Polar Bears, the Catastrophe That Never Happened

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The global warming narrative (oops…climate change) is thought provoking, but I wonder on which set of facts my environmental friends base their predictions.

Call me a denier, but I thought I should dip my paddle in the climate change pond and focus briefly on the polar bear, the environmental equivalent of the canary in the mine.

According very recent TV ads, November 2022, the polar bear is again nigh on to extinction. We see a mama polar bear and two furry cubs wandering forlornly along the shore of an ice studded arctic sea. It is enough to tug at one’s heart. And then we flash to a picture of new electric SUV, and by inference learn we can save the polar bear from extinction if we buy electric cars.

(Somehow, the connection between the two escapes me and begs the question of how much energy and material is expended in the production of batteries, engines, tires, glass and metal of these “pure” electric cars. There are no free rides.)

The presumed demise of the polar bear led to listing the bear as “Threatened” with extinction because the presumed reduction in polar ice caused by global warming (oops, there I go again…climate change…) would harm them sometime in the future.

Doctor Susan Crockford details the contrary facts in her book “The Polar Bear Catastrophe That Never Came.” According to Doctor Crockford, as of 2019 polar bear numbers were the highest in decades.

Maybe my global warming friends should open their minds and read a book or two.

Happy Thanksgiving,

Rod

11-20-22

A Fine Kettle of Fish

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We didn’t just fish the Rogue River when I was growing up, although it was the most frequently enjoyed. Probably because it was great fishing at that time, but also because our two acres ended at the river bank. It was an easy walk from the back porch, fly rod in hand, an old fashion wicker creel over one shoulder, down across the pasture, through the willow and alder trees, and to the upper reach of about four-hundred yards of ice cold riffles. In ten years, I don’t remember anyone other than me and Dad ever fishing that stretch. I did see one drift boat one time one summer out of ten summers. But that was all. We didn’t own the riverbank in below the house, but it served as our private stretch of river for most of ten years. (I’d love to find a place like that again.)

Dad wore hip boots, top drawer back then, but he wouldn’t let me wear any. He was afraid I’d fall, get the boots full of water and then he’d have to watch the strong river current wash me away. I’m not sure I ever heard of any local person dying that way, but my dad was a great student of land mines, the kind life can bring the unwary.

No, no boots, but it didn’t keep me out of the water. I’d wear my tennis shoes, wade out until the current was almost strong enough to sweep me off my feet, and then go to fishing. It was cold, but a few minutes in the water would numb my legs and the pain would go away.

I remember once when a big fish took my fly and raced downstream, pole bent, line stretched, reel singing, and I took a step downstream into a small hole in the gravel. That time I just swam…one handed…fishing pole in the other hand…toward the bank until I could get my feet under me. Dad always said he could get another fly rod, but he couldn’t get another son. So if the choice was hang on to the pole or drown, he rather I just let go of the pole.

I didn’t let go that time…and I landed a nice fat eighteen inch Rainbow trout. In looking back, I’m pretty sure it was one of the summer half pounders that filled the river in July way back then. They call them steelhead now, so I reckon I’ve been catching steelhead since I was about nine years old.

One week-end Dad decided on a change. He said we ought to try Hyatt Lake and fish for the large mouth bass that lived there. It was a fair sized meadow at one time…maybe four miles long, and when the dam was finished and when the Corps of Engineers began filling the pool, no one bothered to cut the trees out of the margins of the meadow. What was left was a ghost forest of dead, white snags sticking out of the water along the edge of the reservoir, and big old buckskin logs floating in amongst the snags. Ugly as sin, but wonderful fishing.

We loaded Dad’s little WWII quarter ton jeep with a big tarp, our bedrolls, the old grub box (which I still have), put our fishing poles and tackles boxes in the boat, hitched the old heavy McKenzie River boat behind the jeep, and headed for the lake…about fifteen miles east of Ashland, Oregon on the Greensprings road to Klamath Falls.

