDE-kdBnD1JfE8p1U39S_233Z0NkFJAbhy8E9xS8ojO2pHZUZdh6o1HIOz_uEdQ_Z2eACsCNSA=w417-h313" width="417" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgnDS3nm87Tt-gMQFj_eNOlgPNm46TagSNgqC0YR3TmF-cyxGy__POgJS5XPHMP-UxyvicKIeL3lPD8tq7leo7_wB7vMY-wLYQa2aQz0TKLL_KCqtFYB5p4duyoYN0oxRuis4xkjP9tlOIowrGLBzKuiMv97_9qNbpwsbA1XPurCk-XiDRLpWR2bz-OiA=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="3264" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgnDS3nm87Tt-gMQFj_eNOlgPNm46TagSNgqC0YR3TmF-cyxGy__POgJS5XPHMP-UxyvicKIeL3lPD8tq7leo7_wB7vMY-wLYQa2aQz0TKLL_KCqtFYB5p4duyoYN0oxRuis4xkjP9tlOIowrGLBzKuiMv97_9qNbpwsbA1XPurCk-XiDRLpWR2bz-OiA=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiY2nrIEERSO4fxtlvxKDcFEyJEE9ooFoRNxK8I-f_fkm1NiB5pRxCfm7rhXqfv1qK7Nifr_2bagX1mvjQOflLWXnYVb4Nxum5Q_ehWIJuAl60Nn6KF7uevdtm2WHJBGoL1vXXsLboC4AlHH-oFcmbhlKrsAjykRZXT56EXTXsOGhpjysg2AZ5jFx28Ww=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiY2nrIEERSO4fxtlvxKDcFEyJEE9ooFoRNxK8I-f_fkm1NiB5pRxCfm7rhXqfv1qK7Nifr_2bagX1mvjQOflLWXnYVb4Nxum5Q_ehWIJuAl60Nn6KF7uevdtm2WHJBGoL1vXXsLboC4AlHH-oFcmbhlKrsAjykRZXT56EXTXsOGhpjysg2AZ5jFx28Ww=s320" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">We drive into the pouring rain, 100 vintage Volkswagens covered in holiday lights and snaking through the subdivisions where all the houses look exactly alike. The colored lights are wonderful in the rain and reflecting off the shiny streets. Randy jokes that we are actually racist old Germans and pretends to smile slogans to the happy holiday families. Heil! and all the rest. A dark night to be sure, but brighter because someone is there to share it with.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">2021 is done with. Dead. Thank God for the experience, for love and connection and cycles.</div><div style="text-align: left;">Life on Earth is indeed a miracle, even with these fragile bodies made with meat and carbon. Just when I think I can't take any more pain, I stand up stronger than ever. In that moment when a stalk of grass dies like a child, she does so willingly and with great joy. The wind doesn't have to know about sadness and birth, that is our domain. I find that when my world gets smaller and smaller, I should retreat to the wilderness. To reset the sense of scale. To feel the true vastness of space while we have air to breathe. Wilderness is solitude, wilderness is home. We are that.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiEyAOM7jBtjHVqr59lo8sshLyGQXo5pqhpGyXUyia8k323Pdo80ZWlbTd9EcFSiM7v3Gg3L7t_Z9wBv--OvT70vG9ta5Ib8HzS_0HM4Ch3Y8UxmlceHw9AJ4p1RkZJL3t7iBiX5MIsEW8eRlWwySGGykPkQpUp-ihgyo0lkAQLSPw4HG-t1n3gzGWCgQ=s3264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="376" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiEyAOM7jBtjHVqr59lo8sshLyGQXo5pqhpGyXUyia8k323Pdo80ZWlbTd9EcFSiM7v3Gg3L7t_Z9wBv--OvT70vG9ta5Ib8HzS_0HM4Ch3Y8UxmlceHw9AJ4p1RkZJL3t7iBiX5MIsEW8eRlWwySGGykPkQpUp-ihgyo0lkAQLSPw4HG-t1n3gzGWCgQ=w282-h376" width="282" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>It's a Wonderful Life</i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;">2022 is here. The end of this terrible pandemic is almost here, can you feel it? Change is here, the true deep change of an Aquarian. This time is forced upon us, none of us have any choice about our families or the world we were born into. We can choose to be good to one another, and to walk with a deeper respect. If humanity doesn't start to work together, we are all fucked. Will our castles be washed into the sea?</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">2022 will be the year we all connect with our communities and our deeper selves. I hope you will join me out there, in the last wild places on Earth. Let's celebrate together while we rebuild.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><i><br /><br /></i><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div></div></div>Bobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00281879570975634257noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7672445974485562573.post-20085455936126161652021-08-06T12:47:00.000-07:002021-08-06T12:47:17.102-07:00Fundraising for "Searching for the Skyline" - I need your help!<p> Hi there! A few weeks ago I posted the exciting news that my manuscript is finally with a professional editor. I'm thrilled to be this far along. </p><p><a href="https://greencascadia.blogspot.com/2021/07/searching-for-skyline-prologue.html">Green Cascadia: Searching for the Skyline - Prologue</a></p><p>Today I'm asking for your help. Publishing costs are quite expensive! But I believe in the story and feel that the areas mentioned in the book are in critical need of preservation. If you can spare a few dollars or more, please click on the following link:</p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Lato, Trebuchet, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; white-space: pre;">https://gofund.me/de02a970</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Thank you for your support! Without you, all of this writing would be meaningless. Let's change things for the better. Our forests and wild areas need you!</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilrCwPp34fcpNHCbQwCFq8hgW-mgdOOjSgjfcKbD4FRZr73FiCQ6jpHdiKOJjKtbS2DTwh4J0IgsOSFBKRklqWTMz-jdaXsxk4kQRrDtekVCf5NyRznDHysuJhqmRZmSJo98OpwmxFTT0/s2048/171493_Camping%252C_Oregon_NF%252C_OR_%252822030677912%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1305" data-original-width="2048" height="372" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilrCwPp34fcpNHCbQwCFq8hgW-mgdOOjSgjfcKbD4FRZr73FiCQ6jpHdiKOJjKtbS2DTwh4J0IgsOSFBKRklqWTMz-jdaXsxk4kQRrDtekVCf5NyRznDHysuJhqmRZmSJo98OpwmxFTT0/w584-h372/171493_Camping%252C_Oregon_NF%252C_OR_%252822030677912%2529.jpg" width="584" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><p></p>Bobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00281879570975634257noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7672445974485562573.post-65177093747359128832021-07-18T11:32:00.003-07:002021-07-20T19:47:36.923-07:00Searching for the Skyline - Prologue<p> Where has this Green Cascadia Bob been? Is he still kicking?</p><p>YES!!!</p><p>It has been a monumental couple of years, with a tragic pandemic and a rash of fires. It feels like we're all dealing with so much change and loss and new things. I have wrecked and restored my beloved Bus. I'm no longer married but grateful for the love shared in my life. I have been visiting the forests of Oregon every chance I get, but of course it is never quite enough.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRtffK950_J3A_lM1FtouJsw4DB5TAsmh45zxjU9KAH4TEVltVnyczOXm9oebBOEie75HWiYoKz2HgmKXOPmcgh7XrH8AyZicXlFbXN-AUa4kucBlTw_MQIuWtwDCIvohqOCveAzZ3bao/s2048/IMG_8872.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRtffK950_J3A_lM1FtouJsw4DB5TAsmh45zxjU9KAH4TEVltVnyczOXm9oebBOEie75HWiYoKz2HgmKXOPmcgh7XrH8AyZicXlFbXN-AUa4kucBlTw_MQIuWtwDCIvohqOCveAzZ3bao/s320/IMG_8872.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1j9u3oFk6Ql_AgIuZtrORGQp39niWd67AceFuK1VRyWizEHJ6XgcL7gcs87O7Aqyq9QM26LL3-1UO7bPIbvlXF2SBghyS63zjtWzgUPnWI_1fmS13iFynjVuKRdtnFGbspNEdtxd9zGo/s615/20210328_112743.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="615" data-original-width="461" height="371" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1j9u3oFk6Ql_AgIuZtrORGQp39niWd67AceFuK1VRyWizEHJ6XgcL7gcs87O7Aqyq9QM26LL3-1UO7bPIbvlXF2SBghyS63zjtWzgUPnWI_1fmS13iFynjVuKRdtnFGbspNEdtxd9zGo/w278-h371/20210328_112743.jpg" width="278" /></a></div><p><br /></p><p>Through it all I have never stopped writing. I am happy to announce the completion of my novel, "Searching for the Skyline". The nonfiction story is about the 1921 Oregon Skyline Trail, once famous but now abandoned and lost. That is, until my daughter Eva and I discovered 50 miles of the old route through the Mt. Hood National Forest. The book is with a professional editor as I type this! </p><p>Below is an unedited preview of the book. I hope you find it enjoyable! Thank you for being there through it all.</p><p align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Prologue </b></span>
</p><p align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"> </span></p><p align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"> <span> <span style="font-family: verdana;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: verdana;">“Haw-OOOOO” howls the skinny old lady cat,
cinnamon-black with a patch of pure white on her chest.
“Heyyy-WOOOAHH!!!” she cries like a weird high-pitched banshee,
calling an otherworldly “hello”. My dear constant companion, she
intuitively knows that I will be leaving, off into the unknown and
doesn't like it one bit. The jays are still fighting with the crows
in the backyard, for territory, for dominance.</span></span></p><p align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: small;"> <span> </span>A reluctant summer has suddenly descended upon
Portland. It has baked away all traces of the past six months of
constant rain and fierce gray. Suddenly, the wet weather is gone.
“I have never felt the raindrops,” claims the toasted Earth in a
dull monotone, and of course lying the whole time.</span></p><p align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: small;"> <span> </span>It is almost noon. I'm restless and alone in the empty
house, nervously pacing around and breaking up the sunbeams that
illuminate the wood paneled room. In my insane but methodical way, I
have been planning this trip of a lifetime for months. It is
finally time to go. I am itching for it. All of the details, the
unfinished business and many loose ends, it is time to let go of it
all and leave on a great adventure. I must be especially careful out
there. In the wild will of these infinite conifers, a broken leg
could mean death. </span>
</span></p><p align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: small;"> <span> </span>Somewhere far away from the screaming cities, something
dark and mysterious lurks in the forests of Oregon. Shaggier than
Sasquatch, more lonesome than a solitary cry in the wilderness, a
tangled old path is trapped in 1921. It is from another time
altogether, a gilded age and long silenced. Locked in a time capsule
it still sleeps.</span></p><p align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: small;"> <span> </span>Imagine for a moment you are a red-tailed hawk soaring
high above the Oregon Cascades, thousands of feet in the air riding
the hot summer thermals rising into the sky. The rumpled peaks and
valleys stretch out below. Emerald green hides all that is secret
under a deep canopy of trees. Far off on the horizon are the
massive points of snow covered volcanoes. They suddenly thrust from
the green like pale fingers through an old quilt. These are the
Mother Peaks of the great Cascades, dazzling in the Solstice Sun and
scoured with glaciers. In places, entire squares of forest have been
removed, leaving a patchwork of burned out scars behind. Suddenly,
the hawk detects a bit of movement on the forest floor. With a
shrill screech she plummets, and the wood rat dies instantly. Here
under the deep green, only a bit of dappled sunlight scatters through
the forest in golden rays, dancing in the hot summer breeze. A deer
bounds off effortlessly into the dark on stick legs. On a branch
high above, a spotted owl ruffles his feathers and goes back to
sleep.</span></p><p align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: small;"> <span> </span>If you are reading these words, it is likely that you
live in or near a city. It is sometimes hard to imagine a world
without cars or noise, the lively bustle that goes along with human
life. I grew up in Chicago, Illinois, the Windy City and the Land of
Lincoln. It's about as far from the Oregon Cascades as you can get.
My grandmother was born in Chicago, and she spent her entire life
there. Irene loved to tell stories about her childhood, adventures
that are still with me. We are visiting a forgotten time, but she
is taking us along and instantly brings it back to life. Suddenly
you have been transported a hundred years into the past.</span></p><p align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: small;"> <span> </span>“Wateeeeee-Mehloooooonne!!” shouts the Italian
vendor in a thick accent, his wooden pushcart is almost overflowing
with fat green melons. </span>
</span></p><p align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: small;"> <span> </span>He shouts it into the crowded streets, cobbled and
bustling with early century life. Other vendors are crammed along
the dirty sidewalk, it is a crashing of joyful humanity. A red and
cream streetcar clatters by, clanging a happy warning and spitting
sparks. You are there too, it is fresh and alive and you can feel
the nickels rattling around in your pocket, for the cool dark of the
movie theater and a day of adventure.</span></p><p align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: small;"> <span> </span>Often I have wondered about the thin veneer that
separates our ages, this transparent membrane that seems to pass
through time. How can you stand in two places at once? A rocky
trail that climbed to some distant peak. Photographs in books called
out with that weird shade of Cascade green that is only found in the
jungles of the Pacific Northwest. The first time I stepped foot in
these vast forests I knew I had finally come home, as tear streaked
cheeks melded with the rain.</span></p><p align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: small;"> <span> </span>The past winter has been especially bleak, even by
Oregon standards. These are long and dark days that are chilled with
constant damp and the houselights must remain lit all day. Life has
become a comedy of tragic pain and personal loss, beyond anything
I've ever experienced and I'm not really equipped to deal with any of
it. Sudden cancer has taken away my adopted Mother, quick and
without warning She is gone. A twenty-year marriage lies in ruin,
crumbling away and it will soon end. It is raining, <i>raining</i>,
“Raining? Again?” you wonder in disbelief. </span>
</span></p><p align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: small;"> <span> </span>As the winter rain rolls down the window in streaks, I
sit hunched at the dim dining room table surrounded by a flurry of
books and paper. There are maps all over the place, falling off the
big table and circled all around, 1921 or 2006 all given equal
footing and still making a mess in the dim amber glow of the lamp.
These are just small pieces of a very mysterious puzzle folded upon
our current time. We have only a few clues to go on, a few faded
dotted lines on a piece of paper recorded long ago. A past that
seems so close at hand.</span></p><p align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: small;"> It has become a deep compulsion. To find the Oregon
Skyline Trail – or what is left after 100 years. The elegant
Skyline has haunted my imagination for a long time. “What is out
there?” is the real question. The maps are beautiful with detail
and burnished with time. If you are patient with them, the maps will
tell you a story. They speak of ancient volcanoes and meadows formed
from ice-age glaciers. The dotted lines contour around a ridge,
sensual in their purpose. Each inch of a Twenties map is a solution
to the mystery of the Skyline. But what is left out there in the
forest, on the ground? What changes have been seen in the last
hundred years since the passing of the Jazz Age? For this, they are
silent.</span></p><p align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: small;"> <span> </span>Raindrops patter on the windowpane and then abruptly
stop. All is silent, and a dazzling beam of sunlight makes the
entire room glow, so sudden that it makes you squint. </span>
</span></p><p align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span> </span>An idea begins to form, a summer like the ones of lost
youth. “Let's find the Skyline, Bob,” I say to myself quietly to
the empty room. </span>
</span></p><p align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: small;"> <span> </span>The Pacific Northwest is famous for our vast expanses
of fir forests growing on foggy mountains. In the Northwest part of
Oregon, you have the<i> Mount Hood National Forest.</i> as it is
known officially and Oregon's “working forest”. It is a big
place, over a million acres and eight wilderness areas. Timeless
meadows and craggy volcanic peaks peer out over a blanket of ancient
forests. It is a land born of firey explosions followed by eons of
deep peace, when the trees can get a foothold until the next cycle of
chaos. Mount Hood herself dominates this national forest, the ghost
of a triangle on the horizon. If you're lucky, that is, and it's not
raining. In 1921, the Skyline Trail began her journey here on the
south flank of this immense volcanic cone. For fifty miles, the
trail lazily wanders a dense and mountainous terrain, along high
ridges that have been forgotten. A few scattered pieces of the
Skyline are still in use as other trails, but much of it has been
abandoned for a very long time, for decades at least. </span>
</span></p><p align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: small;"> <span> </span>Despite over a hundred years of human intrusion, it is
still a wild land in these Oregon Cascades. I want to live rough and
ready this summer, as close as possible to a early century Forest
Guard on horseback. I need to see what it feels like to float
anonymous into our ancient land. It has been a dream for a very long
time to see these places unfold firsthand, to embrace the shy
splendor of a forgotten wilderness. To grasp at dream-smoke, perhaps
only vapor. Does the route of the original 1921 Oregon Skyline Trail
still exist, between Mount Hood on the north and Mt. Jefferson to the
south? What does it even feel like out there, today in the far
reaches of the Mt. Hood National Forest? It has been a long time
since someone has walked the 1921 route of the Trail. A century has
passed since a traveler has followed the original route, or even
thought about doing so. This is as much of an inner journey as one
of geography. What will I find out in the summer Sun, those lost
pages of the Northwest? Who am I?</span></p><p align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: small;"> <span> </span>It is ironic that you are coming along with me, out
there into the deep solitude. For most of my life I really haven't
enjoyed talking about myself, but here I will attempt to be bare and
honest. I hope we are both enriched by the experience.</span></p><p align="LEFT" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: small;"> <span> </span>It is time to go. Eva hugs me tenderly, wrapping her
arms around my neck so tightly I almost choke. “I will miss you,
Papa!” she tells me with such a composed maturity I almost break
down.</span></p><p align="LEFT" style="border: none; line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; padding: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><em><span style="color: black;"><span><span style="font-family: verdana; font-style: normal;"> <span> </span>At
just twelve she is my golden-haired jewel, crazy curled and wise well
beyond her years. I cannot express my deep love for this child, the
confluence of all rivers running right through me. But still, I must
go.</span></span></span></em></span></p><p align="LEFT" style="border: none; line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; padding: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: verdana;"><br />
</span></p><p align="LEFT" style="border: none; line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in; padding: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><em><span style="color: black;"><span><span style="font-family: verdana; font-style: normal;">...</span></span></span></em></span></p><p style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br />
</span></p><p style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"> <span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span>Have you heard of
the Oregon Skyline Trail? You probably haven't. Don't worry, you're
not alone, no one else seems to remember. It has been forgotten.</span></p><p style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"> <span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span>For over ten
thousand years we have loved, lived, and died in these Oregon
Cascades. If you could race backwards in time and stand on that high
peak of eternal summertime, nothing would appear out of place. Even
as the Sun darts across thousands of heavens and entire forests rise
and fall, it all remains the same. This is the paradox of the
wilderness – nothing changes, everything changes. Since the
beginning, humanity has been a direct participant in the natural
world. For the majority of our humble existence, our species has
lived in balance with the seasons. Only at the dawn of the
Industrial Revolution have our priorities - and even our very
<i>connection</i> to the Earth shifted so drastically. Sometimes,
we leave a delicate trace of our passing, a track in the dirt like a
robin's footprint. Almost 100 years ago, the Oregon Skyline Trail
opened for business. Not long afterwards, a rough, horse track of a
road with the same name followed along like a guilty dog. The Trail
was borne on the dreams and vision of two men of the Northwest: Joe
Graham, a quiet and sturdy District Ranger of the U.S. Forest
Service, and Fred Cleator, a forward thinking Government
conservationist who believed that forests were for the people.
Together they would create a long-distance hiking trail that would
revolutionize how we interact with wilderness. At the russet dawn of
this new mechanized age, these men would be the first U.S. Forest
Service employees to bring all-weather roads into the Oregon
Cascades. The Northwest would never be the same.</span></p><p align="LEFT" style="border: none; line-height: 200%; padding: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: verdana;"><em><span style="color: black;"><span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> <span> </span>Native
People have been living here for thousands of years. They came after
the vast ice sheets retreated for a time, to celebrate the bounty of
the mountains and the sacred sites that are scattered across their
flanks. The first residents of Oregon created rich cultures and many
languages as they moved over the vast landscape. They settled in
deserts and dense rainforests and mighty rivers. Thousands of years
passed. Throughout this time, they loved and managed the land in
harmony with natural processes. Peace was broken by violence as wars
and skirmishes sporadically broke out. Fights for territory and
slaves, or for contested fishing grounds. Sometimes these wars were
fought for honor itself. </span></span></span></span></em>
</span></p><p style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"> <span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span>During times of
cooperation, Nations met in vast trading centers, such as The Dalles,
Oregon, along the crashing Columbia river. Treasures from
thousands of miles away were bartered in many different languages,
salmon for seashells. For thousands of years this cycle continued
uninterrupted, these rich and complex rites woven into place like a
golden thread. How to build a longhouse from perfect cedar planks.
How to boil water without metal cookware. What to eat in a sparse
country. How to survive the long hypothermic winters. Tales of
fierce volcano gods fighting for the hand of a beautiful maiden,
shaggy <i>Sasquatch </i>and <i>Bookwus
</i>hiding in the fringes of
darkness.
</span></p><p align="LEFT" style="border: none; line-height: 200%; padding: 0in;">
<em><span style="color: black;"><span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-style: normal;"> <span> </span>The
first People also brought the first foot paths to these mountains.
They are responsible for thousands of miles of trails throughout the
Cascades, trails for trading, or to access an abundance of
huckleberries and elk. Many of these trails would have taken you to
sacred places high and far away in these deep mountains, places of
prayer and deep contemplation. To this day, quite a few of these
forgotten pathways are now familiar roads and highways as they
thunder through high mountain passes. Not all of the ancient routes
are gone, however. Some are still asleep, hiding under the dense
brush. They are waiting for their people to come back to the forest.</span></span></span></span></em></p><p align="LEFT" style="border: none; line-height: 200%; padding: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: verdana;"><em><span style="color: black;"><span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> </span></span></span></span></em><em><span style="color: black;"><span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span> </span>By
the late 1830's more than three quarters of the Native population was
gone. Decimated by European diseases to which they had no immunity,
the People died in great numbers. Often entire villages were wiped
out by smallpox or diphtheria, wailing babies lying alone and
helpless next to the stiff corpses of their mothers. The remaining
few, shocked and stunned by the death all around them – the Chinook
Clackamas, the Molalla, the Tygh, and many other Nations were rounded
up and driven to distant reservations far from their holy lands of
ten-thousand generations. In their memory, they left a wake of
ancient trails.</span></span></span></span></em></span></p><p style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"> <span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span>In the early 20th
Century, vast areas of unexplored and untapped wild lands still
remained – in the high country of thick forests, just out of reach.
They were too far from the sprawling city streets, remote and
mysterious to many Oregonians. This was a time for new ideas and
innovations and almost anything seemed possible. Farms that had been
homesteads would be surveyed and turned into tidy towns and cities
with proper sidewalks and indoor plumbing.</span></p><p style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"> <span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span>By the 1920's, we
had learned to fly. Biplanes filled the skies. The radio brought
the news and entertainment into every dusty parlor. By the end of
the 1920s, over a million radios would be in use by American
families. For the first time in human history, news could be heard
instantly with the turn of a switch. Moving pictures dazzled
audiences in ornate theaters that would pop up overnight in every
American town with great fanfare. And yet, we could not escape from
the powerful call of the wild. Just past the fringes, past the
twinkling end of city blocks, ancient forests continued lush in their
complex processes, green and oblivious to the mischief of society.
</span></p><p style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"> <span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span>In 1921, when the
Oregon Skyline Trail opened for business, alcohol had become illegal
in the United States. Due to the newly enacted 18<sup>th</sup>
Amendment, selling a glass of beer would send you to jail. Most
Americans climbed out of their sleepy beds in rural farming towns, to
the crow of the rooster and a hard day of toil. But a great shift
had begun, and the sparkling city dazzled. Hardscrabble hicks wanted
a little glamour. They wanted something young and exciting that the
farm could never provide. Good paying jobs were available in the
booming cities, in the factories and the boilers, in the sooty rail
yards and the bellies of steamships. Just behind the waterfront
docks and locomotives, you'd find wild Jazz in the speakeasies, where
patrons swill homemade gin by the flirtatious glassful. Skinny women
in bobbed hair danced with newfound abandon late into the neon-lit
night. Their tight dresses and sparkles are now just stories to
tell.</span></p><p style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"> <span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span>A brutal world war
had ravaged the countries of Europe, the deadliest conflict in human
history. Warfare had become like a machine as men were mowed down in
the trenches, choked to death by the mustard gas. By the time the
fighting had ceased in November 1918, over 18 million men, women, and
children had been slaughtered. Veterans returned from the European
front lines, some missing limbs, others damaged in ways invisible.
Fueled by the sickness and hate of the Great War, a terrible pandemic
flu swept the world of 1918-19. An estimated 20-50 million worldwide
gave their lives.
</span></p><p style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"> <span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span>In
Nineteen-Twenties America, we began to feel the first stirrings of a
collective wilderness movement. Artists and visionaries such as
Ansel Adams and John Muir had already popularized romantic notions of
the American West, “The mountains are calling...and I must <i>go</i>!”
said John Muir famously. But these far removed lands were mostly out
of reach to the average citizen in the hardscrabble logging towns
that sprung up along soggy rivers where the rain hardly stopped.
