tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-63426657669697944652024-03-27T11:08:27.324-07:00From the Mountains above the Applegate RiverDiana Cooglehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01101896692867725560noreply@blogger.comBlogger404125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6342665766969794465.post-62681393537373854782024-03-23T07:26:00.000-07:002024-03-23T07:26:56.300-07:00Swimming in My Own Pond<div style="text-align: justify;"> <span> Ten or so years ago, when my new house was being built, a friend walked with me to a spring </span>downhill from the house. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjPukyaixUingxukzbHHvKYjky54UUAF81GnI6F9QFJCH3sHF48N7V8stIRVORXNTuz738WyUKkNe7UE3_z1ZyRZ13L-xgxb-aoa-b4v5qa2nwaqvV9u4UC_O9ryR2UtKUaom7mgSCUyrbwpvVo3xwYgVIkwSF1osO4fTJEvHeefNLt8IVo0GykatMIc4qY" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2592" data-original-width="1936" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjPukyaixUingxukzbHHvKYjky54UUAF81GnI6F9QFJCH3sHF48N7V8stIRVORXNTuz738WyUKkNe7UE3_z1ZyRZ13L-xgxb-aoa-b4v5qa2nwaqvV9u4UC_O9ryR2UtKUaom7mgSCUyrbwpvVo3xwYgVIkwSF1osO4fTJEvHeefNLt8IVo0GykatMIc4qY" width="179" /></a></div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">"You know, Diana," she said, "you could dig a hole below this spring and you'd have a pond."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span> A swimming hole on my own property? A swim every day of the year? I was thrilled with the idea.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span> The machinery came up. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiltdGm4Ov3GCjO1Nz1kmNaC8T-t3Hphy75Ywf95o-SCXSrddUvJE1xux1XrvrJFxy80_OoCsgK3F74RkRZh1u0UROmN78tF9FsNzWw0i_b0C-OK_swniEoctp529Pce_sX6yxOYiYZpj_T_KNLv2GDf20jP--Q7Liw0Yu9YNepclpDlTf3_9QbINowXH0M" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2592" data-original-width="1936" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiltdGm4Ov3GCjO1Nz1kmNaC8T-t3Hphy75Ywf95o-SCXSrddUvJE1xux1XrvrJFxy80_OoCsgK3F74RkRZh1u0UROmN78tF9FsNzWw0i_b0C-OK_swniEoctp529Pce_sX6yxOYiYZpj_T_KNLv2GDf20jP--Q7Liw0Yu9YNepclpDlTf3_9QbINowXH0M" width="179" /></a></div><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span>The hole was dug. A diving and sunning platform was built, with a ladder into the pond. </span></span></span>I arranged a small cascade of rocks and installed a pipe from the spring to bring water down in a little waterfall. I brought down an enamel bathtub with the idea of creating a black-plastic-pipe solar heating system for a dunk in hot water after a cold swim. The hole filled with water.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjjoySWfguY26OiULQOEYk1YT_zeGziZh2qMh-uzolXGCCVidFPqNbQ_IaMq1yr8ETv_622C5ovuxx_1xJFQFejplgvd8CnxqXSed75rcsxarY_9LQUR_TCyJayRjRCVWfppYCTlv9JjrNu1ZFfPv1pYMh-xCoIaTxMS-LWitQeihH0rR-I3ImVb6Ho0Tcr" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2592" data-original-width="1936" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjjoySWfguY26OiULQOEYk1YT_zeGziZh2qMh-uzolXGCCVidFPqNbQ_IaMq1yr8ETv_622C5ovuxx_1xJFQFejplgvd8CnxqXSed75rcsxarY_9LQUR_TCyJayRjRCVWfppYCTlv9JjrNu1ZFfPv1pYMh-xCoIaTxMS-LWitQeihH0rR-I3ImVb6Ho0Tcr" width="179" /></a></div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span> The mud settled out. I swam in my own pond.</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span> For a day or two.</span><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span> Then</span> the pondwater sank back into the ground. The hole would not hold water.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span> I added bentonite, but it didn't work. The ground was just too porous.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span> Year after year the pond sat empty. Some years, with a deep snowfall, it would fill, but even before the weather—or the water—cleared enough for a swim, the water sank back into the ground. </span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> I have been very unhappy with my pond.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> A couple of weeks ago a ferocious storm dumped three feet of snow here on the mountain, felling countless trees. Once the snow melted and the weather cleared, I walked down to the pond, late one afternoon, to investigate the damage. </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> Firs, oaks, and madrones were strewn in the woods. T</span>hree lay across the pond. But look! The pond was full of clear, green water. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhE6cJAbX86bCDsbsDTPTlK4X2zwB5n34COT1_Gz3QeisPHxayBPHK4jc23PgvjeOfrAcMYmo76_YnxDIt80sQuA-nbY4KwsA2N-U6QiqZ8wMa6q0uWr6a0UhpnH-3M2BPbfHqZO8-qbZd2nZFjaCNcahUCXr6jS4gdNhBRxR7jSvX1uTeQKIoutrMttJhT" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhE6cJAbX86bCDsbsDTPTlK4X2zwB5n34COT1_Gz3QeisPHxayBPHK4jc23PgvjeOfrAcMYmo76_YnxDIt80sQuA-nbY4KwsA2N-U6QiqZ8wMa6q0uWr6a0UhpnH-3M2BPbfHqZO8-qbZd2nZFjaCNcahUCXr6jS4gdNhBRxR7jSvX1uTeQKIoutrMttJhT" width="320" /></a></div><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span>The spring was gurgling through the pipe onto its waterfall of rocks. The fallen trees left a hole big enough for swimming. All I had to do was clear the blackberry brambles off the platform for access, and then I could swim!</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> The next morning I took clippers, a broom, and a towel down to the pond. I freed the top platform of blackberries and cleared enough of the bottom platform to walk to its edge. Then I took off my clothes and walked into the pond.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi9dKmFQueBlls7QmB1fh1CIis5uMjyEcIZZP4o_rqs6udt3eKkd9l538cHHEh9hrKT4-exmkDlSajLSD-ux2USUVygaE6hC01JIMUQkKNmFUl8kY8Rtdm-g2CuTo9DZtqREIHY_JLm_9ulMR8BSPibP3sk1u1VVvwAS4a4xw9ammP_OgRGZkX4Efjq8Dmt" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi9dKmFQueBlls7QmB1fh1CIis5uMjyEcIZZP4o_rqs6udt3eKkd9l538cHHEh9hrKT4-exmkDlSajLSD-ux2USUVygaE6hC01JIMUQkKNmFUl8kY8Rtdm-g2CuTo9DZtqREIHY_JLm_9ulMR8BSPibP3sk1u1VVvwAS4a4xw9ammP_OgRGZkX4Efjq8Dmt" width="180" /></a></div></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span> Oh, my God! It was <i>icy</i> cold. I walked deeper in, up to my knees, up to my thighs. Then I thought, "This is just too cold. I'm not as good as I used to be. I can't do this," and I turned around to climb out.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> But what happened? What made me turn back towards the deep water, sink in, and push off? It was a matter of body over mind. The mind said, "For Pete's sake, get out of this cold water," and the body just went on in, anyway. I swam a complete turn around the perimeter of the pond, then climbed out. I wrapped the towel around me, turned to look at the clear, cold water, and gave ecstatic thanks to the spring for filling the pond and to my body for taking me into it.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> </span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>Diana Cooglehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01101896692867725560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6342665766969794465.post-51708067316093740632024-03-14T07:28:00.000-07:002024-03-14T07:28:08.447-07:00Presenting a Paper on Hippie Food at the Northwest Anthropological Confrence<div style="text-align: justify;"> I felt like an interloper at the Northwest Anthropological Conference in Portland last week. My Ph.D. is in English literature, a far cry from anthropolog. I kept reminding myself that I had been <i>invited</i> to give a paper there, on the topic of "How Hippie Food Changed the Way America Eats." I had done thorough research, and, besides, I had "lived experience," to use the academic term, from my years on a hippie commune. I could do this.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><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/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSkhIYHEnOjLIkKNiNkEyr9m9yr3i7IiTxr0SBt-1en6AE9hAVk7TQjqRs99NPzDxTZr5Y5DXk9OIp2o07U0EXWf2-zQkqrx9a19G1zQ_fnq5WYkloNEisYRkpyZcPcE-d3nvAz7yiR2twTZvm0FFXbWl4HO_qEmKdbfHPR7od-jC0KosxfRfVf-U-hYd7/s4032/Houkola%20hippies.