I grew up on the banks of the upper Rogue River in a little town called Shady Cove. (Unincorporated in those days.) There might have been a total of one-thousand people scattered for ten or fifteen miles up and down the river. Except for a few farm fields dotted here and there, the hills squeezed the river for the most part, creating a landscape of river and hills. From about age nine I was free to fish or swim in the river or to wander the hills as I chose. (My great desire in those days was to find a cave. I found a mine tunnel I was afraid to explore, but I never found a decent cave. I did find a few shy timber rattlers, but that’s for another time.)

I think I knew the twenty acre field below the house belonged to someone else, and I heard one of the adults mention the BLM land in above our place. But I came to feel the long, quiet riffles in below where our land touched the river belonged to me. And in truth I pretty much had it to myself except for those times Dad would share the riffles and teach me how to fly fish.

Over time, my exploration of the miles of hills and canyons, seasonal streams, springs, salt licks, Snake Rock, Bear Mountain and the old cinnabar mine in the canyon below Bear Mountain, the rim rocks, the oak and pine forest (and the poison oak) led me to feel it all belonged to me…included all the critters thereupon.

I remember my shock at finding a couple of people actually hunting “my” territory during deer season. When my youthful outrage led me to tall Dad someone was “hunting up there,” he laughed and said, “I know how you feel, but it’s public land. Those people have a right to be there, too.” Sharing my land wasn’t big on my list of things to do.

We left the river when I had just turned fifteen. I cried…privately…but tried to put a brave face on our family’s next adventure.

After I started a career with the US Forest Service, I thought back on my growing up years. I can smile at my notion of owning all that BLM land behind the old house as my private reserve, but I discovered a kindred spirit in the people who did the field work for the Forest Service. They, too, felt like they owned the land they had been assigned as stewards.

As a consequence, policies about use of public lands were often restrictive. The policies sometimes ran along the lines of, “Unless we give you specific permission to use the Forest, you can’t enter public land.” I remember taking my Forest Management Team team to task over a restricting policy proposal. I asked…if my shaky memory can be trusted after all these year…”Is it the King’s Forest, or the People’s Forest?”

During my nearly four decades of working for the US Forest Service, I met hundreds of conscientious, well intentioned people, people with big hearts and a passionate love of our National Forests and of our wilderness areas. But as the current managers go about the business of policy making, I would caution them to keep asking themselves, “Is it the King’s Forest, or it is the People’s Forest?”

Rod

36 F this morning. It was sposed to freeze according to the weather lady, but it didn’t. (Makes me wonder about predictions of global warming if we can’t get the next 24 hours right.) Anyway, I don’t care if it freezes. Winter is when I always seem to get a good handle on the next novel. (Fallen, a cold case, missing person mystery. Yeah, I know. There are other novels titled Fallen, but you can’t copy-rite book titles, and this one is truly linked to the story.)

I think we are ready for winter. Our woodpile is stashed safely in the greenhouse to keep it dry, along with about a hundred extra presto logs. We always keep a few gallons of water stashed in the pantry and in the garage, along with a month or two of extra food and toothpaste. Our list of necessaries includes extra gas for the generator, batteries for our two camp lights…and extra meds. (I’m on one of those auto-refill programs…which means I gain an extra week on the meds every month. Pretty soon I won’t need the drug store at all.)

I’m convinced Winter will arrive this coming Friday. Pretty sure. Friday is close to December 1. It’s our snowy month. Sometimes. Got my down jacket ready when it does.

Wish we could share a cup of coffee and talk about the old times…or the new.

Rod

I’m still working on patience, but I’ve quit praying for it because every time I do, I get tested…again. Nope, just trying to learn patience on my own.

For example, if a driver cuts me off, I say to myself,  “That person must be on a mission.” Sick child, maybe? Late to pick the kids up from school? (Or maybe the beer is getting warm.) Whatever, and I hope they don’t crash before the mission is over. Sometimes I pat myself on the back. “You are getting there, boy. You are getting there.”

The ones that test me the most, however, drive 40 miles per hour on the open highway. Those frustrate me, and then I say, “You must be related to my Grandpa Charlie Troop.” You see, he never drove faster than 40…usually, although he might push his Chevy pickup to 45 on long, straight stretches.

Imagine being nine years old and riding in the back of a Chevy pickup going 40 mph for nine-hundred miles on old Highway 99…over the Siskyou Mountains south of Ashland, Oregon…gassing up in Dunsmuir…and grinding on south. (I know…letting kids ride in back of a pickup without seat belts will get you a ticket these days, but that was then.) In all fairness, the pickup had a bed and mattress in the back and a canvas canopy. Mainly that served to make sure you could see where you had been, but not where you were going.