“Stumptown” would soon become Portland, the whitewashed tree
stumps would give way to electric trolleys. The forests retreated,
and the wilderness became closer.</span></p><p style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"> <span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span>The logging camps
came, with locomotives and men without shave or bath. Rough men who
smelled like kerosene and copper, working the seven foot long
crosscut saws from bouncing springboards. Brass steam whistles
roared through the countryside, into ancient valleys of thick cedar
and rainbow trout. Too many trees were disappearing, and concern
mounted. <i>Conservation</i> became the bold idea of the early 20<sup>th</sup>
Century. Gifford Pinchot's new school of forestry began to champion
the idea of “the greatest good for the greatest number of people”.</span></p><p style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"> <span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span>Cities blossomed
into crowded neighborhoods filled with soot. The promise of fresh
air in the healthy mountains filled the public's imagination.
Sleeping in the great outdoors had suddenly evolved into a popular
leisure activity enjoyed by young and old alike. People flocked to
the high lakes of summertime by the thousands. Woolen outdoor
fashions of the time reflected this trend: high-laced tall leather
boots and baggy hipped pants became the rage.
</span></p><p style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"> <span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span>With a gooselike
honk, the era of the automobile had also arrived, destroying some
dreams and building others. A booming middle class had money to
spend, and Americans fell in love with their Model T Fords spitting
steam out of shiny brass radiators. Despite frequent mechanical
problems, the “Tin Lizzie” gave the working class American of the
Twenties a new sense of independence and freedom. Soon the woods
would be full of cars, loaded with camp gear as they made their way
into the high country. No other era in the 20th century has been
more responsible for reshaping our collective consciousness and how
we think about Nature itself.
</span></p><p style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"> <span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span>The Oregon Skyline
Trail was a direct product of the Twenties. For over 260 miles, a
horse and hiking route was dreamed over the thickly forested backbone
of the Cascade Range, from glacier clad Mount Hood southward to
Crater Lake - no small journey in 1920's America in your itchy wool
pants. The Trail would pass through some of the most remote terrain
in the American West, unrivaled in spectacular scenery, crossing
countless rivers and rich trout streams along the way. Most of the
route of the Skyline was already there - it had been in use for
centuries by Native People. Other parts of the trail were built by
trappers, miners, and explorers, and later by U.S. Forest Service.
Trail crews were sent deep into the forests, equipped with hand
tools, axes and crosscut saws. The men turned a rough collection of
paths into a consolidated route, well marked and fit for hiking or
horses. At certain points you could buy feed for your horse, or even
use the telephone. The first map and guide was released to the
public by the <i>Oregon Information and Tourist Bureau</i> in 1921.
The Oregon Skyline Trail was open, and a great dream had become
reality.</span></p><p style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"> <span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span>It was constructed
as the highest quality high mountain trail ever built, with horse
camps, ranger stations, and telephone communication strung along the
route in strategic locations. Wide as a highway through the old firs,
the Trail symbolized a stylized remaking of mountain travel. But
something else was on the horizon.</span></p><p style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"> The May 8th, 1927
<i>Oregonian</i> newspaper reports:</span></p><p style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #333333;"><span><span style="font-family: verdana;"> “Oregon
Skyline Trail – Rich in Rare Scenery</span></span></span></p><p style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #333333;"><span><span style="font-family: verdana;">High
along the summit of the Cascade Mountains, extending from Mt. Hood on
the north to Crater Lake on the south, there runs the Skyline Trail,
one of the most remarkable and at the same time one of the least
known scenic routes of the far west. The Skyline Trail, which is,
perhaps, unique in the manner in which it traverses an unbroken
stretch of mountain summit and in the wide variety of country it
includes...is practically unknown to native Oregonians. Although a
trip is a challenge to the imagination of even the dullest of
urbanites, the Skyline Trail has never taken hold of the public fancy
in the Webfoot State.</span></span></span></p><p style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="color: #333333;"><span><span style="font-family: verdana;">There
are several reasons, perhaps, for the fact that the trail in past
years has not been frequented by more than a handful of persons
annually. In the first place, the <b>age is one of the automobiles,
and the habit of making long trips by foot or horseback has long
since disappeared. </b>Then too, the entire trip takes at least 15
days by horseback, and about a month by foot. It is no journey for
weaklings...”</span></span></span></p><p style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"> </p><p style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 0in;"> <span style="font-family: verdana;"><span> </span>This first-modern
high Cascades highway became in stages magnificent, then quaint, and
finally obsolete. By then, America had long lost its brief love
affair with the now-forgotten Oregon Skyline Trail. Like an old
photo too long in the sun, it curled and slowly faded away. It has
become a lost memory, just a fragment tossed in the wind. Today, no
one remembers.</span></p>Bobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00281879570975634257noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7672445974485562573.post-78602546346356921622017-08-31T21:34:00.001-07:002017-08-31T22:58:38.059-07:00BARK Base Camp in Mt. Hood NF - August 2017<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i>Base Camp is a public campout in the beautiful Mt. Hood National Forest, during which campers will support Bark's work by contributing time to gather critical field information on proposed logging projects, pollinator species, and the effects of road building in the surrounding woods. We've also invited speakers and presenters from around Mt. Hood to participate and share their work so that as we spend time together in the forest we can build connections and find intersections between our work and that of other environmental, social, and other place-based movements.</i><br />
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<i><b><a href="http://bark-out.org/basecamp">http://bark-out.org/basecamp</a></b></i></div>
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I have had the privilege of volunteering with BARK for the past few months. My life has been rich with change, love and new experiences, and forever without regret. Time stands still for no one. I'd like to tell you about these recent experiences, and a little bit about BARK the organization and what they're doing for the Mt. Hood region.</div>
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What brought me to BARK? Well, I'll tell you. I feel that our national forest management has been going in the wrong direction for decades. I have witnessed the splendor of many ancient valleys that are met with the sharp edge of a clearcut. The big trees? They are already gone. This is not exaggeration or hyperbole. See for yourself on any Google satellite, pick any Northwest national forest and check it out. Checkerboard, miles of waste and roads. These are no mere woodlots; no these were the finest forests the world has ever seen. Thick ancient trunks of furrowed cedar strain to reach the heavens, their roots twisted into the rich soil. A crystal creek bubbles nearby, forever in unison with this ancient giant. Many others line the rocky banks, in between the moss and the basalt. Over 50% of Oregon's native forests have already been lost and logged - most within the past 30 years.</div>
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When I first came to Oregon from those goldenrod prairies "back east", I had no experience in the shaggy land of Sasquatch. Wet behind the ears, I took off into the woods in my old red truck, rusted through the floor from Midwest salt. I volunteered with the Forest Service. They taught me how to fix trails, how to track history, how to live like a Twenties Forest Guard. I swear one of those guys was a ghost, fresh from the trail in 1928. He didn't belong here in any rate.</div>
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In those days, the Forest Service was kind to the small band of trail volunteers. The old timers taught us how to use a chainsaw and crosscut and not kill ourselves. The recreation department "Mother Bear" held a potluck in her house each Christmas season, and she showered us with Forest Service gear: gloves, tools, Smokey Bear doodads. It was very heartwarming, and also nice to be appreciated for all those hot summer miles of trail we were fixing for free.</div>
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At the same time, I began to notice the clearcuts. Arbitrarily they appeared, wiping out historical sites and splendid natural features alike. In their place stood dark forests, sinister in their closeness where all trees are exactly the same like sweet corn. The Forest Service seemed hell-bent on destroying their own history, and it didn't make any sense to me. What about all of the grandfathers that once worked this forest, the pride of their lost youth? All of that dedication and hard work for conservation went out the window with the mechanized clearcut. </div>
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<b>A shakeup in the Forest Service!</b> The old guard suddenly retires, all of the friendly faces and wisdom are gone. Murmurs of a new boss, and people are unhappy.</div>
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And that is the last I've heard from the Forest Service. Though, just before the shakeup, I received a nice "certificate of appreciation" suitable for framing.</div>
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Already at odds with the current Forest Service agenda, I was happy to move on and let our relationship slip into the past. The past, ironically, is where the best work of the early Forest Service lies. The current management of the agency would do well to study conservation strategies pioneered in the 1920s here in the Northwest and still very valid today. Simply: save some trees for the next generation. Leave wilderness alone, let God sort it out.</div>
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The election of 2016 really shook things up, didn't it? No matter what side of the fence you are on, there is no doubt that the crazy results were a real kicker. You know, I really love those wild areas, and it became immediately clear that these most vulnerable places were instantly threatened. I marched with the women of Portland in solidarity in the rain, the first time I've ever attended such an event. I stood in the rain with the flu, the tears running down my cheeks. All of these smiling mothers and daughters, a hundred thousand or more marching in the rain for peace and motherhood. It was something to behold and something I will never forget. I will stand in the rain for Mothers any day of the year.</div>
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"What can I do?", many of us thought, with the ideals of democracy crumbling at our footsteps.</div>
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In April, I began volunteering with BARK, helping with maps and planning this very same Base Camp. With my intricate knowledge of Mt. Hood National Forest, I hoped to help in some meaningful way. </div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.6667px;"><i>In 1993 two friends, attorney Greg Dyson and musician John "Lenny" Rancher, began a call to action after witnessing vast clear-cuts and old-growth logging while exploring Mt. Hood National Forest. They began to hike each timber sale, noting the markings in the forest and calling attention to discrepancies between action on the ground and agency documents. Soon they discovered that others shared their passion for protecting Mt. Hood, and began training them to "groundtruth" as well. Eventually, Greg brought together a diverse array of dedicated professionals and passionate activists to form a working board of directors and Bark was born. Bark was officially founded in 1999 and has since trained hundreds of volunteers about the basics of forest policy, brought thousands to Mt. Hood National Forest, and saved tens of thousands of acres of forest from logging and roadbuilding.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.6667px;"><i><b><a href="http://bark-out.org/content/about-bark">http://bark-out.org/content/about-bark</a></b></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.6667px;"><i><b><br /></b></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.6667px;">What I discovered was a scrappy bunch of very dedicated people, mostly volunteers and led by a very small and hardworking staff. There are lots of meetings, so many meetings and ways for volunteers to help and feel appreciated. And Base Camp, planning for an event I hadn't attended before; Base Camp would soon be on the horizon!</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.6667px;"><b>Why Base Camp? </b> Currently, the Forest Service is proposing a massive, <b>12,000 acre logging operation </b>within the Mt. Hood National Forest, the largest of such proposals in decades. Volunteers are needed to map and categorize these places before it is too late. Maybe it's already too late for these forests, but we have to do <i>something</i>, don't we?</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.6667px;"><i><b><a href="http://bark-out.org/project/crystal-clear-timber-sale">http://bark-out.org/project/crystal-clear-timber-sale</a></b></i></span></div>
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Crystal Clear "Restoration Project", each numbered square will result in heavy logging operations</div>
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1927 USGS map of the same area, showing a roadless wilderness flanking the nearby Barlow Road</div>
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On to the camp.</div>
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"Where is everyone?", I ask at the empty Bark office. I have been hired to move gear out to the forest, and my Bus is empty as a warehouse.</div>
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"Oh! You just missed them! 5 minutes ago they took off!". </div>
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A lovely and solitary drive down US26, the old Volkswagen straining over the passes, but it's early enough to not piss anyone off and the traffic is light. Before I know it, I'm pulling off the pavement into the dusty parking lot of Base Camp 2017. A few volunteers are already scurrying about like ants and setting up gear - tents, a camp kitchen, awnings and tables.</div>
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Before too long, night falls and it's time for an early bed. The stars smear off at an angle, an arm of the Milky Way juts out into space and you gasp for air for a second.</div>
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CLANG! The least resonant circle of metal ever crafted rings out a dull clunk through the camp: breakfast is ready.</div>
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Bark volunteer Mia fries up something delicious</div>
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We soon fall into a slow and comfortable daily routine: breakfast in a circle, announcements and introductions followed by the day's mission.</div>
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Base Camp hosts Michael and Audie explain the day's agenda</div>
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Michael talks to volunteers about the Crystal Clear Timber Sale</div>
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We are broken up into groups of 3, and eventually we are out in the woods. </div>
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For many, this is their first time walking through the wilderness.</div>
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Bark volunteer Rachel measures the diameter of an ancient tree in the logging unit</div>
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filling out a "Ground Truthing" form, detailing many aspects of the timber sale</div>
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historic irrigation waterway abutting the timber sale</div>
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After a couple days of struggling through these tangled forests, it becomes clear that they are hiding an important secret: tucked away behind the strips of 1950s clearcuts are substantial ancients forests. Acres of them, miles of 400 year old western hemlock lie just beyond the monoculture and decaying old roads. The Forest Service is trying very hard to log these old trees, forests older than the US Constitution. Can you believe that? In this enlightened age, a time of wisdom and of science, that a group of men would propose something so foolish?</div>
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But that is what they intend to do.</div>
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8/25/17</div>
<div>
Dear Interested Public, </div>
<div>
The Mt. Hood National Forest has recently released a Preliminary Assessment for the Crystal Clear Restoration Project located on the Barlow and Hood River Ranger Districts. We are now seeking comments from those that may be interested in or affected by this project.</div>
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This project has been in development since 2016 when presentations were made to collaborative groups on the Barlow and Hood River Ranger Districts. Following these discussions, on November 4, 2016, a pre-scoping letter was mailed to 160 individuals and groups providing general project information, potential needs and location. This initial outreach was to provide the public an opportunity to visit the planning area before there was snow on the ground since the formal scoping process was planned to occur during the winter of 2017. In addition to this pre-scoping letter, a public field trip was scheduled on November 17, 2016, which was coordinated with both Districts' collaborative groups: the Wasco County Forest Collaborative Group; and the Hood River Stew Crew. As a result, input and recommendations were received for consideration to improve the proposed action. On March 1, 201 7, a scoping letter providing information and seeking public comment was also mailed to approximately 160 individuals and groups.</div>
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The purpose of the Crystal Clear Restoration Project is to provide forest products where there is an opportunity to restore resiliency to forested areas and reduce the risk of uncharacteristic wildfire behavior. The need for action in this project area, consistent with Forest Plan direction, is to promote the overall sustainability of vegetative systems. Sustainability would be enhanced by increasing the resiliency of the area to withstand severe, uncharacteristic fires, or widespread occurrence of mortality from insects and disease.</div>
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In order to restore resilience and reduce the risk of uncharacteristic wildfire within the planning area, the proposed action would include thinning unmanaged stands and plantations of varying ages on approximately 12,725 acres. All thinning activities proposed in this project would apply variable density thinning, which allows for flexible local density levels and site characteristics to achieve the overall project objectives. Variable density thinning also allows for an emphasis to be placed on leaving vigorous trees of all sizes. Proposed treatment types would occur in either dry or moist mix conifer forest types and would place a greater emphasis in areas that were identified as needed for strategic fuel treatment in the Mt. Hood Strategic Fuel Treatment Plan.</div>
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In addition to the purpose and need for the project and the highlighted treatments to restore resilience to the landscape as described above, all of the proposed activities and effects analysis are available in the Preliminary Assessment, which is available on the Forest's website (http://www.fs.usda.gov/goto/mthood/projects). The Forest's website also contains maps showing the proposed activities. The Preliminary Assessment discloses the impacts and benefits of the proposed action and shows that they implement the goals of the Forest Plan, as well as the associated planning documents applicable to the project area. </div>
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We are now providing a 30-day public comment period for the Preliminary Assessment. Comments must be submitted within 30 days from the legal notification of the opportunity to comment in The Oregonian. The publication date of the legal notice is the exclusive means for calculating the time to submit a comment. Specific written comments should be within the scope of the proposed action, have a direct relationship to the proposed action, and must include supporting reasons for the Responsible Official to consider.</div>
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Comments will be accepted via mail and email. For mail, you may send your comments to the address below. You may also hand-deliver your comments to the mailing address during normal business hours from 7:45 am to 4:30 pm Monday through Friday, excluding federal holidays.</div>
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Crystal Clear Restoration Project</div>
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</div>
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Attn: Casey Gatz, IDT Leader</div>
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Barlow Ranger District</div>
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780 NE Court St</div>
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Dufur, OR 97021</div>
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working with Russ, a seasoned BARK employee and a hellava nice guy</div>
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Along a Barlow Road-era wagon road, restored as a hiking trail</div>
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Ancient Douglas Fir along the old road</div>
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A faint wagon road, former route to Clear Creek Crossing. Your Forest Service wants to "decommission" this road with heavy equipment</div>
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In between the delicious meals, there is plenty of time to relax and take it easy.</div>
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BARK staff Courtney and Hilary share a pickup gate</div>
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Thunder and friend play an old tune</div>
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Gambit and friend </div>
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BARK Volunteer Brian in the early morning light</div>
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Before I know it, it's my last day at Base Camp. Although the camp continues until the 7th, I must return to Portland.</div>
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Today, Teri from Cascadia Wild will be leading a wildlife tracking walk.</div>
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<a href="http://www.cascadiawild.org/">http://www.cascadiawild.org/</a></div>
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After yet another delicious breakfast, we all pile into dusty sedans and make our way into the forest.</div>
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Teri explains the prints and movements of a raven</div>
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"this big"</div>
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tracking along Fryin Pan Lake, the thick smoke from wildfires choking the blue sky</div>
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"Is it a wolf? A coyote? Someone's dog?"</div>
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almost a meadow, choked with pondweed</div>
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If you care about the future of the Mt. Hood National Forest, contact BARK and other local conservation groups with your support and concerns. </div>
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WRITE to the Forest Service with your comments about this timber sale and other forest management issues!</div>
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WRITE or CALL your elected officials! Always remember: to be an American is to celebrate the democratic process. To disagree with your vote and a smile is patriotic.</div>
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These are our forests, not for a particular culture or race of human beings, but for ALL humanity.</div>
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<b>Thank you BARK for all of your hard work, and giving me a glimpse into your world.</b></div>
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Bobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00281879570975634257noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7672445974485562573.post-86545062535404188632016-04-12T16:06:00.001-07:002016-04-12T16:06:30.367-07:0010 Years of Oregon Volks Camps - 2014<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><b>2014</b></span></div>
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for an introduction please see</div>
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<a href="http://greencascadia.blogspot.com/2016/03/10-years-of-oregon-volks-camps-2006-and.html">10 Years of Oregon Volks Camps - 2006 and the Beginning</a></div>
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2014? I still have stuff in my fridge from then. Before, even.</div>
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So how is that 2 years ago already? My my.</div>
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<i>At John's in Eugene, picking up Bus2 January 2014 and the last time I saw that guy. Miss you John!</i></div>
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<b>Nehalem Wetwesties</b></div>
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on the lonesome Oregon Coast</div>
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Raccoons are smart and will steal your food, in the dead of a wet night</div>
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<i>this fellow, who I don't know could play sea kelp like an alpine horn Feb 2014 Nehalem</i></div>
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<i>Gray Ghost Feb 2014 Nehalem</i></div>
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<i>"Electric Pants" Kirk Hal and Stephan bask in that breezy morning fog Feb 2014 Nehalem</i></div>
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<b>Annual Badger Creek Camp</b></div>
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<i>in the pines, in the pines, where the sun nevah shines I will shivver the whole night through" </i></div>
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<i>said Leadbelly</i></div>
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<i>blues in the woods</i></div>
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<i>Stephan and Mark on a cleartop burn March 2014 Badger Creek</i></div>
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<i>"Big Ditch Camp" in the big trees on Highland Ditch</i></div>
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<i> looks like a nice day as Mark picks a tune March 2014 Badger Creek Wilderness</i></div>
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<i>Eva reading through her hat March 2014 Badger Creek</i></div>
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<i>Mark pretends not to see me March 2014 and Mike's spine looks bent doesn't it? Hope he's ok.</i></div>
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<i>on the faint abandoned trail to Badger Creek, almost gone March 2014 with Mike</i></div>
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<i>Eva is not pleased</i></div>
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<i>Eva flying, caught in time March 2014 Badger Creek </i></div>
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<i>Eva and the Zeppelins March 2014 Badger Creek</i></div>
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<b>Granite Powerline Camp</b></div>
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Down long, long roads gravel and well maintained around the ridges of thick forests</div>
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for the big powerlines</div>
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And then this camp, finally in a small meadow</div>
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along the old Mt. Lowe Trail</div>
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<i>Murphy awaits May 2014 Memorial Day at Granite Powerline Camp</i></div>
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<i>an upright Mike, and Melissa's first drive into a wilderness camp May 2014 Granite Powerline Camp</i></div>
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<i>Neil Young, Janelle, Wyatt Earp and Melissa explore one of the many, many abandoned roads</i></div>
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<i>on the edge of old forest, built in a hurry to cut down those same old forests May 2014</i></div>
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<i>Mike clearing a part of that old 595 Trail May 2014 Granite Wilderness</i></div>
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<b style="font-style: italic;">"and he has had enough"</b></div>
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<b style="font-style: italic;"></b><span style="font-style: italic;">poor Mike perhaps dead on the road from too much work</span></div>
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<span style="font-style: italic;">Granite Wilderness May 2014</span></div>
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<b>Salmon River Camp</b></div>
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Large trees and healthy habitat, in an area of gigantic fires a century ago</div>
