The Aryan Nations leadership does not possess an abundance of what you might call intellectual prowess.
Their leadership skills aren’t exactly prodigious, either, come to that.
It’s a bit of a stretch, after all, to call yourself leaders when
the vast majority of Americans think you’re hatemongers who rank, on
the list of desirable dinner party guests, in the same sub-primate
range as pond scum and various infectious bacteria.
It does not surprise me, at any rate, that a branch of the white
supremacist group (although “tentacle” paints a more apt word picture
in this context than does “branch” ) seems to have misjudged our
neighbor to the west, Grant County.
And by misjudged I don’t mean the equivalent of pouring soda too
quickly so that a wisp of foam crests the rim and slides down the side
of the glass.
I’m talking about a cliff diver who can’t tell an ebb tide from a flood.
February is Bake for Family Fun Month.
I love to bake, and I’m always on the lookout for a new recipe to try — homemade bread, a healthier cake, scrumptious cookies.
But gone are the days of my solitary puttering in the kitchen.
My daughter, Olivia, is 2 1/2, which means she’s quite aware of everything we do.
See if you can picture this: I grab a mixing bowl and set it on the
counter. Immediately her eyes light up and she runs (she never walks)
to the dining room.
Next I hear the scraping noise of our wooden chairs dragging across
the floor — I cringe every time — and then silence as she hoists it in
the air to carry it across the carpet.
Back in the kitchen, she pushes the chair to the counter, climbs up and rolls her sleeves to mimic my own preparations.
She cannot be deterred, so I pull out her apron and get out the measuring cups.
And prepare for a mess.
I can attest to the prevalence of wind on Steens Mountain.
My contact lenses, in particular, would gladly sign an affidavit.
Or an arrest warrant.
The lenses harbor a real grudge against the mountain.
And I don’t blame them.
I’ve never visited a place that combines wind gusts and desert dust with such gritty, lachrymose consistency.
Neither have my lenses, so far as I know.
I rarely go anywhere, anyway, that I can’t keep an eye on them.
So to speak.
I’m beginning to miss the sun.
This is a rare affliction in our valley, which is sheltered by not
one by two rain shadows and as a result is a pretty sunny place.
The Cascade Mountains, the more imposing of these topographic
barriers, siphon much of the moisture from the storms that ride the jet
stream inland from the Pacific.
Then the Elkhorns wring out most of what’s left.
It’s quite common, then, for the Elkhorn peaks to be shrouded in cloud while sunshine brightens the valley below.
Which is nice if you enjoy skiing in the mountains but are less enthusiastic about shoveling your driveway.
These pleasant circumstances prevail, generally speaking, even
during the depths of winter, a season renowned in less beneficent
climates for conjuring skies of various slaty shades for weeks on end.
The typical winter sequence here, by contrast, begins with a day or less of storm followed by two or more days of clear.
We Americans can do just about anything in our cars.
Die, for instance.
Fortunately we’re dying in our cars far less often in Oregon than we used to.
Last year 381 people were killed in crashes in Oregon.
A terrible toll, to be sure.
But that’s also the fewest traffic deaths in the state in any year since 1949, when 356 motorists were killed.
This hopeful trend has continued into the first month of 2010, as well.
A dozen people died on Oregon roads in January.
That’s the fewest in any month since the state started keeping track
in the 1930s, said Troy Costales, Safety Division administrator for the
Oregon Department of Transportation.
The average for January is about 33.
January was also just the third month in which fewer than 20 people
died in Oregon wrecks. The two others are February 2009, when 16
motorists were killed; and February 1999, when 18 died.
As great divides go, the Rocky Mountains get a lot of press, but I think the Halfway Grade puts the Rockies in the shade.
Not literally, of course.
In terms of topography, the Halfway Grade (and its shadow) would seem
pitifully diminutive compared to the most inconspicuous foothill in the
Even measured against our more modest local standards the Halfway Grade
— the sagebrush ridge that separates the Eagle and Pine valleys in
eastern Baker County — is hardly imposing. The summit where Highway 86
crests the grade is a meager 3,653 feet above sea level. That’s barely
200 feet higher than Baker Valley.