There was only one other boat on the lake when we got there, so we had it pretty much to ourselves. We set up camp, and then Dad backed the drift boat into the lake and we went to fishing in amongst the snags and logs. I think I was about ten years old, and I loved it. There we were, just me and my dad.

In the last hour before sunset the lake was mirror calm and we got into the bass. We’d cast a redheaded Heddon plug in against a log, let it sit a few seconds and then give it a crank, let it pop back to the surface, and repeat. About every third cast the water would boil and we’d set the hook on a nice bass. We fished until the sun set and Dad decided we might have trouble finding camp in the dark. It was hard enough to see camp in full daylight.

Dad cranked up our old Evinrude five-horse outboard, I pulled the stringer of live fish into the boat, and we threaded our way through the snags back to camp. Dad said to tie the stringer off and leave the fish in the water. Said we’d tend to them in the morning. Being a kid, I had to count the bass: seventeen bass with a couple running about five pounds each, and a couple more running about four pounds. I had caught about half of them, so I was pretty puffed up.

We got a fire going and Dad fixed a near perfect supper…0ne I copy now and again in my old age…home raised beef steaks, bread and butter, and fresh milk from our milk cow Queeny. If you have never had that kind of supper, you don’t know what you are missing. Maybe the open campfire makes a difference, but whatever it is, it’s a prime supper.

We laid our bedrolls on the front half of the big canvas tarp and pulled the other half up over our heads. Snug it was.

Come morning I trotted down to the lake to clean the fish. I couldn’t believe it. The fish were gone. I was sure I had tied the string up good and tight. I thought maybe a critter had dislodged the chain, but I wasn’t sure that made sense, but I’m sure I didn’t want to think I had messed up.

I walked back to the breakfast fire and told Dad. He laughed, said to get a long pole and work the boat out among the snags. The fish couldn’t have gone far.

I spent a frustrated half hour, and then there they were, kegged up against a little upright snag that stuck up out of the water. Looked like half the bass wanted to go right and the other half pulled to the left. (You know, you just can’t get a stringer of fish to cooperate. Good thing.)

We cleaned the bass, broke camp and headed home before they spoiled. When we pulled into the yard, I rushed into to the house with our bucket of bass to show Mother. She said, “That’s a fine kettle of fish.”

Rod

I don’t know if this qualifies as a blog. Maybe not, but I’m running out of old timers to feed my stories to, and my grandkids are busy with their own lives, so I’ll just tell my stories this way. Thanks.

Places Of The Heart

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I find it hard to verbalize the reason some places just reach out and grab my soul, places which make me feel more connected to life than anywhere else. And occasionally I wonder why some places warm my heart while others, including some spectacular places like the Grand Canyon, seem to be merely something to look at like a picture of any tourist attraction. Nice, but cold and a bit out of reach. I don’t mind being able to say, “I’ve been there,” but I know I wouldn’t drive fifty miles out of my way to see it again. I hope that doesn’t make me sound narrow minded, but there just wasn’t any spark of life there for me.

At times there is an aesthetic lure to a place which doesn’t need much explanation. Delintment Lake high in the Ochoco Mountains some 45 miles West of Burns/Hines, Oregon is one of those. I have no trouble remembering my first look at the little lake as I rounded the corner of the road. There it was, a pristine blue jewel bordered by tall yellow pine trees. A bit small at sixty acres, but beautiful for all of that.

I remember my first lunch there in the shade of the pine trees with an old Forest Service friend. It was quiet. Just one party of campers in the camp ground. We sat at an empty picnic table and watch right silver trout feeding on the surface of the lake. Golden mantle ground squirrels begged for food, a camp robber stole chunks of the sandwich bread I tossed to the squirrels. I wanted to stay and just soak it in.

My family and I followed that urge with dozens of camp outs there, and loved every minute of it. Perched as it was on the ridge top, Delintment Lake was harried by summer snow, hail and heavy rains, storms which tried to ruin some of our trips from time to time. But a camp out at Delintment was always worth it.