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Yet the forest is thriving</div>
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when you leave it alone</div>
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<span style="font-style: italic;">Eva and Ben delighted in the summer July 2014 Salmon Huckleberry Wilderness</span></div>
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<span style="font-style: italic;">Eva Ben Alison Marc and Erin posing in front of the ghost Salmon River Guard Station July 2014</span></div>
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<span style="font-style: italic;">Can you imagine being stationed here for the summer, so far away on that fast clear river?</span></div>
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<span style="font-style: italic;">Gypsie looking very, very suspicious and even a little guilty July 2014</span></div>
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<span style="font-style: italic;"> Salmon-Huckleberry Wilderness</span></div>
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<span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-style: italic;">Marc and Alison play a beautiful tune in the starry night of July 2014 Salmon River Country</span></div>
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<i>Alison waves frantically and I don't know why, still to this day and a dour Gypsie July 2014</i> </div>
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<i>On the way home, on a very old road, pierce the brush like an icebreaker ship</i></div>
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<i>Salmon-Huckleberry</i></div>
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<span style="font-style: italic;">"Yes, yes, quite" Stephan, gentleman-whaler July 2014 along that old road yet again</span></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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<b>Annual Hambone Camp</b></div>
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Out there for a week</div>
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sometimes the City encroaches with idiots and too much noise</div>
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and then the silence rushes back in, like mercury to fill the void</div>
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<i>Don and Randy hang on as August hurtles past, summer in the Salmon-Huckleberry 2014</i></div>
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<i>Don, near the end August 2014 along the Abbot</i></div>
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<i>a week? 12 seconds and it is all past and now only photographs</i></div>
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<i>Goodbye August 2014 on the dusty Abbot Rd.</i></div>
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<b>Fixing Hal's Bus</b></div>
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Installing A high top, for some reason</div>
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<i>Kirk Justin Hal and Mike after a hard day's work September 2014</i></div>
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<i>Cameo by Bob September 2014 Portland OR working hard you see</i></div>
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<b>Fir Tree Camp</b></div>
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A fire closure forces us out of the Clackamas</div>
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up along the old Sherar Burn</div>
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10,000 cars pass the camp, on the way to Kinzel Lk.</div>
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In the middle of nowhere</div>
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<i>Randy down the road Sept 2014 just before the cold</i></div>
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<i>fisherman at Veda Lk. trailhead Sept 2012 Randy raring to go</i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKyu_BJAsodREAMOK1n6Vtd1QRs39qbAW1j5UkFsk77gRP_YaubPlTHnQCfB2GKWoDl4pkLN4OTNtorm9N4nLoM4GWsrCK-EqihBdsuXDVpLIWZbschpYYZjupSalW5i3wQdVxqZr99TE/s1600/IMG_2907.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"></a></div>
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<i>Randy catching crawdads up at Veda in the fast fleeting sun</i></div>
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<i> and it drops below the ridge with a POP Sept 2014</i></div>
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<i>Huck Finn 2014 Veda Lk.</i></div>
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<i>ol Suggo on yet another old trail, dropping down to the Salmon River 2000' forget it Sept 2014</i></div>
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<i>Randy welcomes the night at Fir Tree Camp</i></div>
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<i> goodbye to summer Sept 2014 in the high country</i></div>
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<b>Annual Hunter's Moon Camp - Plaza Camp</b></div>
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Again, a long drive down endless gravel Forest Service roads</div>
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that give way to 1930s dirt Forest Service roads, now quaint in their history</div>
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and finally an old camp on the ridge, just before the cold rain</div>
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and then the snow</div>
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<i>A weak sun in the firs Oct 2014 Plaza Camp</i></div>
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<i>Jasan enjoying that same lateseason sun Oct 2014 Plaza Camp, before the rain</i></div>
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<i>Mama Bus does the same Oct 2014 Plaza Camp</i></div>
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<i>goony Randy and Jasan in the shadows Oct 2014 Plaza Camp</i></div>
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<i>Jasan and Don on the trail to Plaza, a clammy Oct 2014 and the heavy rain is on the way</i></div>
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<i>Rhododendrons in the rain Oct 2014 Plaza Camp</i></div>
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<i>Buses going home, sooner or later you have to...Oct 2014 at Squaw Meadows </i></div>
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<i>and of course the sun comes out</i></div>
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No Snow Camp in 2014? I think a bad winter storm came through that year.</div>
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I'm sure we had a very good excuse.</div>
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<b>Next: 2015 and the end of this series! </b></div>
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See you then.<b> </b></div>
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Bobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00281879570975634257noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7672445974485562573.post-36645252939940114042016-04-05T16:20:00.001-07:002016-04-05T16:30:11.353-07:0010 Years of Oregon Volks Camps - 2013<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><b>2013</b></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px; text-align: center;">
for an introduction please see</div>
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<a href="http://greencascadia.blogspot.com/2016/03/10-years-of-oregon-volks-camps-2006-and.html"> 10 Years of Oregon Volks Camps - 2006 and the Beginning</a></div>
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Although only a few years ago, a lot has changed as life rushes by, and we create our own history.</div>
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<b>Armstrong Campground</b></div>
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A small developed campground on the Clackamas River</div>
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open and free in the off-season but full of scary weirdos and trash</div>
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the only camp I've locked my doors at night</div>
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And the river rages nearby, oblivious </div>
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<i>Mike goes nuts with the old saw, and a dazed Jasan March 2013 Armstrong Campground</i></div>
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<i>I probably made him do that but it's still silly March 2013 Mike along the Clackamas</i></div>
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<b>Annual Badger Creek Camp</b></div>
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Along a finger-ridge that used to be a trail, now an old road above the Ponderosa canyon</div>
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<i>Eva in the early season sun, the Bus with snow tires still March 2013 Badger Creek</i></div>
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<i>Eva Jasan Mark Mike and Melissa after a long trek to the canyon bottom March 2013 Badger Creek</i></div>
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<i>Jasan March 2013</i></div>
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<i>Eva in the haze, as the sun sets March 2013 Badger Creek</i></div>
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<i>Mike and Janelle wander off romantically March 2013 Badger Creek Wilderness</i></div>
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<i>And another March is over, forever?</i></div>
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<b>S. Fork Camp</b></div>
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Way the hell up there, nestled in those familiar clearcuts at 5000'</div>
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where the winter snow lingers and autumn comes quick</div>
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In June we don't worry about that</div>
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<i>Gypsie Ray stuffs it June 2013 S. Fork Camp</i></div>
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Lots of people showed up for this camp. Why this one? It is so random and very hard to predict.</div>
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Part of the attraction: the <i><b>Gypsie Death Chute Cable </b></i></div>
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<i>safety not guaranteed</i></div>
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<i>RIDE THE GYPSIE DEATH CABLE! IT IS EVEN SAFE FOR THESE CHILDREN! </i></div>
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<i>Gypsie Lily ? Eva ready to ride the chute down S. Fork June 2013 summer thank God</i></div>
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<i>Hobo Neal poised for adventure on the Death Cable as a scornful Janelle watches on in the flowers</i></div>
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<i>June 2013 S. Fork Death Cable Historic Site</i></div>
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<i>Gypsie, flying off into the bushes June 2013 S. Fork</i></div>
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<i>Sluggo, likewise June 2013</i></div>
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<i>No one was killed or maimed on the Death Cable - it is a misnomer</i></div>
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<i>June 2013 S. Fork Death Cable State Park and a bunch of happy kids in the sun</i></div>
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<i>Jasan wants no part of the madness June 2013 Death Cable Spectator Area S. Fork Camp</i></div>
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<i>Mike chats in the hot sun and big flies and rhododendrons June 2013 one of my favorite photos</i> </div>
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<i>Stephan Randy and Mike looking goofy and confused June 2013 S. Fork Camp</i></div>
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<i>Struggling for the shade Neal Jasan Stephan ? S. Fork Camp June 2013</i></div>
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<i>I hate the rain I hate the sun welcome to Oregon</i></div>
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<i>Neal and Special Guest get all disco June 2013 S. Fork Camp</i></div>
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<b>John Breaks Down</b></div>
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It was his transmission. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk1RHBgTHvuzyTcrEbqoA7V2QHTKwURl9kKfGUzNkk8Yz-Jk8AtGJQfrMz1D9udCZfM9jloCqcR6NLwI7ymHwXdNt_aaMms_HY2c3iAAkh9jAMYMlq7IdYvSYgPvnAcdufClMCoG7sStw/s1600/IMG_8231.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="background-color: transparent; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk1RHBgTHvuzyTcrEbqoA7V2QHTKwURl9kKfGUzNkk8Yz-Jk8AtGJQfrMz1D9udCZfM9jloCqcR6NLwI7ymHwXdNt_aaMms_HY2c3iAAkh9jAMYMlq7IdYvSYgPvnAcdufClMCoG7sStw/s640/IMG_8231.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<i>Hal having a delicate moment with a jolly John watching ominously July 2013 in between camps</i></div>
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<b>Annual Hambone Camp</b></div>
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Wilderness! Piles of bear poop, purple and thick with berries</div>
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<i>It would take all day to get to the bottom of that close caynon...imagine 200' trees lying on their sides</i></div>
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<i>There are still wild places in the world, somehow</i></div>
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<i>July 2013 Roaring River Wilderness my how I love this place</i></div>
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<i>Hal takes a drink from a roadside spring ca. 1930 Abbot Rd. July 2013</i></div>
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<i>ice cold and delicious</i></div>
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<i>Hal and infinity July 2013 between 2 great wilderness lands divided by a very old road</i></div>
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<i>Hal down into the Abbot washout July 2013 </i></div>
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<i>Hal once more July 2013 in the hot dust Abbot Rd.</i></div>
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In those summer Cascades, the weather can change in an instant. <br />
Wham! A cold hail storm chases off the summertime like an angry dog.</div>
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<i>The trail at Hambone July 2013</i></div>
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<i>Adam Jasan and Hal off into the woods July 2013 Salmon Huckleberry Wilderness getting chilly</i></div>
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<i>What happened to the sun? July 2013</i></div>
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<i> The other guys drove off into the rainstorm leaving only Jasan and the fog</i></div>
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<i>Time to go home, Jasan hopping through the rocks July 2013 Abbot Rd.</i></div>
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<b>Twin Springs Camp</b></div>
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An inverse autumn strips away the summer, freezing air turns to an intense flood, many days of rain</div>
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<i>Randy in the cold fog before the rain hits September 2013 Salmon Huckleberry Wilderness</i></div>
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<i>Randy and Tito to Sheepshead Rock Sept 2013 and very high quality hiking gear</i></div>
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DJ and Stephan showed up a day later in the deluge. We ate wet steaks in the cold night, huddled under tarps.</div>
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<b>Annual Hunter's Moon Camp - Upper Cottonwood Camp</b></div>
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In an area of ancient meadows lies an intact ecosystem that should be wilderness, in spite of the necklace scars of needless roads and ripped up forests</div>
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And summer comes again, but in October under the true Hunter's Moon</div>
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<i>Hal in the fleeting light of Upper Cottonwood Oct 2013</i></div>
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<i>Hal you made a lot of camps in 2013</i></div>
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<i>Mark posing all studly Oct 2013 Upper Cottonwood</i></div>
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<i>I can't remember this girl's name but she came for 1 night in her Vanagon</i></div>
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<i>Adam and replacement van, don't wreck this one off a cliff Oct 2013 Cottonwood</i></div>
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<i>Mark Don and Jasan bask like lizards Oct 2013 waiting for the full moon at Cottonwood</i></div>
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<i>Thumbs Up Mark! Oct 2013 at Cottonwood with Don and an unusually jolly Hal</i></div>
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<i>Weird to have all of this sudden sun after the last camp...</i></div>
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<b>Squaw AKA Wychus Creek Camp</b></div>
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Not far from Sisters in a lovely desert canyon, sagebrush and rain, dusted by early winter</div>
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The road crosses the creek, Many Idiots enjoy crashing through in their trucks</div>
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Downriver, ancient petroglyphs</div>
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<i>Anthony, now feral watches over his tribal lands Nov 2013 along Whychus</i></div>
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<i>Anthony and Mike n the muted desert of late autumn Wychus Ck. Nov 2013</i></div>
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<i>Steve Eva DJ and Mike explore the ancient canyon and thickets of willows Nov 2013 Wychus Ck.</i></div>
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<i>Eva is smiling at the rock wall, Mike looks worried about something</i></div>
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<i>An excited kid leads the way into the old ponderosas Nov 2013 Mike and Eva at Wychus</i></div>
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<i>Eva at camp Nov 2013 Wychus Ck.</i></div>
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<i>Steve don't cut off your hand Nov 2013 Wychus Ck. Camp</i></div>
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<i>Smiling Mike and DJ but a serious Steve one can only speculate Nov 2013 Wychus Ck</i></div>
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<i>Desert camping under leaden skies, and an early sun fades away rather than set Nov 2013 Wychus</i></div>
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<b>Annual Solstice Camp</b></div>
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What is this, cold rain? In the December mountains?</div>
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Well thanks a lot.</div>
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<i>Mike griping, probably about the cold rain. His audience, somber and attentive. Dec 2013 Pot Ck.</i></div>
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<i>And the lanterns look on, glinting and wet at Pot Ck. Dec 2013 it looks pretty cold out there</i></div>
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2013? Getouta here.</div>
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We are trapped like birds, caged by the seasons and our life-breath.</div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;">It's just a calendar anyway. </span></span></div>
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Bobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00281879570975634257noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7672445974485562573.post-57612900989430878642016-03-15T15:05:00.001-07:002016-03-15T16:19:05.859-07:0010 Years of Oregon Volks Camps - 2012<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>2012</b></span></div>
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for an introduction please see</div>
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<a href="http://greencascadia.blogspot.com/2016/03/10-years-of-oregon-volks-camps-2006-and.html"> 10 Years of Oregon Volks Camps - 2006 and the Beginning</a></div>
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<i><b>Year of the Dragon</b></i></div>
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<i>Randy, dainty under his Bus Jan 2012 Portland no fix, no go</i></div>
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<b>Unsuperbowl at Nehalem by Wetwesties</b></div>
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In the asphalt loops, the bright sun and calm sea.</div>
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<i>Gypsie in the rays Nehalem Feb 2012 Jasan might be napping back there</i></div>
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<i>Vanwilder Feb 2012 Nehalem</i></div>
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<i> Mike and Bus both happy Feb 2012 Nehalem</i></div>
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<i>John too, but both are up to something....Feb 2012 Nehalem</i></div>
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<i>Kirk butts in HEY MAN IT'S about BUS PORTRAITS Feb 2012 Nehalem Bay </i></div>
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<i>Wayne and Party Pickle ready for anything in life Feb 2012 Nehalem Cascadia</i></div>
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<i>Bill and friend at ancient Native camp Nehalem Feb 2012 and a long walk back to camp</i></div>
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<i>Bill, ?, Jasan, Stephan, ? Feb 2012 Nehalem Bay, on an uncommon Feb 2012</i></div>
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<i> man I could use some of that sun-shine </i></div>
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<b>Annual Badger Creek Camp </b></div>
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Unseasonable snow out in the Cascades, lingering late.</div>
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Randy gets stuck down the chute, we get him out.</div>
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The sun comes out, in a golden orange snow canyon and winter fades,</div>
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<i>Randy in Portland, the open road screaming to us March 2012</i></div>
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<i>Randy you look good with the scruff</i></div>
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Down the chute in the night others arrive and all are well.</div>
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Yet another camp with a scary road?</div>
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<i>Gypsie gives the "peace" sign Lil Badger March 2012</i></div>
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<i>Mad eyes, pipe and chainsaw March 2012 Badger Creek March 2012 </i></div>
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<i>Randy says I look like a Badger I guess he's right Bob March 2012 Topeka, KS</i></div>
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<i>Melissa Janelle and Gypsie quite a moment here March 2012 that is a big sandwich, Gypsie looks wanted by the FBI NO ONE is spared by the lens</i></div>
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<i>Mike Stephan and Sluggo at Badger Creek March 2012 on top of the canyon and in the sun</i></div>
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<i>Still lots of snow in the backdrop Cascades</i></div>
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<i>Down at the creek and the sun is in the shadows Stephan Melissa Janelle and Mike March 2012</i></div>
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<i>Lil Badger and Dutch Oven Peaches Watched by Four Hound-Dogs</i></div>
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<i>Stoney stumble March 2012 Badger Creek</i></div>
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<i> late in the night and up in the woods Randy and Stephan they really do look crazy</i></div>
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<b>Cot Creek Camp </b></div>
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The end of the road, washed out, where a trail happens to be.</div>
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This series: Randy saying, "What?"</div>
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<i>What? Sluggo at Cot Ck. May 2012 </i></div>
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<i>What? Sluggo again at Cot Ck. May 2012</i></div>
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<i>Late spring that year, it was cold up there I remember the snow</i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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<b>Annual Hambone Camp</b></div>
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Finally summer, with mad-biting insects and blue silk skies above the green</div>
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And the quiet of the depths of Oregon forest </div>
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<i>Eva, adorable and ready for a week of wilderness Aug 2012 Salmon Huckleberry</i></div>
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<i>"What?" Randy and Murphy the Dog clearing the old trail at Hambone July 2012 sorry man</i></div>
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<i><b>"That dog ate my ______!!!!!!" </b>true story</i></div>
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<i>Eva pesters Sluggo, who irritates Eva, who bothers Sluggo into the afternoon 2012 August Abbot Rd.</i></div>
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<i>Down into Iron Ck. Canyon DJ Anthony Troy Don and Eva Aug 2012</i></div>
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<i>No Randy?</i></div>
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<i>No, Randy is back at camp and spinning his sausage Aug 2012 this is what men do in the woods?</i></div>
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<i>Anthony and Randy take it easy after all that activity Aug 2012 Abbot Rd.</i></div>
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<i>One more walk in the golden green Don Randy Bob and Eva Salmon Huckleberry Country </i></div>
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<i>August 2012 clear that trail </i></div>
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<b>Upper Fanton Camp</b></div>
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An end of the road clearcut landing, once loaded log trucks with massive trees, now on the edge of Wilderness but shot-up TVs yet</div>
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This next series I call: <i><b>Portrait of a Gypsie</b></i></div>
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<i>Stephan-Jake-Blues in the lovely September 2012 at Upper Fanton</i></div>
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<i>they pulled some "big sticks" out of here (the forest, not Stephan)</i></div>
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<i>Stephan Sept 2012 glorious Roaring River woods </i></div>
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<i>"And he takes it all in" old man Gypsie Sept 2012 overlooking Roaring River country.</i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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<b>Abbot Road Camp</b></div>
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Formerly Twin Springs Forest Camp, abandoned and back-hoe trenched by your Forest Service</div>
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Due to this we were forced to camp on the road, a senseless fate for a 1930 CCC Camp in the old growth noble firs.</div>
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But we still had a great time in the fading summer.</div>
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<i>A sassy-assed DJ, Adam, Gypsie, Mike, and ? while Melissa walks off Sept 2012 Abbot Rd.</i></div>
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<i>Bob is there by shadow alone</i></div>
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<i>Gypsie explains the W-7h chord to Mike Sept 2012 but lovely music just the same</i><br />
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<span style="font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;">Later, Adam drove off the road in his vintage Chevy van, down a canyon and yet survived.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;">The van did not survive.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;"><i>a subtle shift, and the season fades away Sept 2012 Abbot Rd.</i></span><br />
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<b>Blair Lake Camp - Wilamette National Forest</b></div>
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A few hours south of Portland but in those same deep shaggy Cascades</div>
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Still, they get more rain so the forests are thicker and at higher elevations</div>
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which were very heavily logged over the past century</div>
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<i>Melissa, Mike, John, and Anthony head out on the old historic trail on a moody November 2012</i></div>
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<i>Goons John little dog Tetley and Anthony on a chilly Nov 2012 </i></div>
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<i>Free at last! John and DJ roam the forest near Blair Lk. November 2012</i></div>
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<i> the deep snow will soon arrive, a quilt </i></div>
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<i>Melissa Anthony and Janelle huddle by that little smoky fire Nov 2012 Blair Lake</i></div>
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<b>Annual Solstice Camp</b></div>
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In the wet snow-firs just before Christmas</div>
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It is very quiet out there.</div>
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<i>Randy and Mark on 46 Road Dec 2012 Clackamas River as the snow falls</i></div>
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<i>In the summer this is a busy highway</i></div>
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<i>Randy stuffing his gut Dec 2012 Happy New Year!</i></div>
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<i>Randy in that cold winter fog Dec 2012 Pot Ck.</i></div>
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<i>Mark Jasan and Randy Dec 2012 cold Solstice Camp</i></div>
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<i> so tough they don't even need that burning fire back there</i></div>