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSkhIYHEnOjLIkKNiNkEyr9m9yr3i7IiTxr0SBt-1en6AE9hAVk7TQjqRs99NPzDxTZr5Y5DXk9OIp2o07U0EXWf2-zQkqrx9a19G1zQ_fnq5WYkloNEisYRkpyZcPcE-d3nvAz7yiR2twTZvm0FFXbWl4HO_qEmKdbfHPR7od-jC0KosxfRfVf-U-hYd7/s320/Houkola%20hippies.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Folks from Houkola, a commune I lived on south of Ashland, <br />at a pot-luck wedding.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span> </span>My paper was one of four on the session's topic, "Feeding the Masses in Oregon." </span><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span> A week before the conference, I learned that the topic had changed. Now it was "Food as Weapon," which fit fine for the other three papers (Indian schools, school lunches, laws against feeding the homeless), but seemed irrelevant to hippie food. Calming my panic, the leader of the session suggested I use the phrase "food as a weapon of love," so I added it once or twice in the paper and let it be. </span><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span> I was also dismayed to discover, when I got to the presentation room, that there was no podium and only a hand-held microphone. How could I hold my papers, turn pages, hold the microphone, and click through the Power Point slides at the same time? (All the presenters, of course, had the same problem.)</span><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span> It was a little awkward, but I managed well enough, especially with</span></span></span></span></span> a friend on the front row clicking through the slides for me. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span> And it was all a great success. T</span>he audience laughed at appropriate times; they enjoyed the photos. Afterward people spoke nostalgically about the cookbooks I had cited (<i>Moosewood</i>, <i>Ten Talents, The Tassajara Bread Book</i>) and told me that their parents had fed them hippie food. They told me about their trips to the Oregon Country Fair or about being in Eugene during that era. Later, during the day, I would pass someone in a hallway who would turn to me and say, "I enjoyed your talk." </div><div style="text-align: justify;"> Months ago, when I told people I was writing an article about hippie food, they often asked, "What is hippie food?" so my talk started with a description, from my "lived experience" on a commune in the mid-seventies, of sitting cross-legged on the floor with a group of hippies at dinner time, the cloth spread with brown rice, a stir-fry of fresh vegetables, salad from the garden, and the condiments: gomasio (ground sesame seeds), Dr. Bronner's, tamari, brewer's yeast. After dinner, I said, there might be carob brownies made with honey and whole wheat flour (and, sometimes, marijuana).</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjFwBwf6mrPlvBm1XLL6ah-xKvitkcKu2C16aiDPYzqiZyfoHtfvRhw-asN1kcHA1gMemeK2IJYhIrytEsyvUJClTwSDotQzeCWOrRo0833AP9_Uv9tbI-Svk8OcvgQjBcYM_V5-WWDAHiwofk9GBjMQLADvdJskhFOwAR5rDDNTXRRoOYfDQA7Mpmy90H/s3264/Brownies.jpg" 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/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjFwBwf6mrPlvBm1XLL6ah-xKvitkcKu2C16aiDPYzqiZyfoHtfvRhw-asN1kcHA1gMemeK2IJYhIrytEsyvUJClTwSDotQzeCWOrRo0833AP9_Uv9tbI-Svk8OcvgQjBcYM_V5-WWDAHiwofk9GBjMQLADvdJskhFOwAR5rDDNTXRRoOYfDQA7Mpmy90H/s320/Brownies.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> If these "hippie foods" are no longer identifiable as such (well, carob brownies, I guess, are still hippie food), it is because hippies changed the way Americans eat. As I noted in the conclusion of my paper:</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span> "Today, even in supermarkets like Anderson's and Safeway you can find tofu, kale, soy sauce, and tahini, if not brewer's yeast and gomasio. Organic food is widely available, not only in co-ops (which hippies started) but also in supermarkets. </span></span></span></div><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/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOygnhCFFk6jxWR1fF7pT89Y8udGw9JyG-4vCb1_balprN_CbBUfpu3G0XB_U4nhjTWunsRFNlnD_jfQogVOM4f65EhyGjNJvXyBt3bchpkbNx7hYQUlBv_HcB291DHOj9IxyoXMp2PR6R_kLZqOdFhw9cuCOPQ_d4ho8vW2dEOFtpjmzUwriY1OV1z2A2/s700/2017RVgrowers1%20copy.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="524" data-original-width="700" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOygnhCFFk6jxWR1fF7pT89Y8udGw9JyG-4vCb1_balprN_CbBUfpu3G0XB_U4nhjTWunsRFNlnD_jfQogVOM4f65EhyGjNJvXyBt3bchpkbNx7hYQUlBv_HcB291DHOj9IxyoXMp2PR6R_kLZqOdFhw9cuCOPQ_d4ho8vW2dEOFtpjmzUwriY1OV1z2A2/s320/2017RVgrowers1%20copy.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Ashland's farmers' market</span></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: right;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span> </span></span></span>Farmers markets, another hippie introduction to Oregon, are now in large cities and tiny hamlets all over the state. <span><span><span>The vitamin shop with herbal remedies on the street corner? </span></span></span>Thank the hippies.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiClFae3CkceSB15ol-09TdNbZWGYwQRu63_oiq_ncMGA5EiXPSwow4TWJcjptnERvaziQfV2B1Vc2bXhj3cDG6odoLNcEfTouwEDsT_CEqzBL9ZpFjOFMFkdRnA2Qhyphenhyphen7t8pbpzSNxcBqVSGL_D0qEG9TxwQ_pALYKGEhi-Xz5q317agJLmWludzhzcV7ho/s3152/Herb%20shop%20cropped.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3152" data-original-width="3019" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiClFae3CkceSB15ol-09TdNbZWGYwQRu63_oiq_ncMGA5EiXPSwow4TWJcjptnERvaziQfV2B1Vc2bXhj3cDG6odoLNcEfTouwEDsT_CEqzBL9ZpFjOFMFkdRnA2Qhyphenhyphen7t8pbpzSNxcBqVSGL_D0qEG9TxwQ_pALYKGEhi-Xz5q317agJLmWludzhzcV7ho/s320/Herb%20shop%20cropped.jpg" width="306" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div> F</span></span></span>illing a bag with only as much granola as you need from the bulk bin at Market of Choice? Thank the hippies. Farm-to-table? It was Alice Waters, inspired by hippy relationships with food, who pioneered that trend. Even if your mother wasn't a hippie it's probable that she—or, just as likely, your father—fed you better than the hippies' mothers fed them. For that you can thank the hippies. When you sit down at a restaurant that serves local produce—thank the hippies."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> I don't know how much the audience of anthropologists learned that was relevant to their studies, but I do know that I entertained them with tales of the past and opened their eyes, perhaps, to the ways hippies did, indeed, change the way America eats. Thank the hippies.</div><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/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_RCbQ7MEaCLDAqZe0gY2vT7uNBJFlNeeOwjHKpTxNUrDl_hRm9XGdenjBktRLJhfnfThqnsPQ-6tEv37mfEATobnBclMqIJ8deiiNVGP3DNownU0ilPj929pvDHSu4pPXmBKPz3ny1_5DBkSFTCskbl7I-JZp67Lhu7x-smILt4LDQEVcqYIMu8sIBFRB/s3606/China%20Grade%201.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2704" data-original-width="3606" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_RCbQ7MEaCLDAqZe0gY2vT7uNBJFlNeeOwjHKpTxNUrDl_hRm9XGdenjBktRLJhfnfThqnsPQ-6tEv37mfEATobnBclMqIJ8deiiNVGP3DNownU0ilPj929pvDHSu4pPXmBKPz3ny1_5DBkSFTCskbl7I-JZp67Lhu7x-smILt4LDQEVcqYIMu8sIBFRB/s320/China%20Grade%201.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Folks at the China Grade commune, where I lived, 1969-71.<br />I am kneeling, with the goat.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><span style="text-align: justify;"> </span>Diana Cooglehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01101896692867725560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6342665766969794465.post-74034810178998842812024-03-04T10:56:00.000-08:002024-03-05T13:49:00.851-08:00And Snow It Did<div style="text-align: justify;"> At the first snowflakes on Thursday afternoon, I drove my car the half-mile to the paved road and left it there. If there were heavy snow, that road would be plowed.