I remember Grandpa stopping the first night at a motor park and renting a tent house that had bunk beds for the weary.  The second night we had progressed as far as  someplace south of Bakersfield, California. That was a night to remember. I slept under a tarp alongside the road while the skeeters feasted on my tender hide. Grandpa Charlie and Grandma Ida slept in the bed in the back of the pickup, and Mother slept in the cab. Don’t know how that came about.

But finally, on the third day we finished our 900 mile journey in Long Beach, California, and the saga of grinding down old Highway 99 came to an end.

Gratefully, Mom and I rode a Greyhound Bus back to Medford, Oregon the next week. That was only about a fourteen hour ride.

(As an aside, did you know Greyhound Buses did not have toilets in the back in those days? As I recall, I made the whole trip without wetting my britches, but it was a close call. In Dunsmuir the depot was closed, but the driver took pity on me and opened the place up.)

In closing, if you find yourself frustrated by a driver going much slower than the speed limit, think of me, and remember, the driver could be related to Charles Augustus Troop.

Rod

I have no idea who first wrote this, but I will confess I did not. Given the temper of our warring political factions, I thought it might be time to dust it off and share it as a reminder of how far we have collectively strayed from the norms of decency and fair play.

TWO WOLVES

One evening an old Cherokee told his grandson about a battle that goes in inside people. He said, “My son, the battle is between two wolves inside us all.”

“One is Evil – It is anger, envy, jealousy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority, and ego.”

“The other is Good – It is joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion and faith.”

The grandson thought about it for a minute and then asked his grandfather, “Which wolf wins?”

The old Cherokee simply replied, “The one you feed.”

Rod

I’m on another quest for weight loss. (Or maybe it’s just another chapter in the Saga of Fat. Maybe.)  Anyway, I haven’t really given up on paleo dieting, or the famous grapefruit diet, or the “veggies only” diet, or white rice for a week. I’m just giving those a rest.

Instead, I’m working on portion control, high fiber meals, lots of water, and eating six times a day. Really dull reading, I know, but one of the exciting requirements of the diet is to weigh each day in order to track weight loss…or lack thereof.

I chose mornings, and I’m turning it into a study of how to properly “weigh in.” For example, I tested the “fool the scale by not looking at it” until I’m ready to get the bad news method. Just sort of sneak up and then jump on. I don’t think that works very well, but I’m also trying the “stand on your tip-toes” method. If I don’t like the reading, I re-weigh until I’m satisfied there is nothing wrong with scale after all. The scale remains mutely dedicated to the truth. (Threatening to shoot the scale doesn’t seem to make any difference either.)

Yesterday morning, I tried the “one foot on the scale” and “one hand on the bathroom counter” trick. After all, if you are standing on one foot, you need to keep your balance. I recommend it if you want to lose a fast couple of pounds. (Just don’t look in the mirror for a while.)

I also vary the order of left foot-right foot step on the scale. I think the right foot-left foot method works best. At least that has become my preferred method of weighing in. The heck of it is, the diet is working…at least that’s what my “right-foot” reading is telling me. But if it doesn’t work long-term, I’ve been reading about another diet that sounds interesting. It seems a high pasta diet will…

Rod

I’ve been trying to get organized for nearly sixty years. Before then I really didn’t own enough stuff to need much in the way of order. I owned a few white socks I tossed in a drawer. Need a pair? Take two. I owned one pair of tennis shoes, two blue jeans, a couple of t-shirts and one sweater. My few books I kept in two wooden orange crates. Need to move? Tip the crates on their backs and give them a shake. Move out ready.

I had one fishing pole and some basic gear in a fishing creel, and one deer rifle I used to fill the larder once a year. (For a starving college student I ate pretty well.)

But after several years of the simple life, the great gather started in earnest. When you have children you need stuff…cribs, washers, tables, chairs, furniture, beds. You know…to set up a house. As children grow, and as incomes grow, the list of stuff grows until finally we have too much of it, especially after the kids move away. Then it’s time for yard sales and taking stuff to the local thrift store.

My wife Vi and I have been doing a lot of that lately…giving stuff away, telling our grown children to “come and get it.” Mainly, it’s pure relief to watch the piles disappear. A couple of things are valuable if we were to sell them. (We probably won’t. Those we’ll give to the kids.)

We find more value in the clutter of those things that store our memories: a painting from a sister; a painting from Mother; fishing tackle made by Dad; the “family” wall plastered with photos of all our people; leftover school papers from kids and grandkids; and lots, and lots of memorabilia in the form of photos, stuffed animals, framed pictures, birthday and Christmas cards, and a lot of cups that say schmaltzy things like “Worlds Greatest Grandma,” (or Grandpa); and personal gifts from close friends. Those have softened my desire to return to the simple life of orange crates, white socks and one pair of tennis shoes.

The great gather is over, I hope, but the memories linger. I give thanks to the Good Lord for all of it, and wonder how people manage lives without the stuff that stores our memories.

Rod