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<i>Mark Jasan and Randy Dec 2012</i> <i>as that violet night rolls in, and a bottle of good whiskey</i></div>
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<i>chase away the chill and the old year, hop on the dragon doesn't linger long.</i></div>
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<b>Goodbye, Dragon and thanks for the ride.</b></div>
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<i>And Gypsie wishes you a "Good Night" from our studios here in Portland.</i></div>
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Bobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00281879570975634257noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7672445974485562573.post-16787161657690375782016-03-12T21:15:00.000-08:002016-03-12T21:15:12.524-08:0010 Years of Oregon Volks Camps - 2011<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>2011</b></span></div>
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for an introduction please see</div>
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<a href="http://greencascadia.blogspot.com/2016/03/10-years-of-oregon-volks-camps-2006-and.html"> 10 Years of Oregon Volks Camps - 2006 and the Beginning</a></div>
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2011 is dedicated to <b><i>Bookwus</i> Mike Browning</b>. We lost our dear friend to cancer in that year.</div>
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Although he was my friend for only a couple of years, his influence was great. A few months before he died, he took me to lunch and we talked about life.<br />We talked about living a life with true abandon. I'll never forget the grave look he gave me, as he spoke of the regrets in his own life, chapters un-lived and now too late. </div>
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"Bob, you've gotta do what is in your heart, while you can"</div>
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<b>Because once you can't, it's already too late.</b></div>
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We miss you, Mike.</div>
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<i>lonely Bookwus Bus and Gypsie 2011 Lucky Lab Portland</i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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Though not to death, we also lost our dear friend Barry, who married and moved away to Idaho, then Hawaii, and finally Grants Pass.</div>
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Also friends Mike and Elaine moved away to Walla, Walla, Washington and the good life, camps becoming a distant burden as a new life blossoms.</div>
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Attrition affects us all, we are the victims of time trapped in the web, the sticky ether beyond creation.</div>
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Well, at least our handsome friend Gypsie is back in the pics. Here we have him installing his newly built engine for a '80 Vanagon Westfalia.</div>
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<i>One nut loose Stephan March 2011 Ridgefield WA</i></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;">He is now in Ridgefield, WA, after a life in Portland. I miss him too, his move affected me a great deal as well.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;"> There was certainly a lot of letting go in 2011, as we welcomed new friends and experiences.</span></div>
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<b style="font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;">Annual Badger Creek Camp </b></div>
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In the crotch between the Badgers, literally as the map surely shows,</div>
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on the edge of the White River Wildlife Area.</div>
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<i>John March 2011 Badger Creek, what a beautiful sound in the woods</i></div>
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This is the <i>"thank God it stopped raining for a couple days"</i> camp.</div>
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Summer is far too short in Oregon...</div>
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<i>Randy's first wilderness camp in Oregon! March 2011 Badger Creek and a new lifelong friend</i></div>
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<i>Jasan at Badger March 2011 staring intently at that unlit fire concentrating until it bursts into flames</i></div>
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<i>Jasan on the ancient trail March 2011 Badger Creek Canyon</i></div>
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<i>Sluggo Randy tucked away in the pines wishing he didn't quit smoking that weekend</i></div>
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<i>Badger Creek March 2011 </i></div>
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<i>Forget it man you're stuck with us</i></div>
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<i>Jasan John and Mark March 2011 Badger Creek in the scattered light of spring</i></div>
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<b>Annual 4-20 Camp - Rho Creek</b></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;">Along one of the many longhaul paved logging roads</span></div>
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Giant old funky firs, forest still thrives between the intrusions</div>
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<i>Eva at Rho big kid April 2011</i></div>
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Every time I've been here, it has been freezing. Absolutely, an icy chute down the creek, tumbling windy over the loud round rocks in the river all wearing shaggy green felt hats.</div>
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<i>Sluggo at Rho April 2011 beaming new camper</i></div>
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<i>Hal April 2011 jaunty Birthday Boy </i></div>
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<i>Stephan like a bartender basking in the temporary sun, deep in the shadows of Rho April 2011</i></div>
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This place is a miracle, a strip of asphalt can't hide that. The trees are fat vertical pillars reaching into a shadowy land way beyond our reach. It is a habitat still intact, full of heavy moss and owls.</div>
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Here is something you won't believe: the corporate giants of the 1920s wanted to flood this ancient forest for hydropower.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_BWAHt_AecGWOKZYZK6MrdYyT5Jr1sGLklgpV0v7FRtdfK2I3BDv90Wear2HaxeflYXtAqI9ZTv6ooNjlwHjC1-xbV1q2eQBZP6n3dLwDdRO6peXwg_xjMORB0rfYSrpgUPAEGmwQLvw/s1600/books_003.png" imageanchor="1" style="background-color: transparent; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_BWAHt_AecGWOKZYZK6MrdYyT5Jr1sGLklgpV0v7FRtdfK2I3BDv90Wear2HaxeflYXtAqI9ZTv6ooNjlwHjC1-xbV1q2eQBZP6n3dLwDdRO6peXwg_xjMORB0rfYSrpgUPAEGmwQLvw/s640/books_003.png" width="464" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;">The depression put an end to this nonsense, and larger hydro projects on the Columbia River quickly became the future, and especially as a nation geared up for war.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;">Unfortunately, we lost Timothy Meadows to a giant artificial lake, and now </span><span style="font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;">ironically one of the most popular recreation areas in the Mt. Hood region.</span></div>
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<i>tough customers Stephan Randy and Hal ramble down a Forest Service logging road April 2011</i></div>
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<i>Hal Don Randy Eva and Gypsie</i> </div>
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<i>At the Rho Creek trailhead, just recently recovered from abandonment, lots of hard work April 2011</i></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;"><i>Eva Randy Hal and Stephan April 2011</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;"><i>looking for lost trails in one of the many Clackamas deltas, land of a million creeks</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;"><i>Eva Hal and Gypsie enjoy a lovely spring day at Fawn Creek April 2011</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;"><i> a canyon unfortunately cleared by roads and recent logging, no place to camp</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;"><b>Linney Ck. Camp</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;">Down another hell road, 8 miles or so thru the old Abbot Burn of the 1920s, rhododendrons scrape off your paint. I like it.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;"><i>Randy dapper on the old trail at Linney well done chap July 2011 and the rhodies are in bloom in the mountains</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;"><i>Even in July we have to wear wool sweaters</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;"><b>Annual Hambone Camp</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;">what's with these horrible roads? At least we can get some peace. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;">This entire area burned badly in fires from the teens and '20s. It has now completely recovered, and part of the Roaring River Wilderness and the Salmon Huckleberry. <br />A vast land chock full of bears and so many gorgeous trees it makes your heart swell.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;"><i>Randy trundles down the Abbot on a very glorious July day 2011</i></span></div>
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<i>Jasan and Randy overlook an entire wilderness July 2011 Roaring River Country</i></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;"><i>Tosa loves Jasan July 2011 Abbot Camp</i></span></div>
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<i>Randy Eva Jasan and Jill do nothing useful Abbot Camp July 2011</i></div>
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<i>Stephan Randy Don Joseph Caspian and Eva Explorer Post 100 at Hambone July 2011</i></div>
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<i>Joseph and Caspian inspect a tree along a lost trail Salmon Huckleberry April 2011</i></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;"><i>Joseph and Randy work on the old trail July 2011 </i></span></div>
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<i>Gypsie Randy and Joseph soak up that midsummer sun Abbot Rd July 2011 Model T country</i></div>
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<i>heaven of light Eva and Randy celebrate July 2011 Abbot Camp</i></div>
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<b>High Rock Camp</b></div>
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An old CCC camp between the burns and neglected</div>
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Year two of Outhouse Restoration, with a giant crew this time</div>
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Well who can turn down the opportunity to fix a poop shack?</div>
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<i>A job well done Don Neal Hal and Stephan saved for the ages Sept 2011</i></div>
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<i>A beaming Huck Finn Gypsie Sept 2011 Indian Summer</i></div>
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<i>Neal from the outhouse trail Sept 2011</i></div>
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<i>The guys are <b>POOPED</b> out after all that work Hal Neal and Don Sept 2011 escape the heat</i></div>
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<i>Gypsie kicking back, the book upside down High Rock Sept 2011 just kidding Stephan</i></div>
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<i>The crew at High Rock Sept 2011 fleeting summertime</i></div>
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No Hunter's Moon Camp this year? I guess not.</div>
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<b>Annual Winter Solstice Camp</b></div>
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Pot Ck. frozen solid for the winter, deer bones strewn about in the diamond cold.</div>
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<i>Sluggo at the old camp at Pot Ck in the frost Dec 2011</i></div>
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<i>Eva's first winter camp, braving the 20s with Randy Dec 2011</i></div>
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<i>she hasn't camped in the winter since...</i></div>
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<i>Eva and Randy looking for old trails in the 4 hours of solstice daylight, in the clearcuts Dec 2011</i></div>
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<i>Randy and Eva in the cold Solstice night Dec 2011</i></div>
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The tree grows an acorn, it sprouts yet the mother dies and onward all life goes.</div>
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Bobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00281879570975634257noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7672445974485562573.post-74850083388757160612016-03-10T22:00:00.001-08:002016-03-10T22:06:48.901-08:0010 Years of Oregon Volks Camps - 2010<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>2010</b></span></div>
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for an introduction please see</div>
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<a href="http://greencascadia.blogspot.com/2016/03/10-years-of-oregon-volks-camps-2006-and.html"> <span style="color: #cc9966;">10 Years of Oregon Volks Camps - 2006 and the Beginning</span></a></div>
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<b>Nehalem Bay Unsuperbowl Campout</b></div>
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The annual <i>Wetwesties </i>Event</div>
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<i>Eva beaming, on the way Feb 2010</i></div>
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<i>Kirk, recently back from the future Feb 2010 Nehalem</i></div>
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<i>Erin and Eva Nehalem Feb 2010</i></div>
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It's a fun event despite the paved over nature and unpredictable winter weather. Still, I'd rather be out in the quiet forests.</div>
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<b>Annual Badger Creek Camp</b></div>
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This year, a knife-edge ridge between the Badgers (Creeks, that is). </div>
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A quiet camp. Where is that Gypsie?</div>
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<i>Jasan comatose and dangling proudly in his new hammock Badger Creek Wilderness March 2010</i> </div>
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<i>camp March 2010 Jasan rummaging around in his Bus</i></div>
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<i>A forlorn Mark Badger Creek March 2010</i></div>
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<i> I like the cookies and chips just lying on the ground</i></div>
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<i>Perhaps insane, in the blue light of the full moon March 2010 Mark</i></div>
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<i>Bob at Badger Creek March 2010 in the quiet night and probably insane too</i></div>
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<b>Annual Deschutes RendezVW</b></div>
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In the railroad canyon of the sunny Deschutes</div>
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<i>Event shirt design by Bob 2010</i></div>
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<i>Erin at the Deschutes June 2010 right behind the rock band</i></div>
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Mark puts on a good event. If you like laid back VW community with amenities then this is the weekend for you. Without room to roam around I start going nuts after a couple days.</div>
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<i>Cheryle and Neal doing what they do best at the RendezVW June 2010</i></div>
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<i>Troy and daughter Ava both delighted beyond measure Maupin June 2010</i></div>
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<i>A strange moment, Lily Erin and Eva as the dark clouds roll in June 2010 Maupin</i></div>
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<i>Jill smiles and Jasan sneaks a snort June 2010 Maupin</i></div>
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<i>Elaine shakes that thing June 2010 with Gypsie and Lori in the back</i></div>
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<i>this is the only photo of Gypsie in 2010! It must be the move to Ridgefield, alas.</i></div>
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<i>Ryan and Sluggo Randy at their first Oregon camp June 2010 Maupin who'd a thought?</i></div>
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<i>Static Joe and Colin June 2010 at the Deschutes</i></div>
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<b>Annual Hambone Camp</b></div>
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<i>Eva taking it easy in the extreme peace July 2010</i></div>
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No one could make the 2010 Hambone Camp, can you believe it? It didn't stop Eva.</div>
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Sometimes you really need quiet to appreciate the subtlety of nature and these wilderness places.</div>
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It was a nice change of pace to have the camp to ourselves for a few days. Eva is already getting so big and is able to take care of herself more and more, what a great camper!</div>
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<i>Eva delighted and in her element, Salmon-Huckleberry Wilderness July 2010</i></div>
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<i>wacky girl stealing the twilight bananas Hambone July 2010</i></div>
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After a few lovely days, we check out High Rock on the way out.</div>
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It's an old CCC camp from the '30s, built stoutly but neglected like so many Mt. Hood N.F. artifacts lying in ruin.</div>
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<i>Eva and a treacherous outhouse July 2010</i></div>
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<i>High Rock Springs Forest Camp (abandoned) July 2010</i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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Well, this neglect simply cannot do.<br />
Hal?</div>
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<b>High Rock Springs Forest Camp</b></div>
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2 weeks later with a Bus full of lumber and hardware, we aim to fix that old poop-house from 1930</div>
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<i>Hal in the elevator shaft Aug 2010</i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>before</i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifV_fSQ2V9D-CsgF8c-PtzsEKW73jR4THV9B4vyZXf-pQ3_FP-tYPuhy1bmbiFtet3y4TGtmt6JcUaLPvkN9KdrC-5y8OK33PnRCZ2AXJ6603pX05miYFNBrrfxktLAWlrsn7aDwbWBYk/s1600/IMG_9727.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifV_fSQ2V9D-CsgF8c-PtzsEKW73jR4THV9B4vyZXf-pQ3_FP-tYPuhy1bmbiFtet3y4TGtmt6JcUaLPvkN9KdrC-5y8OK33PnRCZ2AXJ6603pX05miYFNBrrfxktLAWlrsn7aDwbWBYk/s640/IMG_9727.JPG" width="480" /></a></div>
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<i>after a weekend's work the interior is like new High Rock Aug 2010</i></div>
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<i>next year, the exterior</i></div>
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<i>Hal speculates Aug 2010 near High Rock</i></div>
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<i>Hal backing down the old High Rock road after a 45deg. slope caused gas to pour out he's crazy you know Aug 2010</i></div>
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<i>Hal on High Rock overlooking the whole of the Clackamas Aug 2010</i></div>
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<i>there used to be a fire lookout up there, must have been a hell of a ride in a storm</i></div>
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<i>Trying to picture the High Rock CCC Camp from the 1930's Hal in 2010</i></div>
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<i>Hal straining to see the Perseid Meteor Shower but just falling asleep Aug 2010</i></div>
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<b>Baty Butte and Blister Creek Camp </b></div>
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Have you ever felt it in your gut when big change is coming? </div>
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<i>near the base of Baty Butte basking in that September sun fleeting like a bird 2010</i></div>
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One morning the sunlight shot through my window with a golden blast, and it brought me to joyous tears. I'm not one to cry at the sun; I knew something was up.</div>
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The next day, back in the material world I gave notice to a horrible job that was killing me, yet most of my bags were already packed.</div>
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<i>home in Mama Bus Sept 2010</i></div>
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<b>Little Badger Camp</b></div>
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Free at last! I camped alone to celebrate my new independence. <br />
NOW what?</div>
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<i>one of my favorite photos of Mama bus at Little Badger in the rain Sept 2010</i></div>
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<i>It is a weird feeling being newly liberated</i></div>
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<b>Plaza Camp</b></div>
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At the very end of the horrible Abbot Road on a watershed divide, we create a temporary village on the edge of the wilderness</div>
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<i>kids just a blur in the night Sept 2010 Plaza Camp</i></div>
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<i>Eva stuffs her face, a composed Paige and Wacky Ava bounce through the night Sept 2010</i></div>
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<i>Paige displays insane mushroom Sept 2010 Plaza</i></div>
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<i>Vanwilder makes an emphatic point at Plaza Sept 2010 as Jasan looks on</i></div>
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<i>Eva and Lilly on the roof Sept 2010 Plaza Camp</i></div>
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<b>White River Camp</b></div>
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Right on the old Barlow Road, where covered wagons literally camped in the mid 1800s</div>
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It's still a spooky place, you can hear the wagons creak with their loads</div>
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<i>Jasan proudly displays new beer holder Oct 2010 White River flanked by Spiffy and John</i></div>
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<i>Circle the wagons! I wonder if we thought of that when we were there? The irony Oct 2010 </i></div>
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<i>White River Camp</i></div>
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<i>Vanwilder, and I think, Jasan I can't quite see him Oct 2010 White River</i></div>
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<i>Oct 2010 White River Camp Radny Vanwilder Jasan Spiffy John and Bob's Buses</i></div>
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<i>On the Barlow Road Oct 2010 and into history ourselves</i></div>
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In the rain, time to go home. </div>
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All that glorious weather can't last, and regret rises, the end of another season, another year alive.</div>
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But first we must help Neal drop his engine in Bertha Bus.</div>
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<i>Neal in Portland Dec 2010 hoping the engine will perhaps remove itself</i></div>
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It is strange to condense a year into just a few photos, selective memories. It is incredible how much <i style="font-weight: bold;">living </i>that can be accomplished when you put your mind to it.<br />
To much wilderness, too little time.</div>
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Bobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00281879570975634257noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7672445974485562573.post-16167562632187178822016-03-09T20:58:00.000-08:002016-03-09T20:58:30.369-08:0010 Years of Oregon Volks Camps - 2009<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>2009</b></span></div>
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for an introduction please see</div>
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<a href="http://greencascadia.blogspot.com/2016/03/10-years-of-oregon-volks-camps-2006-and.html">10 Years of Oregon Volks Camps - 2006 and the Beginning</a><br />
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2009 starts without a camp at all, but the building of a brand-new engine. <br />
After 6 years of these crazy camps the old one was all worn out.<br />
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<i>Gypsie in January 2009 big game hunter/mechanic</i><br />
<i>That poor old thrashed out engine got me to a lot of camps</i><br />
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I had a lot to learn and needed help - lots of it.<br />
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<i>Eva lends a hand cleaning engine tin Portland Feb 2009</i><br />
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<i>Hal once again in a mad frenzy Feb 2009</i><br />
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<i>Hal and Bob Feb 2009</i><br /><i><br /></i><br />
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<i>Gypsie and that famous pic. Feb 2009 bracketed by Neal and Barry</i><br />
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<i>Bookwus Mike taking me on a parts run to Trafton's March 2009</i><br />
30,000 miles later the new engine still runs like a top, thanks guys. And Eva too.<br />
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<b>Nehalem Unsuperbowl Camp</b><br />
A <i>WetWesties </i>Event, annually at this gigantic multiloop state park right on the ocean<br />
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<i>A confident Stephan, fortified by that arrow Feb 2009 Nehalem Bay</i><br />
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<i>John Shepski of <a href="http://www.fluffandgravy.com/">Fluff and Gravy</a> passing through Nehalem Feb 2009</i><br />
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<i>Stephan and MIke </i><i style="font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;">catch futile, phantom-crabs on the Oregon Coast</i></div>
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<i style="font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;">Feb 2009 after a long bouncing curving drive along Highway 101</i></div>
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<i>Mark all glorious in the unseasonal sun Feb 2009 Nehalem</i></div>
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<b>Annual Badger Creek Camp</b></div>
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Every year a different location within the wilderness</div>
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This year, along the south canyon rim of Badger Creek</div>
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<i>Chitown Todd bought this bus from Mark in Maupin, then drove it home to Chicago March 2009</i></div>
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<i>Kirk's first Volks Camp March 2009 Badger Creek</i></div>
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<i>Mark making me something March 2009 in the oaks and the sunshine</i></div>
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<i>Spiffy and Mark March 2009 I don't know what the hell is going on here</i></div>
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<i>Todd and Son March 2009</i></div>
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<i>Wilderness explorers Elaine Mike ? Satchmo Todd and his Son March 2009</i><br />
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<i>Chitown Todd and Son with tiny elves behind March 2009 Badger Creek </i><br />
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<i>Insane Mike March 2009</i></div>
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staring at</div>
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<i>Insane Elaine, reading "Dewey" the entire trip, cute pic March 2009 all cozy</i></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;">Music is the foundation of Volks Camps</span></div>
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<i>Mark and Elaine cast waves and sparks March 2009 on Badger Creek</i></div>
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<b>And Then</b></div>
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Our friend Barry needed help with his Bus<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsJz0AB9HUr3A5pj_MDuzkV8PrUT-qssf0KQdDTBHWCf7mCi7dyhrwfCVwyj1PTm9BfP_YWc7U1TA46zo8nhl6FwObgI8WY7wg9KOTJvZww75ZMMaTHEOCyFp7Ds-rHIfguKnoGoMD684/s1600/IMG_5411ps.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="470" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsJz0AB9HUr3A5pj_MDuzkV8PrUT-qssf0KQdDTBHWCf7mCi7dyhrwfCVwyj1PTm9BfP_YWc7U1TA46zo8nhl6FwObgI8WY7wg9KOTJvZww75ZMMaTHEOCyFp7Ds-rHIfguKnoGoMD684/s640/IMG_5411ps.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<i>Barry Stephan Bookwus-Mike and ? Portland April 2009</i><br />
<i>Ok it's not a camp but either was the engine build </i><br />
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<b>1st Annual 4/20 Birthday Camp</b><br />
Barry, Hal and Bob all have April 20 birthdays, what the hell<br />
So we started a camp<br />
The 4/20 reference is purely coincindental<br />
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<i>Barry pokes in the door of his Westy April 2009 Portland</i></div>
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Sitting at Hal's house, I didn't feel so good. Oh no...</div>
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I spend my 40th birthday with a feverish flu, deep in the clammy rainy forest. It sucks.</div>