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span> By the next morning a </span></span></span>three-foot-deep snow had me thoroughly snowed in. The white sublimity dominated. I had no electricity, phone service, or internet. I still had water, on gravity feed from a holding tank, and I had plenty of firewood to keep the house warm. I settled in to enjoy the snow.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcSZtpQW4CWvLKHOsXjIwuQ1xIXN5Fj9cOoZGpVsrtcz7JswQAw7Uh56hC-h33B97xcUPat3hntoA_359H_y0rIpoW9KIknSr_h_nLmhtD1eKtZA8Yh_D15B7Ko78eGPVPKtXYz78HzX4R225cJaodezoBbTXLjq7P13EC9Z80X-R5O5rc6M1CR_9rnXRs/s2016/IMG_0578.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcSZtpQW4CWvLKHOsXjIwuQ1xIXN5Fj9cOoZGpVsrtcz7JswQAw7Uh56hC-h33B97xcUPat3hntoA_359H_y0rIpoW9KIknSr_h_nLmhtD1eKtZA8Yh_D15B7Ko78eGPVPKtXYz78HzX4R225cJaodezoBbTXLjq7P13EC9Z80X-R5O5rc6M1CR_9rnXRs/s320/IMG_0578.jpg" width="240" /></a></div> Fortunately for me, the people who own the only other house on the road—John; Ausra; and Ausra's thirty-year-old son, Ugnius, and twenty-year-old daughter, Jurga—are here now. They spend most of the year in Panama.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span> Jurga (who has become such a good friend!) has been sick, but Ugnius, Ausra, and I made a reconnaissance walk through the deep snow to the paved road. Time after time, we crawled through downed trees blocking the road. My car was up to its neck in snow, but the paved road had been plowed. Already worn out (I was, anyway), we decided to dig my car out the next day so Ausra and I could go to town and get oil for John's chain saw. Ausra said she could cut up the downed trees, and Ugnius said he could try to create a passage in the road with John's Kubota.<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/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgasU8woOt101bcBiCcdTs6CF31GZBmihMz67wzvpvWo5bIXAQUafTdvooNH4eIL_QZfjx-YdIHEGH6YSVHyIx22nlD-XPS6RM7wcjCwU-bbVUe6LzcxDlGliHWsrsDGk-MoiNBUe8zaJsAQ7MzMPpLQoXA_5KX0rIMDAqihisAHI4wnHgrexlH2Dgfj1sT/s2016/IMG_0572.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgasU8woOt101bcBiCcdTs6CF31GZBmihMz67wzvpvWo5bIXAQUafTdvooNH4eIL_QZfjx-YdIHEGH6YSVHyIx22nlD-XPS6RM7wcjCwU-bbVUe6LzcxDlGliHWsrsDGk-MoiNBUe8zaJsAQ7MzMPpLQoXA_5KX0rIMDAqihisAHI4wnHgrexlH2Dgfj1sT/s320/IMG_0572.jpg" width="240" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">It got worse—bigger trees—farther down the road</span></td></tr></tbody></table></span></span></span></span></span> Later, Ausra and Ugnius helped me shovel a path to the woodshed.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> That evening, when I had changed out of my snow clothes, lit candles around the house, and put a skillet of eggs on the wood-burning stove for dinner, I was surprised to hear a knock on the door. Ausra was on the doorstep, her fur-lined parka sparkling with snow and a bottle of wine in her hand.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> Shaking the snow off her hat and pulling off her boots, she told me that Ugnius had told her she ought to go visit that "lonely old lady."</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> He meant me, of course, but the description was so far from how I think of myself that it sounded bizarre. Ausra poured the wine, and we had a pleasant candle-lit visit on a snowbound winter's night, as Ausra entertained me with tales of growing up in an orphanage in Communist-era Lithuania and her years working on cruise ships with international crews.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> The next morning I carried my snow shovel down the road to dig the car out. I had just started when a neighbor, Sebastian, drove by, stopped his truck, and got out. I thought he would offer to help me, but he had a better idea. He would bring his monster equipment up in a couple of hours, he said, and clear and plow the road.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> Hallelujah,</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> I climbed back up the hill through the deep snow and stopped at Ausra's house to tell her the new plan and to use Ugnius's set-up in his car to make phone calls. Just as I was headed home again, I heard heavy machinery coming up the road. Soon a monstrous machine came around the corner, plowing mounds of snow off the road and pushing downed trees out of the way. Sebastian brought the big old machine right up my driveway, plowing it down to the dirt and pulling the madrone that had fallen over my pump house out of the way.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6mjQnkndJtDZhbZULlDuy-WP7xtkIBDDA1gCLoyCQgH6LT3uW8FOTiv0JiYoMj7vG4YjqUXIDFp3fZnA20E5zdkgalY7mf_mstryeXrQElT3REPEuicy04i7IPqJOfK4E9m74SeVcCDL28J_XRpVJs09mK7Uvs3nHzDTdfUeMnzSdelB6Qxm3CU02hUYV/s2016/IMG_0584.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6mjQnkndJtDZhbZULlDuy-WP7xtkIBDDA1gCLoyCQgH6LT3uW8FOTiv0JiYoMj7vG4YjqUXIDFp3fZnA20E5zdkgalY7mf_mstryeXrQElT3REPEuicy04i7IPqJOfK4E9m74SeVcCDL28J_XRpVJs09mK7Uvs3nHzDTdfUeMnzSdelB6Qxm3CU02hUYV/s320/IMG_0584.jpg" width="240" /></a></div></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> He had freed my car from the snow, too.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> Of course, I'm enormously grateful.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> But all that beautiful pristine snow with its deep walking trenches we had made by trampling down the hill and back up again and again. The delightful two-foot-deep tunnels we had been walking through. The deep, soft, angel-white, lovely snow. All ruined! All turned to mud-splattered clumps of ugliness. Oh, I am so sorry! I hate to see a beautiful thing ruined. And all that snow was so beautiful!</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> But I am not an idiot. It's good that we can drive the road again. It's good that, after three days, the electricity has been restored. I mourn the loss of the beauty—the snow, the candle-lit table—but I am not so foolish as not to be grateful.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> And, anyway, it is still beautiful out my front windows. And still, every once in a while, it starts snowing again.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkfsO3Y9q1Mp96MR1qV9RtnqDJY3r1uuNW_v27l2u8f7PiSawOWWVCXfaTEpeWjes4ShGButeapKX6ge48RbU-OcAYRuMEkwQdiysfTTi35BhV7wqtstLly-8GsoYdKJ-hC1V829CsqCS0P9_cfi8Wd3fJfePSlokkO2H29-nExMvxmv1Eih4wXea1SNO5/s2016/IMG_0596.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/AVvXsEjkfsO3Y9q1Mp96MR1qV9RtnqDJY3r1uuNW_v27l2u8f7PiSawOWWVCXfaTEpeWjes4ShGButeapKX6ge48RbU-OcAYRuMEkwQdiysfTTi35BhV7wqtstLly-8GsoYdKJ-hC1V829CsqCS0P9_cfi8Wd3fJfePSlokkO2H29-nExMvxmv1Eih4wXea1SNO5/s320/IMG_0596.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /></span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><p style="text-align: justify;"><br /></p>Diana Cooglehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01101896692867725560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6342665766969794465.post-30903010064738534782024-02-22T18:56:00.000-08:002024-02-22T18:56:04.054-08:00Where are the men?<div style="text-align: justify;"><span> I appreciate everyone who works in some volunteer capacity in the Applegate—or in any community. But I find it curious how few of those community leaders are men.</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> I have served on the board of the <i>Applegater</i>, a quarterly newsmagazine of the Applegate, for many years. Currently it has six members. Five of them are women. This or a similar ratio has been usual for as long as I have been on the board.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span> A Greater Applegate is the only nonprofit I know of in the Applegate that has more men than women on its board (5 men, 3 women). However, the balance shifts when you add the staff, all eight of whom are women.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> Other boards: Williams Community Forest Project: 4 women, 2 men. Applegate Siskiyou Alliance: 4 women, 2 men. Friends of Ruch Library: one man among five or six women. Voices of the Applegate, a local choir: at least one man, sometimes maybe two; women sing tenor.