As I approach old age, I’m reminded life seems the sweetest when I visit those places which feed my soul.

Rod

p.s. Stay tuned for more Places of the Heart

Weak Minded Magoo

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I’m certain most people over 60 know the cartoon figure “Weak Eyed Magoo.” As I contemplate another move, I’m beginning wonder if I might qualify as a different Magoo, the “Weak Minded” version. I’m not worried about packing the house. Books, dishes, clothes, and other household items sort of have a logic as to how you pack them.

But when I look in the garden shed and in the garage, all I can think is “Too much stuff!” Most of which I have moved six times and almost all of which I intended to dump years ago. It is the detritus from the time when money was tight and when I personally rebuilt my car engines, replaced a front spring on my pickup, did my own brake jobs, painted my own house, poured my own concrete, put new shingles on my h0use and made up for lack of money with sweat.

On one level I know it doesn’t make sense to pack all that “stuff” around with me. On the other hand, I can’t help but wonder if it isn’t like an adult version of a teddy bear. Like a kind of safety net, one which I sort of draw comfort from, knowing I can walk into the garage, pour a box of nuts and bolts out on the workbench and find what I need to fix things. And maybe I can match a voltage converter to a gadget and save a buck or two. And I know I can fix the old Coleman gas lantern if I can find the right washer. (It’s only been broken for the past ten years.)

What I need is a boost of realism and a touch of character to help me reduce the clutter. I have cardboard boxes and plastic tubs full of nuts and bolt…some of which are actually rusty…a box of converters for only the Lord knows what…chargers for gadgets I probably don’t have anymore…a few plugins, each with only a short cord attached to nothing, but which could be attached to something.

There is a drawer in the fishing cabinet filled with spools of fishing line each of which holds maybe fifty yards of monofilament which will never be used for anything but leader…an old Mitchell fishing reel I haven’t used in years…and will never use again. And in the pole rack…fifteen fishing poles.

Two tall cupboards sit in one corner of the garage, one stacked with cans half full of paint, a couple of which might be dated around 2003. The other cupboard has cans of oil I’ll never use, transmission fluid I’ll never use, wheel bearing grease I will never use again, and other “stuff.”

The list goes on and on. Oh, yeah, and two piles of boards I could use to build “something” some time. And probably won’t. (But how do you turn good lumber into firewood??)

I think it is time for this Weak Minded Magoo to dump a lot of stuff and move on. Now, I wonder if any of my neighbors would want…

Rod

p.s. I’ll let you know how I did…maybe.

Covid Conversations

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May 4, 2021

For the last fourteen months, the citizens of my town, my county, my state and my country (and the rest of the world) have been subjected to the unwanted dictates of runaway governments. As I see it, the rules for managing this covid (aka, China flu) are in constant flux. I’m now hearing we must all be vaccinated before the world will be safe again. And maybe before we will be allowed to travel. Or shop mask free. Or be allowed to sit in a full stadium with other sports fans.

The internet is full of contradictory information about the three vaccines the pharmaceutical companies rushed into production. The big questions: Are the tests for covid reliable? Does the vaccine work? Will it give long term protection? What are the long term effects? Can a person get covid again? If I have been vaccinated, can I still infect other people? Do the cheap masks we all wear actually do any good? If I have had covid, am I immune?

I took this set of questions to my good doctor, a person whose specialty is internal medicine. I started in on the questions by stating I thought I had covid in March of 2020.

Q: Could I be tested to find out?

A: Yes, but the tests are not totally reliable. False negatives and false positives are common.

Q: If I have had covid, am I immune?

A: Not necessarily.

Q: If I am vaccinated, am I immune?

A: Not necessarily.

Q: If I am vaccinated, can I get covid again?

A: Yes

Q: Why then should I be vaccinated?

A: To reduce the impact of covid on your system. Maybe.

Q: Will I have to be vaccinated more than once?

A: Yes

Q: What are the long term effects of the vaccine?

A: We don’t know yet.