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Hal and Barry and Stephan and families were all there to wish well. Was it an ok camp?</div>
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I don't remember.</div>
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<b>White River Canyon Camp</b></div>
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A surprisingly busy rutted dirt road at the bottom of a beautiful scrub-oak desert canyon</div>
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<i>Barry in Portland May 2009 let's get the hell out of here</i></div>
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<i>Barry and lots of geology White River May 2009</i><br />
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<i>Eva, dashing through time May 2009 slow down, would you?</i></div>
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<b>Annual Deschutes River RendezVW Maupin Oregon</b></div>
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Mark makes me spell it that way</div>
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<i>Wayne talking smack in the Clackamas parking lot while Troy peeks in the window June 2009</i></div>
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<i>Bookwus back there, miss ya Mike June 2009</i></div>
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No pics of the event? I don't remember.</div>
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<b>Annual Hambone Camp</b></div>
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Way the hell out there, not for the timid</div>
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Mark decides to surprise us and show up un-announced</div>
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<i>Mark decides to replace his fuel pump in the deep woods July 2009</i></div>
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<i>Barry on 58 Road at Shellrock Ck. Clackamas Wilderness July 2009</i></div>
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<i>Happy or nuts? </i></div>
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<i>This nice family showed up to the camp, I don't remember their names and haven't seen them since...</i><br />
<i>Hope it wasn't everything everyone said July 2009 a salty lot</i><br />
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<i>Mark peeks behind the old growth and makes me a sandwich July 2009</i></div>
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<i>Terian Stephan and Mark set out on the old 702 July 2009 amid the biting deerflies</i><br />
<i>I made that sign with a Sharpie, it lasted 6 years then someone stole it in 2015</i><br />
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<i>Terian up Hambone July 2009</i><br />
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<i>I tuckered out the kids Gypsie and Terian on top of the mountain July 2009</i><br />
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<i>Terian and Papa Bob July 2009 Hambone</i><br />
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<i>Gypsie fills lanterns while Barry gives him crap July 2009 oh my summertime</i><br />
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<i>Mellow Mark with deli mustard "Makes the ordinary...EXTRAORDINARY!"</i><br />
<i>It really says that on the bottle July 2009</i><br />
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<i>loopy hoopy happy Terian July 2009</i><br />
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<i>Stephan soothes Troy's Son along that old Abbot Rd. July 2009</i><br />
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All things must pass<br />
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<i>Tired, hot, filthy and disgusting after a week in the woods and a hair-raising 3 hour drive ahead</i></div>
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<i>I hate going home July 2009 Bob at the wheel of Mama Bus rattling down the Abbot Rd.</i></div>
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<b>S. Fork Camp</b></div>
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A semi-annual camp atop a high peak, hit full force with storms or sweeping views</div>
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<i>Gypsie hoards the hardtack and reverent John Sept 2009</i></div>
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<i>John and family S. Fork Sept 2009</i></div>
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<i>The night brings foggy rain, clouds scraping the peak as they blow by Sept 2009</i></div>
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<i>And then that asshole Gypsie scares the hell out of us growling like a beast in the bushes</i></div>
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<i>"IS it a beast?!"......RUNNNNNNNNNNNNN!!!!</i></div>
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<b>Bob's Buck Camp</b></div>
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Along a series of high meadows in the season just before the snow</div>
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For a professional video of this camp please see:</div>
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<a href="https://vimeo.com/29222911">Bivouac at Bob's Buck Camp</a></div>
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thanks to Neal and Cheryle!</div>
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<i>Gaggle of Buses Estacada Ranger Station Oct 2009 in the rain</i></div>
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<i>Barry of the Woods at Cache Mdw. Oct 2009</i></div>
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<i>Cache Mdw. Oct 2009 Mark Gypsie and Jasan in the splendor</i><br />
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<i>Gypsie Jasan and Carmen along the ancient 702 Trail Oct 2009</i></div>
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<i>A cute Carmen pops in Oct 2009 at Bob's Buck Camp</i></div>
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<i>In the dreams sun and smoke Oct 2009</i></div>
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A week later blizzards brought deep snow to the Oregon Cascades.</div>
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Another year, gone like a dream.</div>
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Bobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00281879570975634257noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7672445974485562573.post-40525546239176199002016-03-07T15:25:00.000-08:002016-03-07T16:06:10.777-08:0010 Years of Oregon Volks Camps - 2008<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>2008</b></span></div>
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for an introduction please see</div>
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<a href="http://greencascadia.blogspot.com/2016/03/10-years-of-oregon-volks-camps-2006-and.html"> 10 Years of Oregon Volks Camps - 2006 and the Beginning</a></div>
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<b>2nd Annual Badger Creek Camp</b></div>
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<i>Elaine Mike and Mark, giant woodpile and box of beer on cayon rim, what could be better?</i></div>
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<i>March 2008</i></div>
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<i>Elaine and Mike Badger Creek 2008</i></div>
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<i>I told them to stand like American Gothic</i></div>
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<i>they nailed it</i></div>
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<i>1/2 way down the canyon into the tangle Elaine Mike and Stephan March 2008</i></div>
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<b>Canyon Creek Camp (Washington)</b></div>
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A nice FS campground, but very busy and somewhat neglected</div>
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Giant trees, lots of people, trash in the bushes right on the creek</div>
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<i>Spiffy Mike May 2008, and a sign of poor quality</i></div>
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<i>Eva and Mike Canyon Creek May 2008</i></div>
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Lots of logging in the area. Driving down the many logging spurs finds impacted, yet lovely recovering forests of alder and young firs of every kind.</div>
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<i>Eva peeks from behind the Bus, and Spiffy May 2008</i></div>
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<i style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;">Eva and Mike, May 2008</i></div>
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<i>Foggy Morning, Canyon Creek Wa. May 2008 and John by the fire</i></div>
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<b>Grouse-Huxley 4611 Camp</b></div>
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The edge of the known wilderness in a sea of historic logging, this camp sits at the end of a barely-road, due to be commissioned. Nature may do it first.</div>
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<i>Jasan hides in his bus, probably scared from the drive in June 2008</i></div>
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<i>also see: <a href="http://greencascadia.blogspot.com/2011/05/grouse-huxley-camp-april-2010.html">http://greencascadia.blogspot.com/2011/05/grouse-huxley-camp-april-2010.html</a></i></div>
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<b>Colin drops in</b></div>
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<i>With his "Road Warrior" 1973 Bus, a year later it would save his life</i></div>
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<i>The artist's portrait is accurate</i></div>
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<b>2nd Annual Hambone Camp</b></div>
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<i>Bob at Hambone, July 2008</i></div>
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<i>All of the signs have since been stolen</i></div>
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<i>many fannies scramble to the top</i></div>
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<i>Anthony Terian Paige Marc look for old trails July 2008 </i></div>
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Way out in the middle of the wilds on terrible roads, this camp is often little-attended. For some reason 2008 was highly attended, big crowd around the fire.</div>
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<i style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;">Mary and Hal July 2008 while sunbleached Eva chats</i></div>
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<i style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;">Erin July 2008</i></div>
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<i> </i><i style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;">Eva and Lily angels July 2008</i></div>
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<i style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;">Boston king of Marshmallows July 2008</i></div>
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<i style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;">Papa Brendan July 2008</i></div>
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<i style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;">Eva July 2008</i></div>
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<i style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;">beaming and mosquito riddled Gypsie after a tune July 2008</i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i>Sommer and baby, I like how her expression matches the phone July 2008</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i>A very lovely Gypsie on the Abbot Rd. July 2008 Lupine Princess</i></span></div>
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<i>Terian July 2008 not amused</i></div>
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<i>Neal reads verse and casts sparks July 2008 with Stephan in the back, unknown toes</i></div>
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<b>Pyramids Camp - Willamette N.F.</b></div>
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A nice little "user-camp" in the Willamette, just south of the Mt. Hood N.F. One of the most cut-over forests in the country, and also the last great old-growth stronghold</div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i>Stephan and Troy and weird dog Sept 2008</i> </span></div>
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<i>Stephan and Troy looking for the old trail, 3 Pyramids Sept 2008</i><br />
<i>A tiny spider bite from this forest gave me chills, numb lips and a body rash for a day</i><br />
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<i>Mark and the kids zoom around with Zoomer Sept 2008</i></div>
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<i>The theme of this photo: Dogs. I count 6. Troy and DJ Anthony Sept 2008</i></div>
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<b>Rho Creek Camp</b></div>
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Always refrigerated at any time of the year</div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i>Mark on the old trail Oct 2008 just before the rain </i></span></div>
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<i>Day Tripper Hal Oct 2008 </i></div>
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<b>Annual Winter Camp</b></div>
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Barlow Xing Camp this time, crisp ice over the puddles</div>
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<i>Stephan and Jasan in the footsteps of the pioneers, Barlow Road Dec 2008</i></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i>Eli and a cupa joe Dec 2008 Barlow Ck.</i></span></div>
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<i style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;">Mark burns the rice for Zane and Eli Dec 2008</i></div>
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<i style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14.85px; line-height: 20.79px;">Troy enjoying the lovely chill Dec 2008</i></div>
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<i>Mark in the cold drizzle but you'd never know it Dec 2008 Barlow Ck.</i></div>
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<i>Zane welcomes in the night Dec 2008</i></div>
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Bobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00281879570975634257noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7672445974485562573.post-45836182231158317462016-03-04T15:21:00.002-08:002016-03-07T13:43:18.990-08:0010 Years of Oregon Volks Camps - 2007<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>2007</b></span></div>
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for an introduction please see</div>
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<a href="http://greencascadia.blogspot.com/2016/03/10-years-of-oregon-volks-camps-2006-and.html">10 Years of Oregon Volks Camps - 2006 and the Beginning</a></div>
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<b>Wetwesties Unsuperbowl Camp Nehalem Bay</b></div>
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<i>Stephan Mark and Jasan, new old friends brave the clammy damp Feb 2007 Nehalem Bay</i></div>
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<i>Gypsie and former Riviera Vanagon Feb 2007</i></div>
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Shiny and novel in it's newness, the IAC brought a lot of Portland Volks together those first few years.</div>
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The power of the internet really began to affect our lives in a practical sense. Wilderness camps could be planned far in advance, with maps and directions and photos helping along.</div>
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Soon we began to meet for multi day wilderness camps, all arriving one-by-one to the middle of nowhere. It's a fun game wondering who will show up and when as we sit like mice in the middle of a maze, the cheesey prize.</div>
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<b>The first annual Badger Creek Camp</b></div>
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<i>Lisa and Jasan Bonney Crossing Camp March 2007</i></div>
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<i>Bob and Mama Bus Bonney Crossing 2007</i></div>
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<i>Mark at Bonney March 2007</i></div>
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Bonds began to form, music and fresh mountain air after a day of hard work on the trail, and a smooth ale or 2 to welcome in the night.</div>
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In my first few years in Oregon, I was lonesome. I explored and studied history, really began to fall in love with the Clackamas, but mainly alone. Then came Eva, a bouncing delight and full of energy. As she began to grow, so did my world. </div>
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<i>Eva and Lily Summer 2007 taking a ride in the Gyspie Wagon</i></div>
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For the first time I was able to take more frequent and longer trips, to organize further forays past the mess of logging and roads, deeper into true Oregon and what is left.</div>
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Who knew these trips would continue on for 10 years? </div>
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<b>Lookout Springs Forest Camp</b></div>
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<i>Jasan is very proud of his sign May 2007 and 1/2 of Wayne</i></div>
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<i> former Lookout Springs Forest Camp (now trenched and abandoned)</i></div>
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<i>Jasan and Bob at Lookout Springs May 2007, summer yet to arrive in the Cascades</i></div>
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One thing I quickly discovered in the Clackamas: it is a real pig-sty. </div>
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Generations have left their trash strewn about, down gulleys and littering old camps like ugly confetti. Broken bottles should be the state mineral, exploded plastic shells the flower. It really is a mess, and so especially disgusting in especially sacred places. But we clean it up the best we can, bringing home bags from every camp, sometimes old tires or shattered plastic chairs. </div>
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How can we get people to pack out their crap? In the old days, it was recommended you either burned our buried it, can you imagine? But then, they saw a wilderness far more vast, unbroken from valley to desert. They couldn't possibly imagine what was to come.</div>
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<i>Wayne and a stoic Godfather Gypsie and bag of the Clackamas</i></div>
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<i>Fomer Lookout Springs Camp May 2007</i></div>
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Lookout Springs was a trouble spot, too close to town and the ravages of centuries of logging camps, steam railroads. Instead of improvements, the road was backhoed and the camp demolished, just a few months after these pictures. RIP Lookout Springs Forest Camp.</div>
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Every generation has it's own priorities.</div>
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<i>8-12-1934 Oregonian, CCC Men Improve [Lookout Springs] Camp</i></div>
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While not a camp, Barb and Anthony stop in Portland on their way to the Arctic Circle,</div>
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by VW Bus no less! You just never know where life will take you.</div>
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For Barb, it was a long journey, passing through from California and points far north.</div>
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Barb I still have your mosquito tent, thank you it still gets a lot of use. </div>
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<i>Elwood Bus in Portland June 2007 while the other 2 nap in the driveway</i></div>
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<i>DJ Anthony and Friend June 2007</i></div>
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And wouldn't you know it? Barb made it there and back, Anthony made it as far as Alaska.</div>
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<a href="http://www.thesamba.com/vw/forum/viewtopic.php?t=145301&postdays=0&postorder=asc&start=0">http://www.thesamba.com/vw/forum/viewtopic.php?t=145301&postdays=0&postorder=asc&start=0</a></div>
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But she wouldn't let me take her photo, camera shy. So there you have it.</div>
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<b>First annual Hambone Sp. Forest Camp</b></div>
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Rattling down the worst possible road in the Mt. Hood Forest</div>
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<i>Eva getting big! Excited to be camping with Papa July 2007 man what a handful in those days...</i></div>
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<i>"Bob This Way" Hambone July 2007</i></div>
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<i>a dazed Eva while Terian eats a square July 2007</i></div>
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<i>Erin and Stephan July 2007 Linney Spring.</i></div>
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<i>Gypsie Terian Lori Erin Eva and Jasan with Tosa in the lead, music along the Abbot Road</i></div>
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<i> July 2007</i></div>
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<b>Twin Springs Camp</b></div>
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Also trenched and abandoned by the Forest Service</div>
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<i>Bob and Hal pick up many bags of trash in the delightful summer light, Twin Springs August 2007</i></div>
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<b>Collawash Camp</b></div>
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<i>Mike clears the road Oct 2007</i></div>
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<i>dueling breakfast along the Collawash River, Oct 2007 Mike and John, steaming coffeepot</i></div>
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<i>Stephan sharpens his saw much to John's delight Oct 2007 Collawash</i></div>
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<i>John Stephan and Mike roam the Bull of the Woods Oct 2007</i></div>
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<i>down the road and into the ages Oct 2007</i></div>
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<b>1st annual Winter Camp</b></div>
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Hunting the snow or the Solstice, we almost always get out right before Christmas...unless a horrible storm is brewing, when we say, "screw it" and stay home.</div>
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.<i>Mark in Portland heading for the snow Dec 2007</i></div>
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<i>Mark and some damned fancy signs Dec 2007</i></div>
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<i>Anthony John DJ Eep and friend</i></div>
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<i> in camp along the Breitenbush River buried in the deep snow of early winter</i></div>
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And another year fades away, into time and gone again.</div>
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What will 2008 bring?</div>
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Bobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00281879570975634257noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7672445974485562573.post-82468352278559764392016-03-02T16:23:00.001-08:002016-03-07T13:42:43.506-08:0010 Years of Oregon Volks Camps - 2006 and the Beginning<div style="text-align: center;">
It all started with Colin and the Itinerant Air Cooled.</div>
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<a href="http://www.itinerant-air-cooled.com/">www.itinerant-air-cooled.com</a></div>
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<i>Colin Bob and Eva 2010</i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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Well, it actually started with the Samba, a website famous to air cooled Volkswagen owners.</div>
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<a href="http://www.thesamba.com/vw">www.thesamba.com/vw</a></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Likeminded Bus Pilots met and mingled on the Bay Window Bus forum, exchanging stories and helping with repairs. That is until the <i><b>Great Stinkfoot Rebellion</b></i> of August, 2006,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
and the IAC was born, an equal part technical forum and VW community.</div>
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It was also the voice of a particular travelling VW consultant.</div>
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<i>Colin confuses Neal, who confuses Colin in return 2008</i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Colin began travelling the country, teaching VW owners to stand on their own two feet.</div>
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His guidance has been invaluable over the years - giving many the confidence to make these air cooled cars part of life and the journey onward.</div>
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<i>Portland 2008, all I wanted was to check the oil</i></div>
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<i>Eva Bob Colin 2010, always on the go</i></div>
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It also started with the <b><i>Trail Advocates of the Clackamas.</i></b></div>
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<a href="http://www.trailadvocate.org/">http://www.trailadvocate.org/</a></div>
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Born from the mind of another mad genius, Donovan, who grew up in the Clackamas side of the Old Cascades. No one knows the incredible history of the Mt. Hood National Forest like Donovan. Without his guidance and willingness to share history, old maps, and trailcraft knowledge, many would not have the drive or instinct to seek these relics in the woods.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaVJYEWlZAB7ADK-whqIobnJZX7dnYvB9N8vMbioOCairrPh1lYP6PrlpwhUbetWjXb4jkzPUfPtN6YsnIF2YQk3POzkkS95MV229RGWjmAUx8OC70Tt3imTz5rUvp4Vue-aYxkwe0xes/s1600/IMG_1516.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaVJYEWlZAB7ADK-whqIobnJZX7dnYvB9N8vMbioOCairrPh1lYP6PrlpwhUbetWjXb4jkzPUfPtN6YsnIF2YQk3POzkkS95MV229RGWjmAUx8OC70Tt3imTz5rUvp4Vue-aYxkwe0xes/s640/IMG_1516.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<i>Donovan at Mill Creek Wilderness 2008</i></div>
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Of course, every journey has it's beginning - but often it's just a continuation of a <i>previous </i>one.</div>
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When does it begin? When does that gestation of an idea start that takes over your life?</div>
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<i>My 1973 Beetle "Prairie Rocket" camping in Galena, IL 1995</i></div>
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I came to the Northwest almost 20 years ago now, it's hard to believe.</div>
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Chicago seems a dream, from long ago. What was I doing there, a land without forests?</div>
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I still miss it, but I did not belong.</div>
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So we got the hell out of there.</div>
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<i>Eva's First Camp at 2 months old. August 2004 Eva Bob Terian </i></div>
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<i>Middle Santiam Wilderness</i></div>
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Those first few years were like heaven. Growing up on the asphalt, dreaming of the prairie where only the wind still blew, I fell deeply in love with the Oregon wild. I got to know ancient forests, and clearcuts.</div>
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Eric was in Chicago, driving a taxi and missing the wild. Every few months he'd fly out and we would explore the wilderness somewhere.</div>
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<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">2006</span></b></div>
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<i>Eric at Wychus AKA Squaw Creek </i></div>
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<i>Portland stinky after a trip</i></div>
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<i>Eric at Rho Creek 2006 crabby with a bad back</i></div>
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<i>Eric and Bill and lot of delicious beer May 2006 it was cheaper then</i></div>
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<i>Bill 2006 Tumble Creek</i></div>
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Eric even sent me money to buy him a Bus.</div>
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Eventually he came and picked it up a couple of years later.</div>
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As my first <a href="http://www.pdxvolksfolks.blogspot.com/">Portland Volks Folks</a> customer before there even was such a thing, we got his Bus running well enough for the Oregon wilderness and his journey back to Illinois. I didn't know it at the time, but our camping days together were over.<br />
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<i>Eric 2005 Wygant St. Portland</i></div>
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<i>first drive summer 2006 at Estacada</i></div>
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<i>Eric literally on the Abbot Road 2006</i></div>
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<i>do you know this spot?</i></div>
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<i>High Rock 2006</i></div>
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<i>Terian and Eva, Eric's Bus and Mama Bus, Olallie Lake August 2006</i></div>
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Due to a madness of my own, I can never get enough wilderness. It became clear that a VW camper was the perfect vehicle for these forays - durable, well built and easy to fix. "Easy peezy".</div>
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<i>Bob at Badger Creek Wilderness, saved from a snowdrift by frayed tire chains March 2006</i></div>
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<i>Ken at Badger Creek March 2006</i></div>