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span> Similar ratios hold among nonprofit boards in the Rogue Valley in general.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span> Reading the names for the board of the </span>Jackson County Library District, I deduce 3 women, 1 man, plus one name that could refer to either a man or a woman.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span> Carpenter Foundation: 5 women, 3 men.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span> The Oregon Shakespeare Festival is an exception (9 women, 13 men), but it's worth noting that only two of those men live in the area.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> It's true that there are more women than men in the Rogue Valley (95 men to 100 women), which is a larger gap than in either the state (98 men to 100 women) or the nation (97 men to 100 women). Still, the proportions don't work. Proportionately, there should be more men willing to serve on boards in the Applegate.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> Women far outnumber men in yoga classes. My first yoga teacher was male; all but one of the students in the class were female. My current yoga instructor is female; there might be one man among the students each class period—or not. Nationwide, 87% of yoga instructors are women. 75% of practitioners are women. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div> Sixty percent of the students at colleges and universities in the United States are women.</div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div><span face="Roboto, "Helvetica Neue", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #3e3f3a; font-size: 16px; text-align: left;"><span> </span></span>What happened to the men? </div><div><span> </span>My theory is that when women start encroaching on what used to be a man's domain—college, yoga, board positions, whatever—the men disappear from that thing. It's like what happened with names. Shirley and Carol used to be common names for men. Now men think, "I can't name my son Shirley. That's a girl's name." They think, "Yoga is for women." They think, I guess, that boards for nonprofits are women's clubs.</div><div><span> What a pity.</span><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>Diana Cooglehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01101896692867725560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6342665766969794465.post-41378791239729814812024-02-15T10:59:00.000-08:002024-02-15T10:59:54.794-08:00Back in the Classroom<div style="text-align: justify;"> Last week I found myself scribbling furiously on the whiteboard in the Ruch library, filling it with important points and diagrams, erasing everything, and writing more, as I used to do, before I retired from teaching in college. I was dashing through the differences between journalism style and essay writing, bouncing on my toes with enthusiasm.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div> On behalf of the <i>Applegater</i>, the quarterly newsmagazine of the Applegate, I was teaching a crash course in journalism, free to interested participants. As both a writer and a former journalism instructor, I was certainly qualified to do this, though <span>I wasn't sure how to teach a term's worth of journalism in four hours. I prepped hard, then</span> made brownies for refreshments, figuring food would be as important as instruction. </div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> After introductions, I went directly into the basic writing process and the particulars of writing journalism. I emphasized what I called the first rule: "It's not about you." Subdue your personal identification with the subject, I advised. The article is about that subject, not about you.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span> After an hour and a half of whiz-bang lecture, I set the students up with an exercise to work with partners. Then they changed partners and repeated the exercise. It was a little complex, but i</span></span></span>t worked.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span> B</span>etween the two parts of the exercise, one student said she had been confused. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span> </span>I said, "Oh please, don't sit there confused. That makes me feel bad." </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span> </span>"It's not about you!" someone called out. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span> </span>Everyone laughed. It was that kind of class.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> I ended with a half-hour of grammatical tips. One student confessed that she had grimaced when she saw that part of the schedule. But, she said, the grammar part had been fun, too.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> In fact, all the students, as they left, said they had enjoyed the class—and the brownies—and that they were leaving with new knowledge and confidence.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> As for me, I had enjoyed so much being in the classroom again. It was a barrel of fun.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>Diana Cooglehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01101896692867725560noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6342665766969794465.post-74575160963424737622024-02-08T18:42:00.000-08:002024-02-08T18:42:04.438-08:00Plastic<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span> </span>I loathe plastic. It's so unorganic. It lasts forever and clogs up all the ecological systems. I yearn for things I can burn, compost, or recycle—paper bags, glass jars, cotton clothes. I am trying to get rid of plastic in my life.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> It was easy enough with plastic bags. I have a ton of totes, and a friend gave me a box of small waxy paper bags to use instead of sandwich bags. I've pretty much transitioned to doing without plastic bags.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span> The rest is not so easy. Because all shampoo comes in convenient plastic bottles, I thought I would buy bulk shampoo at the coop and put it in a glass jar, but the bulk shampoo at the coop has fragrance in it, and I'm allergic to fragrances, so I"m back to shampoo in plastic bottles. I can buy milk in cardboard cartons instead of plastic bottles, but those cartons are plastic-covered and are neither recyclable nor burnable. </span>I have replaced plastic wrap with tinfoil. I never use plastic dishes or tableware, but plastic is ubiquitous in the kitchen: my blender is plastic and those wonderful rubbery spatulas are plastic and the refrigerator is plastic. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span> </span>This very computer is plastic. Even my car is plastic.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span> In a book of haiku I was given for Christmas, I read the perfect summation of the problem:</span><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span> </span><span> </span><span> Plastic red sphere</span><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span> </span><span> </span><span> Caps a pen. Extra plastic</span><br /></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span> </span><span> </span><span> For the Mariana.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span><span><span> Think about it. That tiny ball of plastic you rub off the tip of your new ballpoint pen and maybe throw in the trash or drop without thinking on the floor—even that is a minuscule addition to the accumulation of things that never dissolve or disintegrate or recycle into something else. Every piece of plastic we manufacture eventually ends up in the environment—on the roadside, in the soil, in the ocean. </span></span></span>Every tiny, forgettable piece of plastic adds to the problem.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span><span> </span>From plastic we have created an astonishingly convenient but totally unsustainable world. </span><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span><span><span><span> My effort to live without plastic is </span></span></span></span>an exercise in futility. But I feel cleaner doing it. Try it. You'll see what I mean.