But in meteorological matters, I know of few eminences as mighty as the Grade.
I drove over it on Sunday.
There was no snow in Richland, on the Eagle Valley side.
In Halfway, the Pine Valley town a mere eight miles away as the chukar flies, the snow was about belly high on a mule deer.
But this vast discrepancy was not the product of some rare confluence
of weather phenomena, akin to a tornado that destroys one home but
disturbs not a single shingle next door.
What I’ve described is in fact the normal state of things, snow-wise, for mid-winter in this part of Baker County’s Panhandle.
I went snowshoeing Sunday in the ponderosa pine woods near Phillips
Reservoir and managed a brief bout of melancholy despite being
surrounded all the while by beauty.
This is one of my skills.
And it is one I would happily trade for any of a whole roster of
abilities, among them a decent vertical leap and a mastery of basic
It was as I mentioned a fine winter day.
A heavy snow was falling. The flakes were fat and slushy, more like
snow in the Cascades than the powdery sort that frequents our
mountains. I never got more than a mile and a half from the highway but
the snow muffled sounds and the hum of traffic was distant and
There was little wind and the temperature was mild for the season, perhaps a degree or two above freezing.
I parked beside the Powder River and climbed a thousand feet to a plateau that plunges off its east flank to California Gulch.
I saw a white-tail deer running across a draw, wending its way
between the red-barked pines, its graceful gait so different from the
bounds of the mule deer.
I hope Tim Johnson has a pair of boots with sticky soles.
Or better yet, the new Baker City manager ought to buy a pair of
those metal-studded rubber webs that you stretch tight over your
There’s still ice around despite the recent thaw, and it makes for treacherous going.
Of course that’s not the only sort of traction Johnson needs to worry about.
He is, after all, starting a job where he has seven bosses.
Which is six more than most of us have to try to please.
Besides which, three of those bosses — which is just one short of a
ruling majority — didn’t even want to hire Johnson to run City Hall.
None of his several relatively recent predecessors, dating back 25
years or so, was picked by a City Council as divided as this current
version seems to be.
The Council’s motion to offer Johnson the job on Dec. 18 played out
almost precisely as did the motion, made on June 9, to fire Steve
Councilors Dennis Dorrah, Beverly Calder, Aletha Bonebrake and Clair Button voted to hire Johnson — and to fire Brocato.
The typical motorcycle has two levers on the handlebar, and one day I managed to break both of them.
Actually I’m being too modest.
Snapping off those levers required little more than an hour of
basically effortless ineptitude on my part, as near as I remember.
If I’d had the whole day I might have dismantled the machine
altogether, like one of those exploded view pictures they put in repair
manuals so mechanics can figure out which washer goes on first.
Although to be precise I can’t claim sole credit for the damage.
The ground helped.
I didn’t, you know, grab the levers and wrench them off, as though they were turkey drumsticks.
What I did was crash the motorcycle.
But not on purpose.
This was a recurring problem for me.
The point when you know, beyond all doubt, that you’re the worst
wingshooter alive is when a fleeing bird slows right after you’ve fired
And I mean “at it” in the theoretical rather than the literal sense.
It’s as if the bird, having recognized that the person wearing the
vest with a recoil patch is about as malignant as a kangaroo rat, is
curious to see how wildly astray the next wad of pellets will fly.
This is, of course, a dangerous habit for a chukar to indulge in.
The odds are good that the next hunter who comes along will pose a rather more immediate threat.
Actually the odds are better than that — 100 percent, not to put too fine a point on it.
In my hands a 12-gauge is not so much a weapon as it is a noisemaker that litters lead.
Although I suppose I could inflict grievous wounds on a bird by
clubbing it with the shotgun’s butt, if only the bird would sit still
for a moment and let me get my feet set.