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Meanwhile, the IAC community began to grow. Sharing an independent spirit, like-minded souls who love being out in nature with their vintage contraptions.</div>
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I asked Colin to begin a <a href="http://www.itinerant-air-cooled.com/viewforum.php?f=55">Camping Section</a> of the Itinerant Air Cooled forum.</div>
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10 years later, we are still at it, and many of the same people are involved, guys and women who have become best friends and family, mentors and even strangers who come and go never to be seen again. Good friends come and go, and yet the mountains remain the same, the forest their only constant. We see kids grow and sprout, and salt and pepper turn surely gray.</div>
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I wanted to do something special, to say <i>thank you</i> to all of the friends who have made these camps possible. I want this <b>series of 10 years</b> to be a tribute to all of you.</div>
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I have spent many days going through dusty archives, sorting thousands of photographs to find the best of the past 10 years. It hasn't been an easy task, but I hope you enjoy these photos - many that haven't been seen before. Some are serious, others candid or will even make you laugh out loud. A few are from the "reject" pile, underexposed or otherwise not perfect. But through the lens of time and a life lived, these imperfections seem less important. </div>
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Our camps have always been more than just beer in the woods - they represent an ideal of stewardship and bringing a sense of history and repair to many sacred yet often abused places.</div>
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And again, thanks to all of the Bus Pilots - you who make life worth living.</div>
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Before the IAC, we met informally at the Lucky Lab Pub, to drink beer and talk greasy.</div>
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It wouldn't take long before Bus Camps were born.</div>
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<i>Troy and pooch</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisSqYR9J0zia53QFbkadhRoC29DAMW5x7_3EyCOUBanAWS42x4rqFsW029hKdCGJB6i1ZHGvLYx5xUZ8xjRWi6ZAMyVe9JcIxs7RXW_YMRdrTUsFxFK9KKF054tA658_uTMWz5GxFV7t4/s1600/IMG_1224ps.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisSqYR9J0zia53QFbkadhRoC29DAMW5x7_3EyCOUBanAWS42x4rqFsW029hKdCGJB6i1ZHGvLYx5xUZ8xjRWi6ZAMyVe9JcIxs7RXW_YMRdrTUsFxFK9KKF054tA658_uTMWz5GxFV7t4/s640/IMG_1224ps.jpg" width="568" /></a></div>
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<i>Hal gestures madly to Mary</i></div>
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<i>Jasan Paige Marc</i></div>
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2006 was also the same year Mark began hosting the Deschutes River RendezVW Campout.</div>
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<a href="http://www.deschutesriveroasis.com/camping.html">http://www.deschutesriveroasis.com/camping.html</a></div>
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Who is this guy Mark? Who are you crazy bearded people?</div>
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Do I dare going all the way to Maupin with you? Oh geez.</div>
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<i>Hal in the window, Mary in the distance June 2006 on the way to Maupin</i></div>
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<i>Neal Hal and Bob's Buses 1st ever Deschutes VW 2006</i></div>
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<i>Eva at 2 years old, first solo camp with Papa, Maupin 2006</i></div>
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We liked it. Mark was OK and not too crazy.<br />
Nice guys too, even that crazy Gypsie screaming in the dark, who I also meet by chance and turned out to be a lifelong friend. I met Hal and Jasan and Neal, foxhole friends forever truly.</div>
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<i>Terian at the first Hambone Camp, July 2006</i></div>
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By November, we were in the woods, camping in the rain and giant trees. I was hooked and donefor.</div>
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<i>Jasan and Mike, Collawash River Camp - the very first IAC Oregon Volks Camp Nov 2006</i></div>
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<i>"Spiffy" Mike Nov 2006 Collawash Camp</i></div>
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Next: (wait for it......)</div>
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<b>2007 the year it really began, again. This time.</b></div>
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Bobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00281879570975634257noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7672445974485562573.post-58773856381953726202016-02-22T17:10:00.000-08:002016-02-22T17:18:39.920-08:00The Strange Case of Pasola<div style="text-align: center;">
Pasola Mountain, that is.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNSwQ6Fv8BxPz36meaLuyp_95bkVH398KdgqafA6g2xsBCRqwymrIPy1-cl0ekm-_gxfgOyzT40sandtfhwj9ognigICx2EQc5OxGFUNG84moLn0Ul_nGgXsia0lpdOALdrpA_ebZikxU/s1600/IMG_1708.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNSwQ6Fv8BxPz36meaLuyp_95bkVH398KdgqafA6g2xsBCRqwymrIPy1-cl0ekm-_gxfgOyzT40sandtfhwj9ognigICx2EQc5OxGFUNG84moLn0Ul_nGgXsia0lpdOALdrpA_ebZikxU/s640/IMG_1708.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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I was interested in Pasola for quite a few years. It is remote, on the edge of the Bull of the Woods Wilderness, and was once along a first-class 1920s Forest Service trail.</div>
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For years I studied maps and dreamed about the place. What could be there? </div>
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Why the strange Italian name? What could it mean?</div>
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<b><i><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "open sans" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.996px; line-height: 18.1944px;">Age of Pasola:</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'Open Sans', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12.996px; line-height: 18.1944px; text-align: start;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "open sans" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.996px; line-height: 18.1944px;">Late Miocene</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'Open Sans', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12.996px; line-height: 18.1944px; text-align: start;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "open sans" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.996px; line-height: 18.1944px;">From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'Open Sans', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12.996px; line-height: 18.1944px; text-align: start;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "open sans" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.996px; line-height: 18.1944px;">The Late Miocene (also known as Upper Miocene) is a sub-epoch of the Miocene Epoch made up of two stages. The Tortonian and Messinian stages comprise the Late Miocene sub-epoch.</span></i></b></div>
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No, not that one.</div>
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<b><i><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "open sans" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.996px; line-height: 18.1944px;">Pasola: The Blood Sport of Sumba</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'Open Sans', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12.996px; line-height: 18.1944px; text-align: start;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "open sans" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.996px; line-height: 18.1944px;">Every year the clans of Sumba face off in one of mankind's most ancient and violent rituals: ceremonial battles on horseback that often have very real consequences. They say it's not a Pasola until there's blood on the field.</span></i></b></div>
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No, probably not that one either.</div>
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Mr. Rondthaller, an early Forest Service employee had the following to say about the trail:</div>
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<i>Can you imagine such a wilderness? Only in dreams...</i></div>
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<i>(courtesy of Rob Williams)</i></div>
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As the article says, 3 miles of "this magnificent" 550 Trail still exists,</div>
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"the rest replaced with logging roads".</div>
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True, it is quite striking to see - on the edge of a vast and ancient place, untouched, is the typical sea of snaking roads and the scars of multiple clearcuts.</div>
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In the 1950s, the entire area was wilderness, all the mountains and valleys, everything.</div>
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It is difficult to imagine.</div>
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What does this old trail log have to say?</div>
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<i>(circa 1950s)</i></div>
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<i>Dean Rusmussen and Richard Van Doren, Beavercreek OR</i></div>
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<i>(courtesy of Rob Williams)</i></div>
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<i>Pasola Mountain Camp? That sounds promising</i></div>
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After 50 years, it can be challenging to find anything at all. Knowing this, the imagination still runs wild, picturing an untouched landscape.</div>
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Maybe these books are still accurate. After all, it's in print...</div>
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All of these roads and clearcuts...is anything left at all? Why is this always the Oregon story?</div>
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After careful study and nervous driving down jarring roads, Pasola Camp seems to be found - at the very edge of clearcuts and down the thin crumbling finger of yet another logging road. A tiny forest is already reclaiming the center strip, </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO_M6_h6U8_NMukU_gtiDeNdGX3bDiJr2MVkCPglrn6YPnYiCWe3QWBoCmc8pzxsacznsqlJpnBV2pLUjFCY_wAjrzXN5PhdeIkKkun-QtRyfqUy7-ixmsj9dSWtmpSWnxjit2w7xryNA/s1600/IMG_1824ps.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="297" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO_M6_h6U8_NMukU_gtiDeNdGX3bDiJr2MVkCPglrn6YPnYiCWe3QWBoCmc8pzxsacznsqlJpnBV2pLUjFCY_wAjrzXN5PhdeIkKkun-QtRyfqUy7-ixmsj9dSWtmpSWnxjit2w7xryNA/s400/IMG_1824ps.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwKWdd1nB8jikUEksAkiIGfl0LbCHvDNGAXvrSC0EfJ1bFAWCN34-dmEFVKgk-5tCbo_hsUK0yqrp1-RhOHI4-bEnNWd7C1qQeypo3Vv-bwL-jvD0lmofg1Z32enJ7E1GUlhdVMzVnxLk/s1600/s5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwKWdd1nB8jikUEksAkiIGfl0LbCHvDNGAXvrSC0EfJ1bFAWCN34-dmEFVKgk-5tCbo_hsUK0yqrp1-RhOHI4-bEnNWd7C1qQeypo3Vv-bwL-jvD0lmofg1Z32enJ7E1GUlhdVMzVnxLk/s640/s5.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<i>Pasola Camp</i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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A bubbling spring nearby could care less about clearcuts, forests, me, anything. There are millions of blooming lupines carpeting everything, and the dark forest of ancient stands nearby, in stark contrast to the ripped up mountainside. It is weird to be on the dividing line between these opposite realities, freshly wrecked versus eternally stable, Nature's Way against the Hand of Man.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFT44OfdV2s-J1KZ4RThuqKjGf9ShGvE8VfCwPGWdYl33ZAE7S1Z5m_zIt9GSGHnFjV1uW7EW2edwWGmbHXrZxi0-SokU4YdcCQ1TMZ7kzFGvL1878zrSmec85JFHeVo4D45YFlpA4MwY/s1600/IMG_1890.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFT44OfdV2s-J1KZ4RThuqKjGf9ShGvE8VfCwPGWdYl33ZAE7S1Z5m_zIt9GSGHnFjV1uW7EW2edwWGmbHXrZxi0-SokU4YdcCQ1TMZ7kzFGvL1878zrSmec85JFHeVo4D45YFlpA4MwY/s640/IMG_1890.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<i>Pasola Springs</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnZoGS_7dRWkke3AKYUshvB_tUZ3aoMhfxvUYnDGpTaGBOsWOvql20DYAu3fsS8lIk5mkgnvY-c79ktcFZ-wXKmrPbBjhAJEAecfeX7PWYFiZOeM8Jjtb-VJND6dEr9B_dlsS11C3v4Y4/s1600/IMG_1889.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnZoGS_7dRWkke3AKYUshvB_tUZ3aoMhfxvUYnDGpTaGBOsWOvql20DYAu3fsS8lIk5mkgnvY-c79ktcFZ-wXKmrPbBjhAJEAecfeX7PWYFiZOeM8Jjtb-VJND6dEr9B_dlsS11C3v4Y4/s400/IMG_1889.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i>Lupinis </i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGlfKBWpfL0tXC2b6QVN9GkGsedvo4gfqKkpGbUuDBjTRfj5pg1-1Z4Gh10en31akS5uwCVjyvPmAbGHw1VKFPOuncpwEo21GreWRPQDria2yTMtETO3o_IHbYxK3UdUii91oeEDJtzW4/s1600/s6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="322" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGlfKBWpfL0tXC2b6QVN9GkGsedvo4gfqKkpGbUuDBjTRfj5pg1-1Z4Gh10en31akS5uwCVjyvPmAbGHw1VKFPOuncpwEo21GreWRPQDria2yTMtETO3o_IHbYxK3UdUii91oeEDJtzW4/s640/s6.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<i>too big for the camera</i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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It is a strange place, horrifying and lovely. Even this modern mess of a road to Pasola Camp is set to be decommissioned, and the mountains will be quiet again, for a while.</div>
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What's on top of Pasola? Pre-European trails? Piles of skulls? No one has been up there for 100 years I'm quite sure.</div>
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Well, not quite.</div>
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In reality, I find the ancient forests of Pasola are littered and cris-crossed with survey marks, survey flagging, blazed trees to mark former wilderness boundaries, flags and signs to mark the new wilderness boundaries...it seems like thousands of people bothered this edge of absolutely nowhere -and up a high peak to even more nowhere.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8RrBr58Eyp9Nzqlek-sZ6lypkIEYAfk8ALpiyc6T8C0JQuNoY_Y1Jtog7Q29bu7XasDHtc9rhSYtwKheRJqokclP59BdTnxxgIjz-NZp9PjJXkN6QSQTIu-iURIdKTJUO0hAzd4l7UZw/s1600/IMG_1690ps.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8RrBr58Eyp9Nzqlek-sZ6lypkIEYAfk8ALpiyc6T8C0JQuNoY_Y1Jtog7Q29bu7XasDHtc9rhSYtwKheRJqokclP59BdTnxxgIjz-NZp9PjJXkN6QSQTIu-iURIdKTJUO0hAzd4l7UZw/s320/IMG_1690ps.jpg" width="224" /></a></div>
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<i>boundary blazes</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeIvljYjt95R029muNyZ81_9hLPYRzaarGiuU_puFx8M6O7DuMWdfIBhmzxA3svZut4fYF8aibvJBjuE5ue-zF6TtqIJrVKrn6xQkWTFk18rbsLX5B8cKwHdnO28O5XtZSVwmlSLKeeSs/s1600/IMG_1704.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeIvljYjt95R029muNyZ81_9hLPYRzaarGiuU_puFx8M6O7DuMWdfIBhmzxA3svZut4fYF8aibvJBjuE5ue-zF6TtqIJrVKrn6xQkWTFk18rbsLX5B8cKwHdnO28O5XtZSVwmlSLKeeSs/s400/IMG_1704.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i>one of many, many wilderness signs</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYqFbAmAxPh4UmMY3XqrcJtjbzFOeZ0AsGosePW6ljAVDyiSximphrF2F9Lds0t7IQZD_3-W8qkeDX5LQ0FoGX6PSfuTDd9839Id7uK6K86dRyXaGzkFKiNkvRnP5NCZN_FkDK0DJoVE4/s1600/IMG_1734.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYqFbAmAxPh4UmMY3XqrcJtjbzFOeZ0AsGosePW6ljAVDyiSximphrF2F9Lds0t7IQZD_3-W8qkeDX5LQ0FoGX6PSfuTDd9839Id7uK6K86dRyXaGzkFKiNkvRnP5NCZN_FkDK0DJoVE4/s640/IMG_1734.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<i>Top of Pasola Mtn.</i></div>
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It is still lovely, and very quiet. As the summer temperatures continue to rocket beyond normal, the old forest is cool, thick with green, timeless.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhykbL-mhVvKYv-AZdoiDRkE2eHFP8EMSNY_ieA-Ztexl1rXrxJYg6it_QN_mijm6HAh521vjBiqYgiqGoHotnnHoVdIAH3pFNzIbyghhrz_7SbVGY6rx9wTyO7bVSbe8CYrB2cp5fo9U/s1600/IMG_1728.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhykbL-mhVvKYv-AZdoiDRkE2eHFP8EMSNY_ieA-Ztexl1rXrxJYg6it_QN_mijm6HAh521vjBiqYgiqGoHotnnHoVdIAH3pFNzIbyghhrz_7SbVGY6rx9wTyO7bVSbe8CYrB2cp5fo9U/s400/IMG_1728.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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The contrast between light and dark is striking and dramatic; dancing beams of light filter, flicker.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGUt965Qxfb5ErVJso8JlKW2nhy-4ENUSoVOQj4N6dTh1uR6NwiKPViz_agldU7-99Y35Y48mH-6EaXdWWURSsBZdWa6lEEs3r0U8BQMnYJJr4ZegwhF1ILevZBHlpbTbp907OTkMuNos/s1600/IMG_1735.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGUt965Qxfb5ErVJso8JlKW2nhy-4ENUSoVOQj4N6dTh1uR6NwiKPViz_agldU7-99Y35Y48mH-6EaXdWWURSsBZdWa6lEEs3r0U8BQMnYJJr4ZegwhF1ILevZBHlpbTbp907OTkMuNos/s400/IMG_1735.JPG" width="300" /></a></div>
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<i>through a crack in boulders</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1cnf400IZxJVw8LASEskSRxWuLGltLESypwoHKqBQQ-ZHc7TF9XEcj8_X3dcB9mxpWUNo52ScnqSLFTapx0PcD1TCayDF9ET_NRlv9e86zeNQSd1pMOyNr2MJwsGndKgsyrQRt6QdEu4/s1600/IMG_1731.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1cnf400IZxJVw8LASEskSRxWuLGltLESypwoHKqBQQ-ZHc7TF9XEcj8_X3dcB9mxpWUNo52ScnqSLFTapx0PcD1TCayDF9ET_NRlv9e86zeNQSd1pMOyNr2MJwsGndKgsyrQRt6QdEu4/s640/IMG_1731.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<i>a hole in a snag</i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_GvTk72JBTyBZ_1F8XA4deJpLktGLtZbWZPOwwhuhyphenhyphenikyzmmiTxO7X5KBbQyZysFCx8V41chfvipDCOgJRhAIjDgHk6lj_1QPHpqTXqKwZOzEbevSVj_8vMmaOnyeS59AUBX4HoA0Cfg/s1600/IMG_1743.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_GvTk72JBTyBZ_1F8XA4deJpLktGLtZbWZPOwwhuhyphenhyphenikyzmmiTxO7X5KBbQyZysFCx8V41chfvipDCOgJRhAIjDgHk6lj_1QPHpqTXqKwZOzEbevSVj_8vMmaOnyeS59AUBX4HoA0Cfg/s640/IMG_1743.JPG" width="480" /></a></div>
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As the temperatures continue to climb, a fire smolders nearby in the Wilderness. The smoke hangs low in the Collawash Valley like winter fog. The biting flies are gigantic and encouraged by the baked and denuded slopes, fueled by the sun and vicious. </div>
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As the sun sinks, the flies go to sleep, or wherever the hell flies go after dark. Maybe tiny taverns.</div>
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And the sky sings and sets like an Angel all-star band:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1IIODtepnPnWmpfEhC0LcrnHRCLyF-RoOiifwwG-JEzKE2zZsWGUKMx6gjyOAVHvteHtYGP4ZoKJe8DA2mWAmvm_ple53GBWEzuH-kzcEUQtIE-8fhQTsnVOoVbftE42LVg6kb3efPpI/s1600/IMG_1748ps.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="474" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1IIODtepnPnWmpfEhC0LcrnHRCLyF-RoOiifwwG-JEzKE2zZsWGUKMx6gjyOAVHvteHtYGP4ZoKJe8DA2mWAmvm_ple53GBWEzuH-kzcEUQtIE-8fhQTsnVOoVbftE42LVg6kb3efPpI/s640/IMG_1748ps.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<i>rainbow clouds!</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHXynYkroSCoQ7GOD4crxTvDN8yLUwlO8qOOVkLtCraJCD6KXkgkJUEixZ9_fg0VQsiCFGDlnCWUZoPNFeegbaHwhof5m3lOOaBb2s-bsl4n0ZJK-Lctrjg6-2av-H2sVw53i7uFY1ej8/s1600/IMG_1751.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHXynYkroSCoQ7GOD4crxTvDN8yLUwlO8qOOVkLtCraJCD6KXkgkJUEixZ9_fg0VQsiCFGDlnCWUZoPNFeegbaHwhof5m3lOOaBb2s-bsl4n0ZJK-Lctrjg6-2av-H2sVw53i7uFY1ej8/s400/IMG_1751.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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Incredible timeless nights, sweet breezes between the stars bring mornings fresh bright and new.</div>
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<i>home for a week, cabin on wheels</i></div>
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What became of the old 550 Trail? It was first-class back in its day, and was even strung with phone line to the lookout. Many mule trains passed this spot, lugging months of supplies to the Forest Guard, perched in his station so remote for the summer.</div>
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<i>Bull of the Woods Lookout in better days</i></div>
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50 years is a long time. In fact, it is too long for this trail.</div>
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Logging the steep slopes of Pasola has caused an increase of erosion. The delicate slope near Pasola Camp is slowly rolling down to the sea, eventually. The trail bench has crumbled as well, below a mess of giant fallen trees.</div>
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Again in the deep woods the trail picks up again. It is very difficult to locate - survey blazes and a thick jungle have obliterated a lot of history.</div>
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Other than a couple of faint trail blazes, it is all but gone.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2pGgKIMTWUxutKdNE5yyBRlrhJ0VeY0N0eBhsOm5AlfIABBv1RRQZOtNcXqUpFJSw6D8uwUtNGrPY60EpQCQXO2ep9dXF_UzQB2iVUcs0FraoLxhaiW-dVtoXY8BLNSDw9aTB2ljuonw/s1600/IMG_1831.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2pGgKIMTWUxutKdNE5yyBRlrhJ0VeY0N0eBhsOm5AlfIABBv1RRQZOtNcXqUpFJSw6D8uwUtNGrPY60EpQCQXO2ep9dXF_UzQB2iVUcs0FraoLxhaiW-dVtoXY8BLNSDw9aTB2ljuonw/s640/IMG_1831.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<i>550 Trail, just a gigantic mess now</i></div>
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<i>once a carrier of messages to Bull of the Woods, now only silent</i></div>
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<i>Gone.</i></div>
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Time has swallowed this old route whole. In less than 100 years, the forest has obliterated most traces of it. I am disappointed, my imagination predicted a different outcome. </div>
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But the forest crackles with infinity; it could care less. </div>
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Back at camp, the skies crack open and drench all creation. </div>
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It cools everything down, and the flies go away. I strip and dance around like a maniac in the wet dusky twilight. It is like being born again.</div>
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The thick clouds lift after dropping their burdens, fog gives birth to tomorrow's generation, gestating again in deep valleys, draped with sodden trees, lichen star points jiggling rubbery in soft winds.</div>
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Another firework evening, nature's candy. It rolls on endlessly, without struggle, although we sure have our fair share. It appears as love itself in the skies, stunning and yet completely indifferent. And I love it back, just the same.</div>
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<i><b>"Life is a thump-ripe melon: so sweet and such a mess"</b></i></div>
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<b>-Greg Brown</b></div>
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Bobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00281879570975634257noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7672445974485562573.post-80316896424160688382016-02-19T20:58:00.001-08:002016-02-29T12:39:17.489-08:00The Accidental Packet<div style="text-align: center;">
Serendipity often arrives by the mail.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_VqUJen16k806pk5XlAxLbogTJqHTKQcLPtUsX9qQyDg6QTFmnqnSDY6H9GC_90wYzByoQY5xjY6v0uu_4dV_J1oCVDleI3NxBi-fc5dwSfIBfrRU7jyOq7lPE-vmTbGuSXRajC0rE9Q/s1600/img416.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="251" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_VqUJen16k806pk5XlAxLbogTJqHTKQcLPtUsX9qQyDg6QTFmnqnSDY6H9GC_90wYzByoQY5xjY6v0uu_4dV_J1oCVDleI3NxBi-fc5dwSfIBfrRU7jyOq7lPE-vmTbGuSXRajC0rE9Q/s400/img416.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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A little while back I acquired this old battered envelope from a family in Wisconsin. </div>
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I was somewhat interested in the maps - they were clean 1963 Mt. Hood National Forest maps (both north and south halves!), completely common despite their vintage heritage. The Forest Service must have printed a gazillion of the things. Well they were cheap, so I bought them.</div>
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Much to my surprise, they contained quite a bit of history, all relevant to my many lives intertwined over the years. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6MRkzWuRtNCsfcaRm9y6G2AEqM26bVVcQiANWsX_ATy10Nn5Ry3q81QFMa0gcB6oI-rp3NPLmc3Wuaoznp8OhhjNms2fM518uZ8WX2HIKaOZFb6smZ_W4BeCZk0t85uX1Ba13hfrPqCg/s1600/elgin+tower.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6MRkzWuRtNCsfcaRm9y6G2AEqM26bVVcQiANWsX_ATy10Nn5Ry3q81QFMa0gcB6oI-rp3NPLmc3Wuaoznp8OhhjNms2fM518uZ8WX2HIKaOZFb6smZ_W4BeCZk0t85uX1Ba13hfrPqCg/s320/elgin+tower.jpg" width="219" /></a></div>
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art deco <i>Elgin Tower Building</i></div>
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Elgin, Illinois is a long way from the Cascades; geographically culturally it doesn't matter. It would not surprise me that many of the vintage artifacts that litter wild Oregon had their origin there, nails, lookout hinges, compasses who knows.</div>
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When I was a kid, I thrilled at my first solo forages into Elgin, riding the <i>Milwaukee Road</i> to the end of the line, where the conductors never charged me.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ1DLX59l7vvDCbqUCTUQeMOz4X-7hAoqIUjnLATwj-Bgar39IOR6_Dq2BnbvW9L-4X9KZZJiXDhQCkUkWtitCWCdU9EBPg3jkZqaGfmQ_gJjS01_DSiT3-21djgkXy9r8oS6Rw7yYYkc/s1600/740223.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="318" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ1DLX59l7vvDCbqUCTUQeMOz4X-7hAoqIUjnLATwj-Bgar39IOR6_Dq2BnbvW9L-4X9KZZJiXDhQCkUkWtitCWCdU9EBPg3jkZqaGfmQ_gJjS01_DSiT3-21djgkXy9r8oS6Rw7yYYkc/s400/740223.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i>1974 end of the line</i> - <a href="http://www.chasingheavymetal.com/blog/?page_id=198">From Chasing Heavy Metal</a></div>
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I have always been fond of Elgin. Lots of history and the beautiful Fox River. The terminus of the <i>Chicago Aurora and Elgin</i> interurban railroad, now just a Prairie Path, electric in the weeds.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUBeI5-A3rtvll0kZVjJ1x8m_4_P1s0YZJqK6eZz6PhUL53QEScfK9Ai6Mc6lR4auWcpZjbz1rZWUTOQEBpfIA57iIH2mSsW7OEmcwkdyM59v0qk-YJgJK6x-DaRR4JK1D5GykCpEaoYs/s1600/cae+elgin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUBeI5-A3rtvll0kZVjJ1x8m_4_P1s0YZJqK6eZz6PhUL53QEScfK9Ai6Mc6lR4auWcpZjbz1rZWUTOQEBpfIA57iIH2mSsW7OEmcwkdyM59v0qk-YJgJK6x-DaRR4JK1D5GykCpEaoYs/s400/cae+elgin.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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But that was a long time ago, before I went feral and lost myself in Oregon. After years of blood by thorns of <i>devil's club</i>, busted ankles from buried stumps in the ferns, hypothermic chills and endless rain, it is a brutal baptism. Those that have been through it are changed forever.</div>
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Well, Egin, Illinois, home of the famous watch company. Let's see what's in there.</div>
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A letter from a Mr. Kenneth Lobbig:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikGIiCVenC9FMr_C58IeU6o6YPREesrUrX6p3h5nWhEi0p3Gii2rWCiF1rxbp7BwMB0MFW5QR3EkMuiBt2tD4gieYb1qL8ClCQBTw1n4NEU2-_8kRumP2DHQcmM5d3NUzsyTYqIDMWJoc/s1600/img414.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikGIiCVenC9FMr_C58IeU6o6YPREesrUrX6p3h5nWhEi0p3Gii2rWCiF1rxbp7BwMB0MFW5QR3EkMuiBt2tD4gieYb1qL8ClCQBTw1n4NEU2-_8kRumP2DHQcmM5d3NUzsyTYqIDMWJoc/s640/img414.jpg" width="464" /></a></div>
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The story gets more remarkable. I know these places very well, and this man lived them, years before they became abandoned footings in the weeds.</div>
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<i>North Fork GS and Oak Grove RS 1935</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYgbCxZKGv5GhsPqDnoGa7YpXdbiM8HejmmNR73ebvPgrMzb7JrCpXgV8Vk_1u3lQGuFWYUwDrxKQRisu19p8iYNmh3ozbQascW7bIDEWYBkH23XS848a0xeX19L2B1eAN6vec8DXVlzE/s1600/n.+fork+35.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="242" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYgbCxZKGv5GhsPqDnoGa7YpXdbiM8HejmmNR73ebvPgrMzb7JrCpXgV8Vk_1u3lQGuFWYUwDrxKQRisu19p8iYNmh3ozbQascW7bIDEWYBkH23XS848a0xeX19L2B1eAN6vec8DXVlzE/s320/n.+fork+35.PNG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i>CCC Camp 1 1/2 </i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbjDOTj8SRDf4ClrkzSshEn6jUNJV_dE_8Drva6VHeLa5cYd3BoeHnSjU4cnRal_hugvB9iiCUqlJAAapVx39QVVSvjYDyh65meSLA77KkF7vELBhBA9kfqPk-haQFv6zuyBrNY0MGgCc/s1600/oak+grove+35.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="253" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbjDOTj8SRDf4ClrkzSshEn6jUNJV_dE_8Drva6VHeLa5cYd3BoeHnSjU4cnRal_hugvB9iiCUqlJAAapVx39QVVSvjYDyh65meSLA77KkF7vELBhBA9kfqPk-haQFv6zuyBrNY0MGgCc/s320/oak+grove+35.PNG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i>CCC Camp Rag City</i></div>
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In their usual terse tone, but written with the eloquent cursive pen of the day, is the US Forest Service Reply, written on the back of his letter and returned to Elgin, another long trip from Portland.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxhiqNxNVs4-sEP8L0G4WY2TFOPYfyPPdVr9mEA0tN5McZODC2ZwyUF4RJa1XU44xR3bHa-TdEzYRNslJheDMZ1ta4KfiFSYFJG8T1THlPYDzhPcGuuaHA1wad-cGciixWvuIOdhyynOE/s1600/img415.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxhiqNxNVs4-sEP8L0G4WY2TFOPYfyPPdVr9mEA0tN5McZODC2ZwyUF4RJa1XU44xR3bHa-TdEzYRNslJheDMZ1ta4KfiFSYFJG8T1THlPYDzhPcGuuaHA1wad-cGciixWvuIOdhyynOE/s640/img415.jpg" width="464" /></a></div>
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"Call us when you get here"</div>