</span></div>Diana Cooglehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01101896692867725560noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6342665766969794465.post-29721665841288168862024-02-01T15:38:00.000-08:002024-02-01T15:38:10.176-08:00On the Elliott Ridge Trail with the Forest Serrvice<div style="text-align: justify;"><span> <span style="font-size: medium;"> Keeping my eye on my goal to hike 800 miles before my 80th birthday in July, I did the 10-mile hike up Stein Butte the other day. As I climbed I remembered hiking along the Elliott Ridge and down the Stein Butte trail last fall with personnel from the </span><span style="font-size: medium;">Rogue-Siskiyou National Forest, which had proposed some fire protection work along that route. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span> </span>I was suspicious. So were three other Applegate residents who joined me and the six Forest Service employees on the hike.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span style="font-size: medium;"> Before we set out, the four of us expressed our concerns—loss of botanical variety along the trail, damage to the special communities of plants, and the visual effects of their work on the trail. We were told they had permission to work—i.e., to cut and slash—for a thousand feet, probably meaning five hundred feet on each side of the trail.</span><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/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjONbbkGzYt_TGBBMpuetj7Gv6NY3gAh4StrNfndHA3DOuHUqdT-vkO6jyBy9vK5qFOc_tjRgjvINB-Nonrf6LtajSS1zC2_aw8qB-x4cAmVmd6Qagaiq1P3juCF1riHR_FAqRf26V23ZLMFn8LSXxTTZSBUR6n3GRUwTRxEXyBE05Xj9BPtHbhGga3gWmt/s1992/49077024_2484210084941502_3667799395295821824_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1992" data-original-width="1121" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjONbbkGzYt_TGBBMpuetj7Gv6NY3gAh4StrNfndHA3DOuHUqdT-vkO6jyBy9vK5qFOc_tjRgjvINB-Nonrf6LtajSS1zC2_aw8qB-x4cAmVmd6Qagaiq1P3juCF1riHR_FAqRf26V23ZLMFn8LSXxTTZSBUR6n3GRUwTRxEXyBE05Xj9BPtHbhGga3gWmt/s320/49077024_2484210084941502_3667799395295821824_o.jpg" width="180" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Madrone trees along the trail</span></td></tr></tbody></table></span><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span> I gasped, horrified.</span><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span> No, no, they said. That didn't mean that is what they <i>would</i> do. They had no intention of doing anything so drastic. Not to worry.</span><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span> At various places along the trail, I stopped and said, "What would you do here? What would it look like after you did your work?"</span><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span style="font-size: medium;"> They would cut these small trees, they said. They wouldn't touch the lovely big trees. They might trim the ceanothus bushes. </span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span><span> </span>It looked reasonable.</span><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span><span><span><span><span> We talked about their plans for a spot of chaparral on the trail. Luke explained that in the past heavy thinning of chaparral in the Applegate watershed has degraded these habitats and spread noxious weeds and highly flammable non-native annual grasses, contributing to the loss of biodiversity, increasing fire risk, and damaging the area's natural beauty. T</span></span></span></span></span><span><span><span><span><span>he Forest Service people agreed that they wouldn't take such drastic measures here. </span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span style="font-size: medium;"> And so on.</span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span><span> All in all, it sounded pretty good. They would do all the work along the trail themselves, by hand. Only the work along the road would be hired out to machines.</span> They would respect the integrity and beauty of the trail while still giving firefighters means to resist a fire in the area. They would work downhill, off-trail, as much as possible. My fears about one of my favorite trails were allayed.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span style="font-size: medium;"> "It sounds all right," I said. "But how likely is it to actually happen this way?" </span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span> </span>The long pause before any response was answer enough. They glanced at each other. Theirs was not the final voice. Their plan would be taken up the ladder, from one supervisor to another, further and further from the people walking the trail with us, listening to our concerns and making adjustments in their plans. </span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span> Confidence crumpled. </span>Who knows what the final instructions will be and what the trail, in the end, will look like?</span><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/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIvNurfTbbOWGRltoEoSPJaJ9aWnhslK7zil0YF5Wao_mjUl8nVJx4Fqi7gHN4qlIadbv8Md8z0Tbrpgj1CtNq3n6n8ZQ-IyXABJMtibQP_0_p1UhRZVuQB_bFdIZp4_xJI3YxKETuYEdoPwa9o8DdXDVhWkjJgAowcDEBuRctjbFcBOxsGZqZ1x9_AiP1/s4032/IMG_5226.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIvNurfTbbOWGRltoEoSPJaJ9aWnhslK7zil0YF5Wao_mjUl8nVJx4Fqi7gHN4qlIadbv8Md8z0Tbrpgj1CtNq3n6n8ZQ-IyXABJMtibQP_0_p1UhRZVuQB_bFdIZp4_xJI3YxKETuYEdoPwa9o8DdXDVhWkjJgAowcDEBuRctjbFcBOxsGZqZ1x9_AiP1/s320/IMG_5226.jpeg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">The Siskiyou Crest from the Stein Butte trail</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div>Diana Cooglehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01101896692867725560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6342665766969794465.post-12424008354077304612024-01-26T12:05:00.000-08:002024-01-26T18:35:27.414-08:00Was It Cold in Your Part of the Country?<div style="text-align: justify;"> <span> Last week was a cold week in America, everywhere it seemed, except in southern Oregon. After my six inches of snow and a good ski trip at Lake of the Woods, which was crowded with snowmobilers and children on sleds, suddenly the temperatures were in the fifties and everything was rain—which, of course, is a good thing, but it would be better if it were snow.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span> Meanwhile, the rest of the country was having a hard time of it. Eight degrees in Blue Ridge, Georgia, my sister reported. Minus four, said my friend in Boulder, Colorado. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span> </span>I was so envious.</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span> But not of conditions just north of me, where the world turned to ice. The phenomenon, my son explained, was that the rain froze when it hit the ground. </span></span>Chaos ensued.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span> My nephew who works for the fire department in Portland said they were getting a thousand calls a day.</span><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span> My nephew who lives in Pennsylvania had to bundle up indoors when the heater in his house broke and couldn't be fixed till parts came in. When he built a fire in a long-unused fireplace, the house filled with smoke, necessitating open windows on an in-the-teens day.</span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span> I might envy eight degrees and even four below, and certainly I wish my landscape would look like the pictures of snowshoe trips my Colorado friend sends me, but t</span></span></span></span></span>here are some parts of a hard winter I would just as soon avoid. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span> But I did ski at Crater Lake today, in perfect snow, with a deep </span>blue sky filling the interstices of ink-dark clouds, occasional light snow kissing my cheeks, and snow-burdened firs on the distant mountains glowing in strips of sun. You see why I want more snow?