My good doctor said, “If you really want a vaccination, you can get one at the Fair Grounds,” without actually telling me to do so. So I didn’t, but it looks to me like I’m in limbo: Damned if I do and damned if I don’t get a vaccination. Doctors disagree, and no one knows what the long term effects will be. Some doctors, perhaps a majority, think we should all take a chance on the vaccine. Others think the risk outweighs the benefit.

I think I’ll wait a while and try to keep my immune system as strong as possible. For now, I’ll take my vitamin D3 daily, and get on with life. Maybe this Fall when flu season rolls around, I’ll think about trying the vaccine. Maybe.

God Bless and protect us all. And not just from covid. I think I fear my government more than the China Flu.

Rod

Vamping for Jesus

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A brief history of my brushes with Christianity:

I’ve long been attracted to Christianity, from my time as a child in Sunday School to adulthood, enduring full blown sermons.

As a child, I was obedient. I said my nightly prayer that ended in “If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.” (Now there’s prayer to reassure a kid.) I learned the song “Jesus loves me.” And when the Sunday School teacher told us to ask Jesus to enter my heart, I’d sit on a swing in the school yard next to our house and say, “Jesus, enter my heart.”

But the truth is nothing ever happened. Nothing that is until age seven. Coming up from the basement classrooms of the Apostolic Faith Church to the main chapel, I found a lady with her skirt up around her neck, flat on her back, heels drumming the floor, foam coming from her mouth, eyes rolled back in her head, and babbling like a lunatic. I was to learn later she was speaking in tongues. I reckon that’s all right for adults, but as a kid all she did was she scare the hell out of me. I ran all the way home and never returned to that place.

My third brush with Christianity happened at the Reese Creek Community Church. My grandparents took me to hear their son, my Uncle Mendal, preach a sermon as a guest pastor. He was on a roll, preaching up a storm and people were looking like they were ready to be “saved.” One man had actually started down the aisle to the altar. But…I had to pee, and the only way to the outhouse…behind the church in those days…was down the main aisle…and I was in a hurry.

I reckon my fast trot to the front door broke the spell Uncle Mendal had cast on the congregation. If he had not been a religious man, I’d say he was pissed…and I’d say he stayed pissed at me for most of the rest of his life. (He mentioned this sad event one time when I was in my late thirties.) I think he had the notion I spoiled the mood on purpose. I was labeled a bad boy, or at least I felt that to be the case. Sure made me wary of church people, especially preachers.

My fourth brush with religion came when I was fourteen. A pretty young woman in my class rode my bus and decided to sit with me going to school and coming home from school. I can honestly say I enjoyed her attention.

She finally talked me into going to church with her. She prayed, she said, for my immortal soul. So when the preacher invited those who wished to be saved to come to the altar, I obliged. After I was prayed to safety, my pretty young friend beamed and patted my arm and blessed me. And I was in love.

My problems didn’t start for almost a week. I knew I’d been had when she started sitting with another boy about a year older than me and trying her best to talk him into going to church. I guess she figured I was a finished product.

I stuck it out at church for a few Sundays until the ranter preacher started telling me if I had an unclean thought, if I coveted, etc., I had sinned and was headed for everlasting hell fire. “Well, shoot,” I thought. “I’m not supposed to think about girls?” I knew that wasn’t going to happen.

As I studied on it, I knew I was doomed no matter what I did, so I deliberately and loudly said every $*#&! cuss word I knew…and growing up in a logging town I knew quite a few. Took me a while, it did. And so I defiantly and with some sense of freedom quit the church. (I will admit to later finding a profound belief in God and the sanctity of Christ. But not right away. That is a story about angels, and a tale I seldom tell to anyone.)

As for my pretty young friend, she aged right along with the rest of us. In fact, in our late sixties, she was working on an old friend and classmate of mine, working to get him into her church and get him saved before it got too late for his redemption. He was single and interested in her, if not in church.

I laughed when I heard the story. I thought, “Yep…there she is, still vamping for Jesus.”

Good bless her.

Rod