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Well Mr. Lobbig, if I were around in 1967 I would have delighted in your tales of the early Depression Clackamas, the gilded Forest Service age of conservation and white enamel signs.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb1qhxLbQubpBrb0NWH_kOEfgWb6cuMQFMXiBSRhChp8169vJ7eAwnQ5LJSLQmjtT_yUxWfIIjuD0ch800tQuhwooU2TFBbZYQaju-o-1iGNDYaXSnSV14gnOWXIL5hTkhgTAXObLbZAY/s1600/4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="324" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb1qhxLbQubpBrb0NWH_kOEfgWb6cuMQFMXiBSRhChp8169vJ7eAwnQ5LJSLQmjtT_yUxWfIIjuD0ch800tQuhwooU2TFBbZYQaju-o-1iGNDYaXSnSV14gnOWXIL5hTkhgTAXObLbZAY/s640/4.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Even by the late 1960s this was a ruthless, cold and efficient Forest Service, building many destructive roads into fragile ancient valleys and logging the hell out of them - right to the riverbank. A lot of old timers were pissed off to lose those fragile temples of summer memory, back lit and golden, spendid in the late sun and now a clearcut mess. The old guard was retiring, nobody needed a diamond hitch anymore.</div>
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What else is in this envelope? 20 bucks from the 60s? No.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTMJWJ46_kn17p3wuw5MBWyW33R9VK_o5YHWRajk55FPnc0eNqLTg21bcS5u9Vjwy5O_154ZuepHE2jBwO4bQB6cmf2-6noPkLQRmYoWLfoi57fMUYVS4eQj1uHL6gnCDcEUzYah20hyo/s1600/img427.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTMJWJ46_kn17p3wuw5MBWyW33R9VK_o5YHWRajk55FPnc0eNqLTg21bcS5u9Vjwy5O_154ZuepHE2jBwO4bQB6cmf2-6noPkLQRmYoWLfoi57fMUYVS4eQj1uHL6gnCDcEUzYah20hyo/s640/img427.jpg" width="490" /></a></div>
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<i>1964 PNW Forests</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWuCVIb0B_8fKtgHlYrX4AWuGcNdZWawe-Wu9qJtESnvdfRH-eM94k1TS28-JtBJhDHRUidapHvYrBbssIvVqbLdIgSSyb6_UERhjRb_2RdlGh5ITVNVyrKgaXSInpWyU-DheN79kDiWo/s1600/img419.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="412" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWuCVIb0B_8fKtgHlYrX4AWuGcNdZWawe-Wu9qJtESnvdfRH-eM94k1TS28-JtBJhDHRUidapHvYrBbssIvVqbLdIgSSyb6_UERhjRb_2RdlGh5ITVNVyrKgaXSInpWyU-DheN79kDiWo/s640/img419.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<i>ok then</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_xejLvzYeyW_FlkC7E0azoSOjruXg7_trZ8YlLeKl2grorFdogVn8ivqRRA6YiuEaXNpll8csBIqBPaflSgpZJSFWfspiLVOztzTKe9BiCJDWo8D03jiq0Er5NFY9fu5lYVrfGSfK88c/s1600/img417.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_xejLvzYeyW_FlkC7E0azoSOjruXg7_trZ8YlLeKl2grorFdogVn8ivqRRA6YiuEaXNpll8csBIqBPaflSgpZJSFWfspiLVOztzTKe9BiCJDWo8D03jiq0Er5NFY9fu5lYVrfGSfK88c/s640/img417.jpg" width="424" /></a></div>
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Of course way out of date - facilities change a lot in almost 50 years. Well, unfortunately for the Mt. Hood NF, many of the campgrounds, roads, trails, and public sites have been abandoned or destroyed - <i>on purpose</i>. It seems the NW Oregon national forests lack the budget for campgrounds. Many of my favorite camps are "camps no more". I will leave this irony up to the reader.</div>
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The following pages are the entries for Mt Hood:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0rc4BwiAOALlIDHBApSpngm0li1RztOV26iU0GWmKQcWO05uZpUr-28YjUdIHzRawC9Atn0d7rtV2xNmnKfiNNmsKN4wtuJiWR0GpDXLnp_5jBg6qpuqbYH0l40sl24CB9XGNCrpE59M/s1600/img424.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="492" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0rc4BwiAOALlIDHBApSpngm0li1RztOV26iU0GWmKQcWO05uZpUr-28YjUdIHzRawC9Atn0d7rtV2xNmnKfiNNmsKN4wtuJiWR0GpDXLnp_5jBg6qpuqbYH0l40sl24CB9XGNCrpE59M/s640/img424.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_EgVv-UzYNfJXfAkw_v6NBa1kdUr_jZ-0gf6SAME6CUhXR-bLIU-i41qpB-ERRA9huf2w7Bdm2umMtDOUAPd_HapG02M03Y2f8g_fco9W82UvMUT7KaC9dWmjOqMFaj_RlKv-yz4kb3M/s1600/img425.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="490" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_EgVv-UzYNfJXfAkw_v6NBa1kdUr_jZ-0gf6SAME6CUhXR-bLIU-i41qpB-ERRA9huf2w7Bdm2umMtDOUAPd_HapG02M03Y2f8g_fco9W82UvMUT7KaC9dWmjOqMFaj_RlKv-yz4kb3M/s640/img425.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgXpQPv2Yc10IJUKj09sPgEoaCiHch78HB50ce45s54rZNWfkBQxSTq3d8qgx7Lgb3l6QIJ2CkNgtFWsVUreRAfTEODJaritX__n_6OfaTi2Q-hM1McshkwHF8tIgh9OG1hfLDQoI-_g0/s1600/img426.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="492" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgXpQPv2Yc10IJUKj09sPgEoaCiHch78HB50ce45s54rZNWfkBQxSTq3d8qgx7Lgb3l6QIJ2CkNgtFWsVUreRAfTEODJaritX__n_6OfaTi2Q-hM1McshkwHF8tIgh9OG1hfLDQoI-_g0/s640/img426.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeQMa-CDlNtt_ZvpJcU0X3rb8noVNN90UBb7b5z547HpNVwtH4Ic_W4Qu6Fo6DxRs76CJpVY9R4tZYifw3O2va846xCLgtTDPHlzLKGht1ddB9t5kCsTofmTdBYIwOKdff5EcJWCJTIBQ/s1600/img420.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="492" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeQMa-CDlNtt_ZvpJcU0X3rb8noVNN90UBb7b5z547HpNVwtH4Ic_W4Qu6Fo6DxRs76CJpVY9R4tZYifw3O2va846xCLgtTDPHlzLKGht1ddB9t5kCsTofmTdBYIwOKdff5EcJWCJTIBQ/s640/img420.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv5mDpgdAOZQuXAvjzafajt9681CFi3t8oT9b45QsNjzjnsElCuuOSLrrfHShb33T_AF7Ie6mNOYopXLO4VtD34qhsFX-EyArhM2DhPnnt7UUa6O3wBDcKbL2TFxsyBQF069Iz1wdRGM4/s1600/img421.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="492" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv5mDpgdAOZQuXAvjzafajt9681CFi3t8oT9b45QsNjzjnsElCuuOSLrrfHShb33T_AF7Ie6mNOYopXLO4VtD34qhsFX-EyArhM2DhPnnt7UUa6O3wBDcKbL2TFxsyBQF069Iz1wdRGM4/s640/img421.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvf2HLPqBIopKoF5eCpXN78a4uwK_9Ie0Zfj4ZMA2QrQH8mXiLLJCcrqtYYAiq24fpsIiUfrnUJx3sK2c8Yom0JeI819j3kgQu6445f_LpfwVVAZrkZQUO7qBEWNws2K0Z2VWbP1_6xp8/s1600/img422.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="496" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvf2HLPqBIopKoF5eCpXN78a4uwK_9Ie0Zfj4ZMA2QrQH8mXiLLJCcrqtYYAiq24fpsIiUfrnUJx3sK2c8Yom0JeI819j3kgQu6445f_LpfwVVAZrkZQUO7qBEWNws2K0Z2VWbP1_6xp8/s640/img422.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0K23LjTiUCQ03xiDfQxBcfSbSipG2Z3Guf6FOEp22dA38GHTrGDchVxZN7K_wQsh4flLjzLkZ9OoLSdcIJAelqvpAUsHP3NrQL9B670HXsEMOwwavB7F47Uaz-8AksVxy0Sg7cn0_ezk/s1600/img423.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="492" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0K23LjTiUCQ03xiDfQxBcfSbSipG2Z3Guf6FOEp22dA38GHTrGDchVxZN7K_wQsh4flLjzLkZ9OoLSdcIJAelqvpAUsHP3NrQL9B670HXsEMOwwavB7F47Uaz-8AksVxy0Sg7cn0_ezk/s640/img423.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Again, I'll leave it up to the historian to determine the pertinence of this information.</div>
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1967...</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigmChOABkiBhW0RgI6oBe_fL7sNDMEXExJXGeRaRscQU9Y1MJKvuz7yiS9zXKNJZSQZk9OL4mKTGzvfejB7wdKEfuY7xBrVa3bj-spYyTUC5SlSZ2Qc8E3dKsSjtMxKWo_ketgS6gdluc/s1600/img418.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigmChOABkiBhW0RgI6oBe_fL7sNDMEXExJXGeRaRscQU9Y1MJKvuz7yiS9zXKNJZSQZk9OL4mKTGzvfejB7wdKEfuY7xBrVa3bj-spYyTUC5SlSZ2Qc8E3dKsSjtMxKWo_ketgS6gdluc/s400/img418.jpg" width="263" /></a></div>
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<i>Smokey's eyes, almost sensual</i></div>
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Finally in the pack, the somewhat coveted 1963 maps, with their odd "Pure Americana" imagery</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBeucG3DpeGHA15GfMbizVbqaqhe7n56my53mcSBY936FNtrWB-RDblNUO_WoogNQ6kEbBsTCIhRi9xG1zE5apljWxXiezfmWWfI5HKFrqJct_s7kbon-bYdFg7IYJXm8ljgX5po9Bt48/s1600/img429.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBeucG3DpeGHA15GfMbizVbqaqhe7n56my53mcSBY936FNtrWB-RDblNUO_WoogNQ6kEbBsTCIhRi9xG1zE5apljWxXiezfmWWfI5HKFrqJct_s7kbon-bYdFg7IYJXm8ljgX5po9Bt48/s640/img429.jpg" width="466" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitlP_W3WtFX2CHcOHyW2Er_w7CdjmQ5RntbnlIkY3NWBnkmXfnl-eKdhUpCHsDNIZtT_y_y7z4I_I8MDGxvGVoNd_V42ZVY6ZjmSNxZLadZwfEJ-4RFBIf4N72f7GyCq8IzhvP1cOAGc4/s1600/1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="570" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitlP_W3WtFX2CHcOHyW2Er_w7CdjmQ5RntbnlIkY3NWBnkmXfnl-eKdhUpCHsDNIZtT_y_y7z4I_I8MDGxvGVoNd_V42ZVY6ZjmSNxZLadZwfEJ-4RFBIf4N72f7GyCq8IzhvP1cOAGc4/s640/1.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<i>the homliest, un-campy strange family I've even seen, yet they're featured prominently</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP0UI_psMQvqj60REC-Bs4tkeqDC7PMiychJNiboaTfDmducYaYRT8lEE6wydyOHvsqMKcrESwPpVufUNR3P9sqh6tXQ3ej9WkAWhW3nIoN0EcaSB5Ftt2Lx7Ng0G6QzQ8B4WjXKOh5Mw/s1600/2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP0UI_psMQvqj60REC-Bs4tkeqDC7PMiychJNiboaTfDmducYaYRT8lEE6wydyOHvsqMKcrESwPpVufUNR3P9sqh6tXQ3ej9WkAWhW3nIoN0EcaSB5Ftt2Lx7Ng0G6QzQ8B4WjXKOh5Mw/s400/2.jpg" width="297" /></a></div>
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<i>a very poorly cut-in bear (nobody could find an actual photo of a bear in the woods)</i></div>
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and finally</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibaEnpPzBW14UaDycuGqly7UmCeUwiIPhtttrUIczyEC8rDkE3br9aZtnZAirdubinq39f3u-Iwp5G43yUfihTtynt_FQfTYKH8SfJ6Vgv09ooIoN3b-IC_sUqks36IpDZ9AX9S238wuE/s1600/3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibaEnpPzBW14UaDycuGqly7UmCeUwiIPhtttrUIczyEC8rDkE3br9aZtnZAirdubinq39f3u-Iwp5G43yUfihTtynt_FQfTYKH8SfJ6Vgv09ooIoN3b-IC_sUqks36IpDZ9AX9S238wuE/s320/3.jpg" width="276" /></a></div>
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<i>This Guy</i></div>
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Odd, very odd. </div>
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The '63 is the last USFS Mt. Hood map that shows many of the old trails.</div>
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By 1967, most are missing on the new map. Road, many more roads in stead.</div>
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<b><i>And the rest is history!</i></b></div>
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At the very least, Mr. Lobbig was able to tell his story, no matter how brief. I wonder how his trip went in the summer of '67. I hope it brought back a lot of memories.</div>
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<h1 class="page-title" style="background-color: white; border-bottom-color: rgb(238, 238, 238); border-bottom-style: solid; border-bottom-width: 1px; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-weight: 300; line-height: 1.4em; margin: 0px 0px 15px; padding-bottom: 10px; text-align: center; text-rendering: optimizeLegibility;">
<b style="line-height: 24px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Kenneth C. Lobbig</span></b></h1>
<div class="dull-links leading" itemprop="description" style="background-color: white; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 1.1em; line-height: 24px; text-align: center;">
Formerly from Edwardsville, Illinois</div>
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Elgin High School Class of 1929 </div>
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born on August 3, 1911. He died in January 1993 at 81 years old</div>
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Bobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00281879570975634257noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7672445974485562573.post-1490300320568841172016-02-04T16:34:00.001-08:002016-02-04T16:34:24.169-08:00A Sign of the Clackamas<div style="text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirGotpAesPH9H4MR3KSZzS4JZUexKQpe5X4hPMAIEITuneUrV1CBfondpxMoqifgjJCESWmekF9FzztbfxbtB4LA3vkaOOK5hiem3MOf-jk-1DLQ5j7AcUfytnJZx675bvdUSWgCkiu7k/s1600/IMG_6741.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirGotpAesPH9H4MR3KSZzS4JZUexKQpe5X4hPMAIEITuneUrV1CBfondpxMoqifgjJCESWmekF9FzztbfxbtB4LA3vkaOOK5hiem3MOf-jk-1DLQ5j7AcUfytnJZx675bvdUSWgCkiu7k/s640/IMG_6741.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<i>along the Collawash, Welcome Home!</i></div>
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Shot or stolen, the signs don't last long. It is weird out there.</div>
Bobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00281879570975634257noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7672445974485562573.post-32908380938157968592015-10-14T15:38:00.002-07:002016-01-20T12:34:06.409-08:00The Brand New Six Foot Crosscut Saw<div style="text-align: center;">
Just like the old saws, <i><b>Hambone Saw Works</b></i> is still at it.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrmHVawzMs4D6h1EO0gc2QSYKweGGyeUlmxrf5BKv3_mhl8cAe73rRxfnK0xVTqlWMay8AztHuONxOdZ3V6A-1nPo-mk-3RN6J5nIlE0pF6kLOWRGtGpeeqdKw0lFM0dXMfmYq6e0xTRg/s1600/IMG_5165ps.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrmHVawzMs4D6h1EO0gc2QSYKweGGyeUlmxrf5BKv3_mhl8cAe73rRxfnK0xVTqlWMay8AztHuONxOdZ3V6A-1nPo-mk-3RN6J5nIlE0pF6kLOWRGtGpeeqdKw0lFM0dXMfmYq6e0xTRg/s400/IMG_5165ps.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<b>I am pleased to announce a brand new 6 foot crosscut!</b> It is freshly set and sharpened, hand hammered rakers and ready to sing. It is constructed from very high quality steel - the same used in the mills for their high speed band saws.<br />
I have lots of experience with these saws, both sharpening and using them in the wilderness. </div>
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And lucky for you this one-of-a-kind saw is now for sale.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1fPf8T-2RWUQqGr5RcWJZloIw9M4165AJKxVheze-Jmx85A59cDKNzThUGIUhYNrKPZbHY7ofHFttWrMGKUKNwchVRD3tAe5khQhiDSG-QhjGrNrW862AYrNrtusA3jU1TQj5YUNMrt8/s1600/IMG_5160.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1fPf8T-2RWUQqGr5RcWJZloIw9M4165AJKxVheze-Jmx85A59cDKNzThUGIUhYNrKPZbHY7ofHFttWrMGKUKNwchVRD3tAe5khQhiDSG-QhjGrNrW862AYrNrtusA3jU1TQj5YUNMrt8/s640/IMG_5160.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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The saw blank was computer designed and digital water-jet cut by a facility in Albany, Oregon. It is the classic "lance tooth and raker" design made famous in so many logging camps during the glory days of logging.</div>
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There are only 2 of these saws in existence! They were designed for high speed and competition cutting, with slightly slimmer and taller teeth. And it is brand new!</div>
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<b>For the detailed story of these saws, please see:</b></div>
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<b><a href="http://greencascadia.blogspot.com/2012/04/portland-oregon-crosscut-saw-sharpening.html">Let's Sharpen A Crosscut - Green Cascadia</a></b></div>
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6 foot crosscut saws like the classic Disstons are getting hard to find in good condition. Rarer still are "new old stock" saws, which have been stored away unused for 60 years.</div>
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Better yet, a brand new saw with a lifetime of use ahead of it.</div>
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This saw has been professionally jointed, set and sharpened in my workshop.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhso4yMYMQeMiCtRMfzZKBG_Juz3KolrGBsJKiWVQzUCg3OKoWoTiaNnxqmwx5mHk7GjNA9Q53dLf2lUC-nhzgzDV25ikvb2c1Mdzd8BG-VMHPCkHs87wfOughP3kLUXQuuhxrnIh84CeM/s1600/IMG_5098.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhso4yMYMQeMiCtRMfzZKBG_Juz3KolrGBsJKiWVQzUCg3OKoWoTiaNnxqmwx5mHk7GjNA9Q53dLf2lUC-nhzgzDV25ikvb2c1Mdzd8BG-VMHPCkHs87wfOughP3kLUXQuuhxrnIh84CeM/s400/IMG_5098.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6H6t38R0xGMsQJiMi9jeqxa4WXulv-s5Z8gUFnmmyDTYcnjj9vu5juRUBBhA5VJHAhy6ak3Q18k9lT2tPiHTAxF6bUe2U8UjMO2Z0nw9eT0a4WY_CUj_PLzjctsh4g2uazb8Q8nmfGPc/s1600/IMG_5100.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6H6t38R0xGMsQJiMi9jeqxa4WXulv-s5Z8gUFnmmyDTYcnjj9vu5juRUBBhA5VJHAhy6ak3Q18k9lT2tPiHTAxF6bUe2U8UjMO2Z0nw9eT0a4WY_CUj_PLzjctsh4g2uazb8Q8nmfGPc/s640/IMG_5100.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUBnWB_mmNahxBVUGPQd4bzmHOhSJam4Fxrx5EOdidc3bJog1xy9M12rSIhaH70-bdHysmCXR2-V0xCPDnOy5iK7RwwWbY2ZpCwY6svheSGjGzSCyuwBEa9KUTwTiMSAqMWjvxNjSeKa8/s1600/IMG_5103ps.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="472" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUBnWB_mmNahxBVUGPQd4bzmHOhSJam4Fxrx5EOdidc3bJog1xy9M12rSIhaH70-bdHysmCXR2-V0xCPDnOy5iK7RwwWbY2ZpCwY6svheSGjGzSCyuwBEa9KUTwTiMSAqMWjvxNjSeKa8/s640/IMG_5103ps.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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4 entire days to sharpen this saw! But now she's ready to sing for you.<br />
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The raker depth and tooth set were hand-hammered at .012"</div>
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Each tooth and raker has been shaped by hand</div>
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All edges have been carefully de-burred with whetstone</div>
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The entire saw was oil-sanded with 400 grit paper until perfect</div>
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A few small stains and scuffs from the blank but no pitting or gouges</div>
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2 teeth near one of the handles are slightly short due to the blank - it won't affect the saw</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdsve4dud1DpS-5Bhspw7w5pG873PDUuGZhNym-i1_V1YkeCSVxnVkrPs469h6lnABB6ezQRYpz7b_aCkk-zUBOsFO747t7BSSa8CIKl3dFsrRDR_IlZjnan5TsdGHmwRKQYq8Lp0JAuA/s1600/IMG_5110.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdsve4dud1DpS-5Bhspw7w5pG873PDUuGZhNym-i1_V1YkeCSVxnVkrPs469h6lnABB6ezQRYpz7b_aCkk-zUBOsFO747t7BSSa8CIKl3dFsrRDR_IlZjnan5TsdGHmwRKQYq8Lp0JAuA/s400/IMG_5110.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i>Done!</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidGQU4JZgi-oWHE46m3-cf4z4vDS9tHLIzLZVBFuaBWPhG0zfX82ko19MXiFLkCHwUHpUI11fqErMensK1PG1IKHJKEkdxDX7DoX_DnMYzFcQW2amXdbOx_1BB3QAhGPKJ9FcrxXULTjQ/s1600/IMG_5167.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidGQU4JZgi-oWHE46m3-cf4z4vDS9tHLIzLZVBFuaBWPhG0zfX82ko19MXiFLkCHwUHpUI11fqErMensK1PG1IKHJKEkdxDX7DoX_DnMYzFcQW2amXdbOx_1BB3QAhGPKJ9FcrxXULTjQ/s640/IMG_5167.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTLaj-PPYIeXS37O_b70LvPA6hR26wk8qjSm3UgKHHhap9YBYqt2MTdYCMYPeQeouGZhXaEFP1uodntFMoSqc1wCKT-caj2xYTkA8yJA3ulCwxtGTw40S01nCalJYSqFoqHOJ9qUtr3N8/s1600/IMG_5170.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTLaj-PPYIeXS37O_b70LvPA6hR26wk8qjSm3UgKHHhap9YBYqt2MTdYCMYPeQeouGZhXaEFP1uodntFMoSqc1wCKT-caj2xYTkA8yJA3ulCwxtGTw40S01nCalJYSqFoqHOJ9qUtr3N8/s640/IMG_5170.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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It is a beautiful saw with many years of useful life ahead. I hope it goes to a good home and someone will enjoy it for me! It is hard to let it go.</div>
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Please contact me if you'd like to make a reasonable offer on this rare and beautiful saw.</div>
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<b>UNTIL THEN:</b></div>
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<i><b>Happy trails as always</b></i></div>
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Bobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00281879570975634257noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7672445974485562573.post-79606273615589533932015-08-04T17:46:00.000-07:002015-08-04T17:46:12.783-07:0010 Years of Hambone - July 2015<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLOK5Td90r8OQwOKjLdVa-ljdRRLfE_VyWuAFYdBMqe6LG92fD7bsnshs7f8rIUchzW3COWuBTMUA4Rzx0DaVbCD2NE0xvPv20cw3NG8MzBT01hnLDoV7vvurQgDHn2erxx3PBdWAsnKQ/s1600/5389908.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLOK5Td90r8OQwOKjLdVa-ljdRRLfE_VyWuAFYdBMqe6LG92fD7bsnshs7f8rIUchzW3COWuBTMUA4Rzx0DaVbCD2NE0xvPv20cw3NG8MzBT01hnLDoV7vvurQgDHn2erxx3PBdWAsnKQ/s400/5389908.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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10 years - for me anyway.</div>
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The Roaring River drainage of course, is much older. Both simultaneously sculpted and buried by ice sheets and basalt lava flows, the land is dynamic; indeed it always seems to change even viewed in human time scales. I love this wilderness. I love its wildness, the millions of trees - some ancient, some not. I love the steep slopes of scree and chirping Pikas, the ever changing colorful tapestry of reds and vibrating yellows, more greens than the eye can ever see. It is home to me, "my habitat" as I often remark. It is not always a pleasant place, but no love ever shared can hope to be.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVHShbCWG15_2wuydp37A2D0tQWIUDURvr5WgDgzEzUq0BXAmZJsA4JVVN1Ya1BwHYgxB_xXt4UVZR3XnxdTKHcp_EzFLH-5Mc_HzC9snHAvevk13Qe-6cK7NpEa3IdtW5M8I3ag12464/s1600/Northern_icesheet_hg.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="292" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVHShbCWG15_2wuydp37A2D0tQWIUDURvr5WgDgzEzUq0BXAmZJsA4JVVN1Ya1BwHYgxB_xXt4UVZR3XnxdTKHcp_EzFLH-5Mc_HzC9snHAvevk13Qe-6cK7NpEa3IdtW5M8I3ag12464/s400/Northern_icesheet_hg.png" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i>Glaciers of 10,000 Y.A. that remade contients</i></div>
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Along with water, ice, and earth, this remarkable wilderness has also been sculpted by fire. No other force is as crucial to the life of the forest, although in our brief generations we struggle with this significance. Catastrophic fires occur in these Cascades with regularity every couple hundred years - the last in 1910, and again in 1919. Although the landscape took nearly a hundred years to recover, the forest is again green and verdant, the only indicators of these past cataclysms are stands of younger trees and scorched ancient stumps. It is incredible, as the involution/evolution of seed-to-tree and back again takes place before our eyes. There is only the infinite and the microscopic as a guide, buried in unseen strands of DNA, powered as if by magic. If you like trees then this is the place for you.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw4FzYjrJ25WGEDxmQe5bwc8Gq_xtnyAe6cgyOgUzYVmGXGnVfthWiBqSFK_KyzVeZXaJs1AkKfH8YuOKfaAavYXJTN8dft3kUahA-ayk2wSfjtg2kGC7J6V5g567oPjS9LKZW-vL6VB8/s1600/SignalButte002.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw4FzYjrJ25WGEDxmQe5bwc8Gq_xtnyAe6cgyOgUzYVmGXGnVfthWiBqSFK_KyzVeZXaJs1AkKfH8YuOKfaAavYXJTN8dft3kUahA-ayk2wSfjtg2kGC7J6V5g567oPjS9LKZW-vL6VB8/s640/SignalButte002.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<i>1934 photo from atop Signal Buttes looking North, courtesy of Trail Advocates</i></div>
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Of course, along with natural processes, we have human induced change. Some argue that we are merely hands of the creator, and our destructive nature is as natural as bees. Bees, however do not interrupt natural processes on a global scale, and seem to lack the arrogant disregard as well.</div>
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Of course again, not all human induced change is negative. We can, and have lived in harmony with natural cycles since our inception. Can a society be held accountable? Or is it too just a "tool" in the hands of its creator? Change, whether slow or sudden, is of course inevitable. </div>
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<span style="background-color: #fdfeff; color: #001320; font-family: Trebuchet, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; text-align: justify;"><i style="font-weight: bold;">"Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt"</i></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #fdfeff; color: #001320; font-family: Trebuchet, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px; text-align: justify;"><i style="font-weight: bold;"></i>-Matthew 6:19, as often quoted by Swami Shantarupananda</span></div>
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Unfortunately for me, I have a hard time taking this advice, cherishing this mere dust with form. It is a pointless exercise but I adore this land all the same. It tears us up and then makes us whole again.<br />
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In the beginning, only the ice and rock shared the company of these lonely hills. In time, as habitats reformed, humans came to the land. For the first 10,000 years their impact was minimal; you're lucky to find an ancient arrowhead out there. Other than their ingenious network of trails, their only smudge in this 10 millennium period are the buried remains of their bones and villages. Then came the men and machinery with different ideals, to pave and to prove something, to tickle the ego and pad fat wallets. The land began to change - slowly at first but firmly inevitable. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis2yu3JS8fLGnXQmjgbIucIzqtRhuJBz-PICd-F_UYHjAwWQ1IHWZOvMHjSDWpGUvnvSijq6_chM13JiFRvUAcVFaim0ybun5AShE9zVjGTFEzlkcfH1aaCBVS1vfJdPBhmHuMqmvSt_c/s1600/hambone+1931.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="243" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis2yu3JS8fLGnXQmjgbIucIzqtRhuJBz-PICd-F_UYHjAwWQ1IHWZOvMHjSDWpGUvnvSijq6_chM13JiFRvUAcVFaim0ybun5AShE9zVjGTFEzlkcfH1aaCBVS1vfJdPBhmHuMqmvSt_c/s400/hambone+1931.PNG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i>1930 - the new roads punched thru the wilderness are just beginning</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTlvt_wVZgNQ1WFlbDLom2l3bID642wKY7iArJgqFijt7izJjI9yKhDBgFgcsD3hHHyoEX699mrqX1pOvGaJ7mjKzzzeqkjrH-91932J8vKigsg3ozJ43H_3eUUfccUUwSyejV0X55jyY/s1600/hambone+1935.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="207" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTlvt_wVZgNQ1WFlbDLom2l3bID642wKY7iArJgqFijt7izJjI9yKhDBgFgcsD3hHHyoEX699mrqX1pOvGaJ7mjKzzzeqkjrH-91932J8vKigsg3ozJ43H_3eUUfccUUwSyejV0X55jyY/s400/hambone+1935.PNG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i>1935 - the network expands - but just a shadow of what will come</i></div>
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If not for these horrible fires of a century ago, these wilderness areas wouldn't even exist. </div>
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Most of the surrounding mountains have already been roaded and clearcut, raped on the run. However by the time the trees had reached marketable maturity, the Widerness Act snatched them from the logging kings, forever to be protected as the <i>Salmon-Huckleberry </i>and <i>Roaring River </i>Wilderness. It is amazing that these thousands upon thousands of acres were preserved by a trick of fate and fire.</div>
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Not ones to give up a fight, the logging companies tried their damnedest to clearcut the land anyway.</div>
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Roads were proposed into delicate ancient valleys to haul out those valuable Oregon Toothpicks, connecting Salmon Butte with a new road already ripped into the Salmon River canyon.</div>
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<div lang="en" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><b><i>"The
roads up Mack Hall Creek and to Mesa Lake are unfavorable because of
critical soils and a moderate timber regeneration hazard. -- .The
activities proposed would have a very negative impact on the native
fishery and the watershed ..."</i></b></span></div>
<div lang="en" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0.14in;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><b><i>"Mack
Hall Road should be terminated west and below Salmon Butte. -- Stop
the Salmon River Road at Bighorn Creek." </i></b></span><span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">Comments
to 1974 USFS Environmental Impact Statement</span></div>
<div lang="en" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0.14in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">But it was not to be. Thank God for that, as brown-stained Portland swells just on the horizon.</span></div>
<div lang="en" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0.14in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">Due to the fires, this land is a time capsule. The few roads are from the 1930s, and the trails of course go back thousands of years. The only trick is getting there.</span></div>
<div lang="en" style="line-height: 115%; margin-bottom: 0.14in; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%;">I became fascinated with the Roaring River country years ago, driving my faithful 1969 VW Bus down the horrible Abbot Road again and again, white knuckled and heart pounding, somehow surviving the journey and delivered in the lap of this Green Mother. It is the mother of all dreams, where peace comes to lie - a way station between dreams. Even thousands of years ago, people did not stay, lingering long enough just to be redelivered. Even in winter's deep snows I wonder about the peace falling out there.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.6666669845581px; line-height: 16.8666667938232px;">A couple of years ago, through another weird trick of fate, an identical 1969 VW Bus found me. (see: <a href="http://www.pdxvolksfolks.blogspot.com/2014/02/a-tale-of-2-buses.html">http://www.pdxvolksfolks.blogspot.com/2014/02/a-tale-of-2-buses.html</a> )</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.6666669845581px; line-height: 16.8666667938232px;"> I have been restoring the poor neglected wreck, every system in shambles, but after all this work she's now ready for service. Well what better place than the worst road in northern Oregon? Let's see what's out at Hambone this year. Hopefully the mosquitoes aren't bad.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiONOHKGicax6GxUKzrm4tdUmwy0iBS23c-SNBedA3_pyYaZYBgOf2S5PyvLcl_YDcPTl-GzGN7zbUJ0WsQabf-quypTFfkiQn5n6X80gNG1OQ8einw0enWHNUfFYcWmHkXDMsMnY9j57Q/s1600/IMG_1565.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiONOHKGicax6GxUKzrm4tdUmwy0iBS23c-SNBedA3_pyYaZYBgOf2S5PyvLcl_YDcPTl-GzGN7zbUJ0WsQabf-quypTFfkiQn5n6X80gNG1OQ8einw0enWHNUfFYcWmHkXDMsMnY9j57Q/s320/IMG_1565.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.6666669845581px; line-height: 16.8666667938232px;"><i>before</i></span></div>
<div lang="en" style="margin-bottom: 0.14in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 14.6666669845581px; line-height: 16.8666667938232px;">Of course I can't drive 2 Buses at once. I need a test pilot.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxYyRajtbAEhlRYSuFyS8ypviqSmFB6p3Hi8f8C9U6zx9Onr925QIUXibm4Ulut7ixp2Za4Sf2NAqXzO8v2VKNG-PQxwGOvh-1Ehi2XG_v_hYT3466Hax5fEfyvjzIJ_IeT4FZ4in6D2s/s1600/IMG_4337.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxYyRajtbAEhlRYSuFyS8ypviqSmFB6p3Hi8f8C9U6zx9Onr925QIUXibm4Ulut7ixp2Za4Sf2NAqXzO8v2VKNG-PQxwGOvh-1Ehi2XG_v_hYT3466Hax5fEfyvjzIJ_IeT4FZ4in6D2s/s640/IMG_4337.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.6666669845581px; line-height: 16.8666667938232px;"><i>Captain Don Presley, Clackamas River Bus Pilot at the Estacada R.S.</i></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoMPr7KJXoVimmSsTEADNjzNxZBWtFFhs0QJ0FfcfhvNLApWkBSu4xyo5QoFTsRPA5g4VclnE9fWL-_wWxzg-5homs86EUFtdM4Vf4TV3DJdQStyWiq3wRYK09by5lNyFQGc_WuG-4iRU/s1600/IMG_4341.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoMPr7KJXoVimmSsTEADNjzNxZBWtFFhs0QJ0FfcfhvNLApWkBSu4xyo5QoFTsRPA5g4VclnE9fWL-_wWxzg-5homs86EUFtdM4Vf4TV3DJdQStyWiq3wRYK09by5lNyFQGc_WuG-4iRU/s400/IMG_4341.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.6666669845581px; line-height: 16.8666667938232px;"><i>200 vehicles apart! They look weird together</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.6666669845581px; line-height: 16.8666667938232px;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