</div>Diana Cooglehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01101896692867725560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6342665766969794465.post-68346476275387230422024-01-18T11:51:00.000-08:002024-01-18T11:51:31.157-08:00Words from My Father<div style="text-align: justify;"> Every day I receive a new word, via email, from Word Daily. Yesterday's word was "obstreperous" (noisy and difficult to control). </div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"> Obstreperous. When I read this word, I heard it in my father's voice. "You're just obstreperous!" he would say to me, teasingly. I was too young to know what the word meant, but I could tell by his tone that he loved me. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span> He told his children they were "obstreperous," "perspicacious" and "impudent" before they understood "doggie" and "moo," but he spoke these words to us with such affection we glowed under the supposed compliment. He would say, "You're my p-i-double-l pal," and we thought it was grand to be Dad's pal. Only years later, after we learned to spell, did we get the joke.</span><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span> He could be serious about words, too. "Enunciate," he would say sternly. "Say 'get' not 'git.' Don't say, 'It's somethin' I'm plannin',' but 'It's something I'm planning.'" He and my mother were both from Kentucky, but he had no patience with poor enunciation. Surely because of that training, I was able to be a radio commentator for twenty years.</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span> My father had a repertoire of three or four memorized poems. When he was well into his nineties, my son called him on the phone one day and asked if he could still recite "The Raven," by Edgar Allen Poe. Yes, he could, and he did, right there on the phone, and my son recorded that wavery old voice giving one final recitation of my dad's favorite poem.</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span> My father was famous for telling a story that centered around words. It started with an explanation that the Hottentot language built words by adding words together. "For instance," he would continue, "the Hottentot word for mother is 'muder.' The Hottentot word for children is 'trotter.' If they were stuttering children, the word was 'stridle-trotter.' So a mother of stuttering children was called a 'stridle-trotter-muder.'" And so on, until he got to the climax of the story with "the butel-rotten-lotten-gitter-wetter-cotter-Hotten-totten-stridle-trotter-muder-otten-tater has escaped." It means "the murderer of a Hottentot mother of stuttering children who was kept in a kangaroo cage with a slat cover to keep the rain off" has escaped. <span> </span>It is a word dear to my heart.</span><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span> </span></span></span></span></span></div></div>Diana Cooglehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01101896692867725560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6342665766969794465.post-86411211348719363802024-01-11T07:51:00.000-08:002024-01-11T07:51:53.554-08:00Winter Weather Warning<div style="text-align: justify;"> <span> The winter weather warning was right! It snowed all day yesterday, and I am so happy! What a white and glorious wonderland is framed by my window!</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span> The firs and pines are bowed down with their white burden. Each limb of the apple tree is outlined with a ribbon of snow. Six inches of snow soften the ground. Humpy Mountain looks frozen in place.</span><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> Everything is so still, hanging in the balance of beauty.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span> Here is my</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Ode to a Winter Landscape</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Nothing is so beautiful as a winter landscape</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span> When fire-folks of frost in the frozen fields</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span> </span><span> Wink rainbows at the morning sun</span><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span> When the unity of white undoes dappled things</span><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span> When the squeak of skis on snow</span><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span> </span><span> sneaks into the unity of silence</span><br /></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span> </span><span> in the snow-muffled forest</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> When the air is so cold it hurts your teeth to smile</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> </span><span> But you can't</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> stop</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> smiling</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span>Because nothing is so beautiful</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> as snow-laden fir boughs against a cobalt sky</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> the descending blue rushing towards whipped-cream peaks</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span>Nothing is so beautiful as the kiss of snowflakes</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> whisper-soft from steel-gray clouds</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span>Nothing more magical than the inaudible fall</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> of snow outside the window</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> descending like down from overstuffed clouds</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> the fire at your back shining like shook foil</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span>Nothing is so beautiful as winter stars</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> splintering in the cold air</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> of a landscape which—</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> </span><span> </span><span> winter scene</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> </span><span> </span><span> sweet, especial winter scene—</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> is charged with grandeur</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> and</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> gathers to a greatness</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> of insuperable cold</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> unsurpassed silence</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> unconditional beauty</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>Diana Cooglehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01101896692867725560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6342665766969794465.post-11340332415682898712024-01-04T11:35:00.000-08:002024-01-04T11:35:44.391-08:00A Party with Harmonious Parts<p> <span> </span>Concinnity, I think, just might be the secret to a good party.</p><p><span><span> "Concinnity" means </span></span>"the harmonious arrangement of various parts," as at my New Year's Day party, the parts of which were:</p><p><span><span><span> Food. In the South, where I grew up, eating black-eyed peas on New Year's Day brings good luck throughout the year, so I gave my guests black-eyed peas and cornbread. And cookies—stained-glass cookies, rum raisin brownies, date bread, chocolate chip mint cookies—on plates around the room. There was wine, beer, or sparkling water. Later, I hand-ground coffee beans for fresh coffee. (See post on April 14, 2023, for a description of my coffee grinder.)</span><br /></span></span></p><p><span><span><span><span> Atmosphere. A few days before the party, three friends came over to help me strew cedar boughs on the bannister and cedar swags along the wall, all accented with Christmas lights and Christmas-fabric bows.