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<i>and off we go...and a 4200' climb ahead of us...</i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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Nearly pooping myself with nervousness the entire way, the new bus does fine anyway. Other than a carb adjustment, she seems fine, ready for the woods. It is annoying and uneventful after all that stress. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwf3oNhPFOIp8SdxPf2jnowJcHgvbQ3c-Nz3J5rtZQ_n4glsNmk0ur-Fa3n9lov_Pz35Sp5pKUjdgzgNNcbgk3UQbdhoqQbb_eDn7WGRbyw-DXVflixBZPKVHuXHjkxDAsvDpiWBKUetM/s1600/IMG_4344.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwf3oNhPFOIp8SdxPf2jnowJcHgvbQ3c-Nz3J5rtZQ_n4glsNmk0ur-Fa3n9lov_Pz35Sp5pKUjdgzgNNcbgk3UQbdhoqQbb_eDn7WGRbyw-DXVflixBZPKVHuXHjkxDAsvDpiWBKUetM/s640/IMG_4344.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<i>2.5 miles! Hang on to your seat</i></div>
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We bump and rattle down that 1930 Abbot, churning up dust and tires tossing random gravel down into the infinity below. A long way below...</div>
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But all this nervousness fades as we arrive into camp. A squalid, dusty mess of 50 people camping dustbowl style, a mass of at least 20 screaming children in the muck. This is not what I expected, or even dreamed of. Peace is fleeting and evasive. But what is this? Rain? We are in the worst drought ever recorded - it hasn't rained in months. Of course.</div>
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The rain brings a chill to the air. It feels nice after so many weeks of 95 degree weather. And more chill. And more. What the hell, it is 43 degrees! Certainly a record for the end of July.</div>
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We sit huddled around our smoky fire, simply amazed at the change in environment, listening to the continuous shrieks of many, many children - late into the night and early in the morning.</div>
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Deep in the wilderness.</div>
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<i>art by Eva - not a screaming child thankfully</i></div>
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All this soggy sitting around crabbing about noisy neighbors will not do. Let's try to find some of that old magic.</div>
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Most of the trails in the Mount Hood National Forest are ancient in origin. Built by indigenous people, they were later updated and improved by the early Forest Service, with only a few new trails built in the era roughly 1905-1940. Imagine the depth of the wilderness in those early days, with Portland a multi-day travel into the deep green. As one walks the old trails - and especially the Native ones, it becomes quickly clear that those guys were in much better shape than modern Americans. It is humbling to be conquered by a mountain.</div>
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<i>Don and Eva inspect a hand saw as Murphy looks on</i></div>
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As time marches on, the old trails continue to deteriorate. The jungle reclaims its own. Even the men who created and maintained these routes become unknown as the trees, fading, fading away.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKVBNFAk9J_CPe7YSojFwTboWKpWMzDp3JL2NwdSJoIuHic-63rG1AhFIeDqNYSW_ivwEQQ1BAi67R50Xcn0JMJIuHfH1yshcrm-Qe_sQsN3xZ3xXil2Cbc8DMnk78vPATLDfFL8wttnA/s1600/east+goes+west+3.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="381" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKVBNFAk9J_CPe7YSojFwTboWKpWMzDp3JL2NwdSJoIuHic-63rG1AhFIeDqNYSW_ivwEQQ1BAi67R50Xcn0JMJIuHfH1yshcrm-Qe_sQsN3xZ3xXil2Cbc8DMnk78vPATLDfFL8wttnA/s400/east+goes+west+3.PNG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i>Grant built and maintained many of the Roaring River trails in the 1920s before moving on</i></div>
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What will we find?</div>
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<i>Eva and Don on the haunches of Hambone</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQeQLtAiIDGOZmHBN-DTywXYQGr1AeydD5byuARTaQPMPfkpJ4U2x4BnR8pp_rkj9hyd2-C_9KA-IQ4vTxqD_lJDh_MprFhy8MpYlxQRRRonj4E4yA-izZjkMicXNg7XquDRPXZybTjDk/s1600/IMG_4379.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQeQLtAiIDGOZmHBN-DTywXYQGr1AeydD5byuARTaQPMPfkpJ4U2x4BnR8pp_rkj9hyd2-C_9KA-IQ4vTxqD_lJDh_MprFhy8MpYlxQRRRonj4E4yA-izZjkMicXNg7XquDRPXZybTjDk/s400/IMG_4379.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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The sun finally breaks as we wander the wet and tangled woods, what a mess. Who cleans up this place?</div>
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Searching in vain for a particularly abandoned trail that doesn't want to be found, we instead decide to climb to the top of Hambone Butte at 4700'.</div>
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I love Hambone. Not only is it my namesake, it is high and lonesome and a pain to get to. I have always wondered at the mystery of the name. "What could it possibly mean?"</div>
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<i>strike 2 for romantic notions</i></div>
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It is a rough scramble to the top, with loose scree slopes and tangled vines making the journey exhausting.</div>
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Before you know it we have arrived on top. That is one tuckered kid. And one very impressed Papa, she is now exceeding many adults. It wasn't long ago she was just my baby screaming in a chair.</div>
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<i>Don has lunch with Mt. Hood aka WyEast peering over his shoulder</i></div>
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<i>Signal Buttes bask</i></div>
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<i>Eva on top of the world!</i></div>
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But we can't stay up here forever broiling. Let's head back down, I hear beers screaming my name.</div>
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<i>Mama Bus 2 - can you tell?</i></div>
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Soon the temperatures begin to climb. And climb. Before you know it, it is almost 100 degrees.</div>
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Charles arrives, excited to be freed from the city, eager to explore these wild lands. A retired Forest Ranger, he is also in love with the woods. "Want to try to drive down the Abbot?", he asks in the hot afternoon light. Sure if you're driving, that road scares the hell out of me.</div>
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<i>Iron Pipe Spring, ice cold and delicious gushing from the rocks eternally</i></div>
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<i>rolling rocks</i></div>
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<i>Charles explores the road to Salmon Butte, blocked and bermed but built to long-haul logging standards in eager anticipation...</i></div>
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<i>Iron Mountain Divide with Salmon Butte in the distance. There was once a fire lookout atop the weathered skeleton of this extinct volcano.</i></div>
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<i>Hambone summit</i></div>
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As the temps continue to climb more friends and family arrive. They are amazed by our tales of cold rain. "It's 106 in Portland!", we're told.</div>
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The duality of this sparkling wilderness becomes apparent. Billions of biting flies, invigorated by the blazing sun attack at random. Gigantic firs sway gracefully in the oven sky. We lie painted with dust smeared sweat and yet marvel at the wonder of it all.</div>
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It is too hot for cameras, too hot for climbing mountains. It is time to sit and pant in the baked shade. Instead I marvel at the priceless value of good friends and cherished company.</div>
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And yet, I am irritated. There are too many cars coming and going, random unknown visitors to a remote camp down a horrible alpine road. The flies are pissing me off, but they are only guardians. I worry of the fate of these wild places, protected on our maps but littered with broken bottles and rusty artifacts of the 1950s, faded corned beef cans with the contents long digested, grape sodas their fake essence hardly a memory. The outhouse lies collapsed in ruin, but the constant flow of jets from PDX could care less. With generations of trash strewn beneath the firs and serviceberries, it is clear that generations of visitors to this rare place could really give a shit. </div>
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What will happen when our population doubles in the next 30 years, to 7, 9 Billion people? What will happen to Hambone? Will she stay wild? I am deeply concerned.</div>
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But then I'm reminded that the sun will too collapse some day, a vast house of cards where our spirits are the only true witness. The rust may corrupt, but we remain stainless. </div>
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As the last dusky sunset falls over this land and we await the Blue Moon, I am sad yet exhalted for all creation, for in creation we become whole as we fall back into infinity. </div>
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It is only in these places we become complete.</div>
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<i>thank you Mama! What a 10 years</i></div>
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<i>your author in 2006</i></div>
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<br />Bobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00281879570975634257noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7672445974485562573.post-53436504391688677162013-09-24T10:55:00.003-07:002013-09-24T10:56:34.454-07:00Portland and the National Train Day - June 2013<div style="text-align: center;">
Trains? What the heck does that have to do with wilderness?!?!</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbItTunPlIoaLsBl1gU_bYCxp_j9EOxZxvmhgpr_piIYHYPjq3QPXieVd_xISpvsuvpFhCvErucXmq7XO0LY7UCnyyYLeA4VQD1oQ_2iAuADSVNkui_nh_Lv-iF_OSwC-YAWdaqiUUgxQ/s1600/up-streamliner-ada.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="328" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbItTunPlIoaLsBl1gU_bYCxp_j9EOxZxvmhgpr_piIYHYPjq3QPXieVd_xISpvsuvpFhCvErucXmq7XO0LY7UCnyyYLeA4VQD1oQ_2iAuADSVNkui_nh_Lv-iF_OSwC-YAWdaqiUUgxQ/s400/up-streamliner-ada.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Before this modern world unfolded, and our world population exceeds the imagination,</div>
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railroads were the lifeblood that kept our nation together and running.</div>
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In our region of Oregon, Portland has always been the primary economic driver. Raw materials come in, manufactured goods and timber products go out.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBxQ-PhSB9vlFKxldUXvN9A7iqOjbH92X6k4HeDskWmB54i8-wVL-8ZsQMGLS7m5_kmfWcxsYIwsPQchJEYqGii8XAx3Wh0Pg-wA7jNO8axOxhJ9uNfyWLyfOgsm_hF7hJCCkyzCpikdc/s1600/PC_portland_willamette_river_aerial_view_ca1930.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="251" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBxQ-PhSB9vlFKxldUXvN9A7iqOjbH92X6k4HeDskWmB54i8-wVL-8ZsQMGLS7m5_kmfWcxsYIwsPQchJEYqGii8XAx3Wh0Pg-wA7jNO8axOxhJ9uNfyWLyfOgsm_hF7hJCCkyzCpikdc/s400/PC_portland_willamette_river_aerial_view_ca1930.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="text-align: left;">Goods, men, and materials needed to keep a 1920s minded National Forest running came from Portland. It was more than a supply hub - the impact of this great hub of commerce still leaves an indelible impact on the region. Of course, the city of Portland and the world itself has changed a great deal in a century. </span></div>
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"The more things change, the more they stay the same", says that tired old quote. Well, let's see if that's true.</div>
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On a suddenly hot and sunny June Saturday, Erin, Eva and I decided to bicycle down to Portland Union Station. I was curious to see if any of the old ghosts still plied these recent streets.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlQ1R8GSvW7LD9nulBCUdeFvciY1hbQBCJuz6Sbl2B4PoCfpIOsdqu-rSTOWlA-vSOFu5nOH2er3aajsPXOF6nv4cgmnwfaBxAIi6A9XRe-Fpq-d2lhJQjfT8Je_NnHwHj_qO5Yj2eNiE/s1600/IMG_7312.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlQ1R8GSvW7LD9nulBCUdeFvciY1hbQBCJuz6Sbl2B4PoCfpIOsdqu-rSTOWlA-vSOFu5nOH2er3aajsPXOF6nv4cgmnwfaBxAIi6A9XRe-Fpq-d2lhJQjfT8Je_NnHwHj_qO5Yj2eNiE/s400/IMG_7312.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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Perhaps there is still something of an earlier era in this modern remake of an American city.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS5cFvZ-yzUToWflr7FpM2fJ4PsH0myR2e-KclEqUEdbV1VPhj9ZHgM6H4yTDSE4tYaigEXqlwRvRxeD7DlavZnC_F1fsMYknOo3U_qvD8FzOqJYW-EGKHav9aTeMpjfCzDdTScWUy19s/s1600/IMG_7316.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS5cFvZ-yzUToWflr7FpM2fJ4PsH0myR2e-KclEqUEdbV1VPhj9ZHgM6H4yTDSE4tYaigEXqlwRvRxeD7DlavZnC_F1fsMYknOo3U_qvD8FzOqJYW-EGKHav9aTeMpjfCzDdTScWUy19s/s320/IMG_7316.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i>the venerable Broadway Bridge, a survivor in its own right</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZjTvjF5DiVLUtD0OG0xkjtnZBpR0vSKJr3vej-IyBUjlhmDAT_mzEGjikyvb0f2u_FnUEqU7dozl2_G_WT79kMNgv10v94gl-cS7X_YtFTpIomEoR1uf0xGv-sam4OR_Xtlt-lBhyphenhyphenDbA/s1600/IMG_7314.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZjTvjF5DiVLUtD0OG0xkjtnZBpR0vSKJr3vej-IyBUjlhmDAT_mzEGjikyvb0f2u_FnUEqU7dozl2_G_WT79kMNgv10v94gl-cS7X_YtFTpIomEoR1uf0xGv-sam4OR_Xtlt-lBhyphenhyphenDbA/s640/IMG_7314.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<i>Constructed in 1913, it still links East and West Portland without complaint</i></div>
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<i>Could this be 1920? Almost, if you squint.</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI6RsmPBtKjGZp1YF-pw5qeNBLwzXDrUwbiHGviXgJsr4OUyNLMuMPRw51chd3zEHXMxK0e-Hlp63FFF4xnHxeNBVbGt9CwUzsun167ZB5ydihNkEh3N9oUrd-bmP2fDFvB4wWnSq5Ekk/s1600/IMG_7317.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI6RsmPBtKjGZp1YF-pw5qeNBLwzXDrUwbiHGviXgJsr4OUyNLMuMPRw51chd3zEHXMxK0e-Hlp63FFF4xnHxeNBVbGt9CwUzsun167ZB5ydihNkEh3N9oUrd-bmP2fDFvB4wWnSq5Ekk/s400/IMG_7317.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i>Pausing to admire the skunky Superfund Willamette River</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXTPlnvn3LmpwNfvsyLsb_n3HuQV49lrjjyTn1jl-hOin87PjMoNSvCc3YGM9j510tc_-dN-OZMjBXNn_wTZEfa_a4V68QlSr9grxRzurlTbDBxpfIVnTfFN_1-BEGz2Xt13iUqBZ-rKw/s1600/IMG_7318.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXTPlnvn3LmpwNfvsyLsb_n3HuQV49lrjjyTn1jl-hOin87PjMoNSvCc3YGM9j510tc_-dN-OZMjBXNn_wTZEfa_a4V68QlSr9grxRzurlTbDBxpfIVnTfFN_1-BEGz2Xt13iUqBZ-rKw/s640/IMG_7318.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<i>Portland Union Station, little changed since its construction in 1896</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiRwLUh_88mlRYscKBB3-91piHkNR3Or9XU8O9S8f4QDLRODiT-7ST-3LQXxGp-JRK3p1kc3xo19NzJNbBqq-DB4ZqA6KG9E5iaMGvDfPwNiyRox1PUoIZsCZlUTtW6ggNmB9_gPzwplU/s1600/Union_Station_1913.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiRwLUh_88mlRYscKBB3-91piHkNR3Or9XU8O9S8f4QDLRODiT-7ST-3LQXxGp-JRK3p1kc3xo19NzJNbBqq-DB4ZqA6KG9E5iaMGvDfPwNiyRox1PUoIZsCZlUTtW6ggNmB9_gPzwplU/s400/Union_Station_1913.jpg" width="280" /></a></div>
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<i>1913</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs9H25hzfuG5nRM6Nsb5za6M4QboIXteCtgtmwIXRX0jfy7lZ-LdSoK3ALE7JiapaKYqI9X5o2Ro7YWnwNDW7X1NmKoCLZz0n_6Odjl7kNF-bUByqdVDDlFGHckQIiClYFyPlpPbqlsJE/s1600/IMG_7319.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs9H25hzfuG5nRM6Nsb5za6M4QboIXteCtgtmwIXRX0jfy7lZ-LdSoK3ALE7JiapaKYqI9X5o2Ro7YWnwNDW7X1NmKoCLZz0n_6Odjl7kNF-bUByqdVDDlFGHckQIiClYFyPlpPbqlsJE/s400/IMG_7319.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<i>Boarding the Vista-Dome North Coast Limited? No, not any more.</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb9JsuhCByiiWx719i-yMzJ7RWVRAikWJ2oqbaLzBtju7gQcfw4pPbNMk_w1XWwKwmVkk9DGEfh4rmxHivnI-tKQKI56z6gL3ycTsbIgDboF8DvPgzhb8PgOTUIFQVRZ2mPnDbyEDHgz8/s1600/IMG_7321.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb9JsuhCByiiWx719i-yMzJ7RWVRAikWJ2oqbaLzBtju7gQcfw4pPbNMk_w1XWwKwmVkk9DGEfh4rmxHivnI-tKQKI56z6gL3ycTsbIgDboF8DvPgzhb8PgOTUIFQVRZ2mPnDbyEDHgz8/s640/IMG_7321.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<i>Those days are over.</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg19X3r2FxbsoWqLmik89S6ZkS61JGcB5wvjgy0m9zDP-2kMKDJyIGg8TPrBk7jEqGViR3K6pPASZcsgZuxDsmdPyJ0jy417ZJ7OcFkved62PCMwBUu27jKVFBkiODbdsjmO96bT0uhGKw/s1600/IMG_7323.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg19X3r2FxbsoWqLmik89S6ZkS61JGcB5wvjgy0m9zDP-2kMKDJyIGg8TPrBk7jEqGViR3K6pPASZcsgZuxDsmdPyJ0jy417ZJ7OcFkved62PCMwBUu27jKVFBkiODbdsjmO96bT0uhGKw/s400/IMG_7323.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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In this earlier era, Union Station was truly the center of Portland. Most commerce and the movement of people occurred here, intensified by great wars, and later drained of most of its vitality by modern conveyances. But it is still a vital place, with all these combined energies absorbed into the walls. Amtrak still stops at Union Station, but the fleets of streamliners and caustic-belching steam locomotives are no more.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxS2p0XZjkcpiXLcFu6KlvY4kH1FxdyjMNgkQ8qIN_HFgwAq0XtxSpZn5M92N5mQIg37I8rWPS1zf68x-ByV0HXsa7YtM-lbqH0tICoirwfJ4HXyXuJXrPn7qrDUElLqxVZVCImk_hXEE/s1600/IMG_7333.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxS2p0XZjkcpiXLcFu6KlvY4kH1FxdyjMNgkQ8qIN_HFgwAq0XtxSpZn5M92N5mQIg37I8rWPS1zf68x-ByV0HXsa7YtM-lbqH0tICoirwfJ4HXyXuJXrPn7qrDUElLqxVZVCImk_hXEE/s640/IMG_7333.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<i>Portland Chinatown lies at the edge of the rails, a dim memory of what it once was</i></div>
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What do you think? Is it possible to chase ghosts?</div>
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<i>one tuckered kid</i></div>
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It is hard to tell for sure what is really left of the past. It is still "back there", in spite of these fossils of that other place. Without paint, hard work, and the will to preserve, most of our tangible artifacts fall to dust in a very short while.</div>
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For the past 10,000 years humans have lived here, leaving little trace of their existence.</div>
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What can we say about our modern society? What will the future say?</div>
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Bobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00281879570975634257noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7672445974485562573.post-72815563326248589192013-09-23T12:53:00.000-07:002013-09-23T12:57:58.172-07:00Badger Creek and Friends - March 2013<div style="text-align: center;">
March is a very special time in our part of the Northwest.</div>
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<i>A brief rain turns to sunshine</i><br />
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For the most part, the snow and cold rain are over. We are able to escape our square cocoons, blow the roof off the house and escape into the wild. What a feeling!<br />
Granted, this miracle appearance of the sun is no guarantee. <br />
In most of the Mt. Hood National Forest, winter's cloak is still many feet thick, obscuring the high country for a few more months. This is not the case in the dry eastern part of the state, in the sagebrush rain shadow of the Cascade Mountains. This is our Mecca, our Promised Land of winter's deliverance.<br />
Imagine! Sitting <i>outside!</i><br />
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It has become a tradition to seek out the March sun in the Badger Creek area. <br />
Eva and I leave Portland early in the morning, negotiating a sea of clouds and rising on thermals of golden sunshine. What will be waiting for us at camp? <br />
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<i>Rebuilding the old fire pit</i><br />
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Each year, our Badger Creek camp is different. There are always new places to explore, crazy extremes of weather, and a new assortment of hearty campers.<br />
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Usually it is too cold for kids, but this year Eva decides she's tough enough. True to form, she delights at the ever forming clouds as she romps about the camp like a maniac.<br />
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<i>Fairy House</i><br />
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This year, our camp is along an old logging road down an insignificant ridge.<br />
The trees are thin due to the near reach of the desert, and the cleansing hand of fire.<br />
But, like most forgotten places near Mt. Hood, it too holds its secrets.<br />
Of course, the old maps are pretty silent on the subject, until that nagging curiosity changes dotted lines into something tangible. <br />
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Old roads are really old trails, some times.<br />
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<i>In 1938, you could take this trail down to Little Badger Creek</i><br />
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<i>And you still can.</i><br />
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<i>Happiest Crew Ever: Eva, Jasan, Mark, Mike, and Melissa await the apocalypse</i><br />
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It's a long way back up!<br />
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But what is this? The gloom has parted?<br />
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<i>Jasan fryin' up some top-quality grub</i><br />
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We sit speechless, as somehow the skies light up like a Caribbean summer and the temperatures begin a steady climb, 70, 75....80 degrees Fahrenheit!<br />
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<i>Instant summer!</i><br />
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<i>Zoomer has been trained to point hotdogs in their natural habitat</i><br />
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<i>lurking desert hills</i><br />
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But this is still March, despite the weather. The days are getting longer, but night still falls pretty quickly.<br />
Who knows what awaits us the next day...<br />
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And yet, somehow, another beautiful morning.<br />
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Not wanting this glorious day to go to waste, a few of us decide to hike up the road and search for more of that old trail. It's a long shot - it looks like a road was built over the trail back in the 1950s.<br />
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This hunch turns out to be true. The upper 1/2 mile of the old trail is lost to a now old road.<br />
But it is still an incredible day in the lodgepole pines.<br />
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Although the upper trail is pretty much gone, there are other artifacts left to rot for decades, as forgotten as the old men and their trails.<br />
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<i>6/30/1959</i><br />
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<i>you are here (at least in 1959)</i><br />
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There is still an afternoon to bask in this fleeting light, to go back to camp and enjoy a beer and good company as the evening falls. <br />
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There is never enough time. I watch my daughter sprout up before my eyes, and my hair turns gray like sudden snowfall. I wish to hold time in my hand, trap it like a moth. But it is designed to run free, a mercury waterfall without pause. We grow, change, evolve, decay, and return.<br />
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<i><br /></i>
Through, and often in spite of our best efforts, we complete our countless journeys - with heavy hearts, and hearts as light as air. Together, we celebrate, as much as we mourn.<br />
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After another day of boundless beauty, it is time to return again to the responsibility of those 4 walls.<br />
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Back to cleanliness, to order, and all other civilized virtues.<br />
Away from the hot sun, and a return to dripping moss.<br />
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I will camp for the rest of my years, and I swear it will never be enough. <br />
These days are the greatest gift of my life.<br />
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Bobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00281879570975634257noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7672445974485562573.post-59153249119499751502013-09-20T11:51:00.000-07:002013-09-20T11:52:20.602-07:00One Day in the Winter - February 2013<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL2KoEtV_v44ovpnx5IFXeuuY-kc1_c6FqmQiqRj566U6Wvy-5ch0XcNghWFRtxGUtvmqBGk_KskFV_Bp54I7Y8gXt-J99mVO-vflAMr_eZutPn07x5Vk_mlLdOXzQz2E-at_9cmY2dmw/s1600/IMG_6366ps.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL2KoEtV_v44ovpnx5IFXeuuY-kc1_c6FqmQiqRj566U6Wvy-5ch0XcNghWFRtxGUtvmqBGk_KskFV_Bp54I7Y8gXt-J99mVO-vflAMr_eZutPn07x5Vk_mlLdOXzQz2E-at_9cmY2dmw/s400/IMG_6366ps.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Every once in a while, winter just seems to disappear.</div>
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The skies part by Moses, and the sun sits around, acting like he's been there all along.</div>
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Never mind that it will be dark in just a few hours. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGDSAwh3Mt7IFmLPrW5Z1_ePKMQ6gN4RECrIoNACLg5qU8E9GiiM1usPjfNMNXpUS7ubGUnhqjztyxrnKyxP3guNuH05wSRgJOKFOZwhVJ11-5UX22ox7kbDgL_Vpm5HWyo90rBvjFSnM/s1600/IMG_6371ps.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGDSAwh3Mt7IFmLPrW5Z1_ePKMQ6gN4RECrIoNACLg5qU8E9GiiM1usPjfNMNXpUS7ubGUnhqjztyxrnKyxP3guNuH05wSRgJOKFOZwhVJ11-5UX22ox7kbDgL_Vpm5HWyo90rBvjFSnM/s320/IMG_6371ps.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i>Teri and Eva</i></div>
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The old trail begins in a floral icebox, but soon climbs out of the low gloom</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjys4cbqTAyTduMc8Vh5K-j8SRj_fYNf71mmV0xFpXJ3_YenPnjso5o_IGt_CDAjbszk7DB9CFIaDol7kns5mciUmrr2N9eVzJNhTEk4nQo3ro8wMHkYwr1VpI4fXi_8FBuShU8idnDr8Q/s1600/IMG_6375ps.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjys4cbqTAyTduMc8Vh5K-j8SRj_fYNf71mmV0xFpXJ3_YenPnjso5o_IGt_CDAjbszk7DB9CFIaDol7kns5mciUmrr2N9eVzJNhTEk4nQo3ro8wMHkYwr1VpI4fXi_8FBuShU8idnDr8Q/s400/IMG_6375ps.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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past giant ferns and fallen vegetation</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw5KutoyOpdDauML56IbgUD3hEUnv8KIt8jAzNOTpy9lJ58Wmx12KpaoA53IQe6xEBGOLtKqj9Xn7tRsHK9f3lscRGOdaRq3cqMwJU5EuZPI378lBg1iDoIAqfXHiFbBwuW7P-oQ6P59k/s1600/IMG_6392ps.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw5KutoyOpdDauML56IbgUD3hEUnv8KIt8jAzNOTpy9lJ58Wmx12KpaoA53IQe6xEBGOLtKqj9Xn7tRsHK9f3lscRGOdaRq3cqMwJU5EuZPI378lBg1iDoIAqfXHiFbBwuW7P-oQ6P59k/s640/IMG_6392ps.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="text-align: center;">ancient trees in dark hollows, and young trees from a fire a century ago.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirKDB14nYfyLB3ggNa1dWDkDMvsAsNVTtw9H2BnkxnQaqo_M46LEWTKwwmZqT32LdIGRHOQ6Iq7ct2aToreoFk0IYKKzKAwHTpy0NTTJEpmFp-QXQ3axwnNWKggQeO1UnjwuIwu-OjegI/s1600/IMG_6383ps.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirKDB14nYfyLB3ggNa1dWDkDMvsAsNVTtw9H2BnkxnQaqo_M46LEWTKwwmZqT32LdIGRHOQ6Iq7ct2aToreoFk0IYKKzKAwHTpy0NTTJEpmFp-QXQ3axwnNWKggQeO1UnjwuIwu-OjegI/s320/IMG_6383ps.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i>Don and Murphy</i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuTjO07_LUcTBLpShUaQJM2f0JJBAbVpAl2oNJ0maJlHYevWo-r0QI3YA6LoB6YfQ1O2yowG9cq-Bkl7WOzVcfM7-pp2z1rucKgyJUMX-5wGpZ1fXdMyzKjgPjSWOKEchWRfbNfZr-aWE/s1600/IMG_6398ps.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuTjO07_LUcTBLpShUaQJM2f0JJBAbVpAl2oNJ0maJlHYevWo-r0QI3YA6LoB6YfQ1O2yowG9cq-Bkl7WOzVcfM7-pp2z1rucKgyJUMX-5wGpZ1fXdMyzKjgPjSWOKEchWRfbNfZr-aWE/s400/IMG_6398ps.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRBD5VynsBNtswDIN3anl8_tFun-xZxWlzEzZqcwGSExx-2wmd2rWe9SZc552FXkyiST8TmIc8XFAlP891s0LJVfC2AqAhdnCSTJ-kE7ophSdKKzDclMXl_bHTz5zTILmkI-zF-ZQaTXE/s1600/IMG_6403ps.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRBD5VynsBNtswDIN3anl8_tFun-xZxWlzEzZqcwGSExx-2wmd2rWe9SZc552FXkyiST8TmIc8XFAlP891s0LJVfC2AqAhdnCSTJ-kE7ophSdKKzDclMXl_bHTz5zTILmkI-zF-ZQaTXE/s320/IMG_6403ps.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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And that is that</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSIeH3MpvuZw-z3AkB_HXWrXfw_wOOaV9uvYbWNaieT35FiQaiVJzQlwLVkEqU8PfexOvy4rZgsvFTg_hck-cBVyIsr29yUFDkquxcggCMnzMatlhnUyJd3snvKsPuTovB_Xr8VA2FJl8/s1600/IMG_6411ps.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSIeH3MpvuZw-z3AkB_HXWrXfw_wOOaV9uvYbWNaieT35FiQaiVJzQlwLVkEqU8PfexOvy4rZgsvFTg_hck-cBVyIsr29yUFDkquxcggCMnzMatlhnUyJd3snvKsPuTovB_Xr8VA2FJl8/s640/IMG_6411ps.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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As we dream of eternal springtime.</div>
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300 more days of rain...</div>
Bobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00281879570975634257noreply@blogger.com2