</span></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs8pOM5b0GZBWGWfz5Kqe6mITX8epIIkg9h5rl2oIPrE9kuMDMg36vpsu6ibte8BMG9a24T4odsUHyWwsKOJbzs63Ir11T-0moZKaWWUvISTCpm_-0gzoioLlKFriL31m9XoHjUAuGSUC85IYBPKVFKDOikKkgrV6QCggRPHfDKOxrO9tpgVeFweDaR5MD/s4032/IMG_0513.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs8pOM5b0GZBWGWfz5Kqe6mITX8epIIkg9h5rl2oIPrE9kuMDMg36vpsu6ibte8BMG9a24T4odsUHyWwsKOJbzs63Ir11T-0moZKaWWUvISTCpm_-0gzoioLlKFriL31m9XoHjUAuGSUC85IYBPKVFKDOikKkgrV6QCggRPHfDKOxrO9tpgVeFweDaR5MD/s320/IMG_0513.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> With those boughs and Christmas cookies on the window-sill, the house looked festive and party-ready. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0914cqGGqsckShUpF_ET9q-YkpQN4GJqcXnXKSQtTpsGbX5AwRiluIiof1hVg7yut4yMgGOMWhKSf4HwqGO6Oup_hYmCy7spqT9zoRGUdRTrLt4KLbrwWwTpEih_538DYozQEPLE6FYQdTJrcf83ldQ3eMk3rqxAUIb5krmGATWunNTJz-b3GXmwjX5AU/s4032/IMG_0504.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0914cqGGqsckShUpF_ET9q-YkpQN4GJqcXnXKSQtTpsGbX5AwRiluIiof1hVg7yut4yMgGOMWhKSf4HwqGO6Oup_hYmCy7spqT9zoRGUdRTrLt4KLbrwWwTpEih_538DYozQEPLE6FYQdTJrcf83ldQ3eMk3rqxAUIb5krmGATWunNTJz-b3GXmwjX5AU/s320/IMG_0504.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><span><span><span><span><span> Theme. T. S. Eliot provided the theme:</span><br /></span></span></span></span></p><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span> </span><span> For last year's words belong to last year's language</span><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span> </span><span> And next year's words await another voice</span><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> My invitation had suggested people bring three words for this year. At the party, we drew words from a vase and read them aloud. </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span>"Fitness, friendship, adventure, hope, health.…" One person wanted "lots of fine poetry." Another wanted to "raise [her] vibrational frequency." This worked even better than I had envisioned. People enjoyed discussing meanings and philosophies. (My own words came from my dread of 2024: "politics, climate change, fire," but we didn't discuss them.) My favorite word, of course, was "concinnity," as described above, which a friend had brought specifically for my linguistic delight.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> Guests. This, the most important part for a harmonious party, I had in spades. I was the only person who knew everyone—neighbors, skiing friends, hiking friends, friends from the <i>Applegater</i>, from the Siskiyou Crest Festival, from my poetry group—but harmony among strangers created friends. One of my favorite images of the party was seeing various people, formerly strangers, enjoying each other's company. I have such wonderful friends!<br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> Appreciation. As guests left, I offered each a small cellophane packet of rum balls, tied with a ribbon on which I had written, "Happy New Year." But perhaps what I should have written was, "Thanks for contributing to the concinnity of my New Year's Day party!" </span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><p><span><span><span><span> </span><br /></span></span></span></p>Diana Cooglehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01101896692867725560noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6342665766969794465.post-14697472940300090332023-12-28T08:40:00.000-08:002023-12-28T08:40:46.190-08:00Barbie<div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="text-align: justify;"> I never had a Barbie doll. Barbies came along after my doll days, and, besides, wasn't Barbie a symbol of all that was wrong—having to have the perfect body, being a sex object, having to wear high heels? These were Barbie associations we scorned in the hippy days.</span></div></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span> Nonetheless, without question, my favorite Christmas present this year, from my sister Laura, was a Barbie doll.</span></span></span> I opened the Barbie package—Laura and my other sister, Sharon, were watching on Google Meet—and I burst out laughing. They were laughing, too We were sharing again the moments of watching the Barbie movie in Laura's den the week after Thanksgiving. Oh, how we had laughed. It was a sisters' bonding, sharing untold moments in our pasts as girls and women. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span> </span> Laura had given Sharon a Barbie doll for Christmas, too. She held hers up to show me—Barbie, the yoga teacher. We reminisced about favorite scenes in the movie— Barbie walking into the shower on tiptoes, "Kenough" on Ken's shirt and the back end of a racehorse showing on a large-screen TV behind him when he talks to Barbie on the doorstep. The tribute to Ruth Handler. Barbie's concession, at the end of the movie, that every night didn't have to be girls' night. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span> </span>We thought Greta Gerwig was brilliant, and we knew the truth of Gloria's monologue. "You're so beautiful and so smart." she says to Barbie, "and it kills me that you don't think you're good enough." Such familiar attitudes.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span> Barbie no longer symbolizes what's wrong with the culture; she symbolizes that a girl can be whatever she aspires to be. (</span>Laura said she had tried to find me a Barbie who was a professor of Old English, but had to settle for the baker Barbie.) I love having a Barbie. Standing tall (but not in heels) on my windowsill, she reminds me of how much has changed for women and how much I love my sisters. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div>Diana Cooglehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01101896692867725560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6342665766969794465.post-62533931324291924042023-12-22T14:24:00.000-08:002023-12-22T14:24:06.021-08:00Well by Christmas!<div style="text-align: justify;"> <span> "Well by Christmas!" my doctor declared, setting our goal. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span> Three days and counting. Bronchitis. What a bear. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span> </span>Bronchitis was the doctor's diagnosis when, since my </span></span>violent fits of coughing weren't responding to cough drops, water, hot tea, herbs, juices, and spoonfuls of honey, I decided I ought to see him. That was a Sunday (of course). I called first thing Monday, and typical of this, the best doctor's office in Southern Oregon, he saw me that same day, at 3:00. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span> By 4:30 </span>I was driving home with medications in my pocket and "well by Christmas" in my ears.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span> Certainly I'm better. I no longer spend the night sitting upright on the couch, as I did for days, since I couldn't lie prone without being thrown into a coughing fit. My route through the house has expanded from the few steps between the couch and the bathroom. Yesterday I even took an hour-and-half walk up the mountain. (Never mind that the same walk used to take an hour.) My throat doesn't hurt any more, and when my son called me yesterday, he said my voice was stronger. Although a few days ago I couldn't eat the zucchini soup I made (one of my usual favorites) or, the next night, my curried yam soup, a never-fail pleaser, or even, the next night, the butternut squash soup a friend made and sent up to me, I have found that, actually, now that I try them again, the butternut soup is delicious and the other two as good as usual. I knew how sick I was when I didn't want to eat.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span> My doctor, whom I really, really like, told me that one of the best things I could do was to bundle up and sit outside. "This cold, moist air is good for bronchitis," he told me. "Don't get cold," he cautioned. "Bundle up." </span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span> S</span>o for the past few days I have been bundling up in a coat, a wool hat, a wool scarf, fuzzy slippers, and my lovely warm gloves and sitting on the back porch with a blanket wrapped around my legs. I sit there for about an hour, reading or just watching the rain in the trees, breathing the cold moist air, loving the freshness, thinking, "Well by Christmas!"</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span> I'm not out of the woods yet, but the trees are thinning. This morning I spent hours planning a Christmas menu:</span></span></span> salmon with mushroom orzo and red wine sauce, a green bean and feta salad, and Kahlua-and-chocolate pecan pie for dessert—a real meal, with fresh food and good tastes. Because, after all, I will be well by Christmas.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span> Here's to a happy and healthy Christmas and holiday season for you, too.</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div>Diana Cooglehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01101896692867725560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6342665766969794465.post-43632442354254414982023-11-22T06:43:00.000-08:002023-11-22T06:43:03.732-08:00Prayers for Humanity<div style="text-align: justify;"> <span> One of the 75 repetitions of 75 things each that I did for my 75th year of life on this Earth, five years ago, was to write 75 prayers for humanity or the earth. (Item suggested by Mariposa Kerchival.) Last Thanksgiving I posted prayers for the earth. Today, in thankfulness for the many examples of beautiful, kind, life-responsible people in my life, I offer prayers for humanity.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span> Happy Thanksgiving to everyone!</span><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">May the children know laughter, love, song, and freedom from fear.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">May all children know the joys of childhood.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">May the balm of sleep and the calming touch of an adult ease the pains of childhood.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">May the voice of reason and the aura of compassion prevail in all circumstances.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">May women and men be treated with equal respect all over the world.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">May communities thrive with compassion, respect, neighborliness, and conviviality.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">May those with illness find relief from pain.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">May we learn to tune our hearts to the aches of others.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">May music resound everywhere in the world, always.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">May the cities flourish with art, music, and the good works of the poets.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">May we learn to trust again.</div>Diana Cooglehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01101896692867725560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6342665766969794465.post-70180855616248240352023-11-17T10:54:00.000-08:002023-11-17T10:54:40.356-08:00Memorial Services<div style="text-align: justify;"> I am saddened by the recent death of a friend. <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/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQVrSEAEC2H9jIuASxJ07YBi5gdJKy1QRHr28HbgKe-xxpG_6R_UJWxIWd63XBusE3858k0rZgwwOJ6nK_td0Mtmhi6lDxHDRWGE8Gm3XYS5cU2z-ChkkehTNx6pMA3GlHCSTOvgNG_ReNoxpKKM9K5RrYZ6E3LKK7LEXUXGdUHYnd2DU-hdKMq9KHzkvi/s1264/Jeff%202019%20(at%20my%2075th).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1264" data-original-width="1052" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQVrSEAEC2H9jIuASxJ07YBi5gdJKy1QRHr28HbgKe-xxpG_6R_UJWxIWd63XBusE3858k0rZgwwOJ6nK_td0Mtmhi6lDxHDRWGE8Gm3XYS5cU2z-ChkkehTNx6pMA3GlHCSTOvgNG_ReNoxpKKM9K5RrYZ6E3LKK7LEXUXGdUHYnd2DU-hdKMq9KHzkvi/s320/Jeff%202019%20(at%20my%2075th).jpg" width="266" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">He looks stern, but behind in that closed mouth his glorious humor peeks out</span>. </td></tr></tbody></table>We hardly ever saw each other and communicated seldom, but he was always dear in my heart. He lived on the other side of the continent, so I'm not sure I would have gone to his memorial service, but I know I would have wanted to so I could hear the stories people told of him and to know, in this way, more about him.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span> It didn't matter. He didn't want a memorial service.</span><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span> This is something I don't understand. My late husband also didn't want a memorial service. My anger at these deaths can be displaced onto the dying person himself: how dare you tell us we can't come together to mourn, laugh, and feel a common love through our relationship with you? How dare you deprive us of ways we would like to mourn, remember, and celebrate? What difference does it make to you? The memorial service is not for you. It's for us.</span><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span> I knew my husband for only six years. Our years of exploring each other's pasts and personalities were cut short, so I was looking forward to a memorial service, where his family would talk about what Mike was like when he was a child, as his children were growing up, as a brother, uncle, father, employer. I was cheated of that greater depth because there was no memorial service, not because Mike had requested there be none (he had agreed to it by the time he died) but because COVID prevented that kind of gathering. My mourning felt incomplete, ragged, solitary.<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/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiludw2lcp7YD-WVw5gky4IGr7V4EJTQkGzt71zzuEEMmhBW2VJ61c3ze-s8v4P_VaI0WM8xkDIN9Q-kqGNURWeO72aah1Z7u2z8RvofjxF3GbAKyo0b50p1U847hHYg1M-5zEO1cHG-Mp4mDKUtgETDd9N90I0qxhLHDZ9A3iUV4NO84lPBQSWSNwTy0Ud/s2626/Mike%20Kohn%20for%20obit.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1837" data-original-width="2626" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiludw2lcp7YD-WVw5gky4IGr7V4EJTQkGzt71zzuEEMmhBW2VJ61c3ze-s8v4P_VaI0WM8xkDIN9Q-kqGNURWeO72aah1Z7u2z8RvofjxF3GbAKyo0b50p1U847hHYg1M-5zEO1cHG-Mp4mDKUtgETDd9N90I0qxhLHDZ9A3iUV4NO84lPBQSWSNwTy0Ud/s320/Mike%20Kohn%20for%20obit.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">From the last hike Mike and I made together.</span></td></tr></tbody></table></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span> A memorial service elicits closure and completion. It is a communal gathering, fellowship displacing the individual mourning in each heart. Rituals at memorial services can be rich experiences—singing songs, releasing (eco-friendly) balloons, planting flowers, eating together. A sudden and tragic death—a young person's suicide—becomes easier to bear when many mourn together.</span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span> Years ago, </span>driving to the memorial service for a friend I didn't know well, I wondered why I was going, but at the service the stories from her sister and brother broadened the incomplete picture I had of this person. I was glad I had made the effort to be there. </span><br /></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span> At the reception after the service for my friend Maren, I was suddenly surrounded by five or six of Maren's students whom I had also taught at the University of Gothenburg. They were there through their love for Maren; now that love surrounded me as well. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsMt1TPLs67KbsfhbymisM48yuzANODLLvJYSRRE3BysAyXl676BFX0vZWwux2lkWOXz2n3B208QwVVkrfy-mNOdiqbYt91JhQ12HOMV9PWCPP6vKW162dZvCP5_74dhcZdH57ig-GV7hdRWNkZQNG0y9fo37emLW7lizGYfaQkKEVjHMIQSn-8bKj9_dg/s2592/Grave%20w:%20rose%20petals%20copy.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2592" data-original-width="1936" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsMt1TPLs67KbsfhbymisM48yuzANODLLvJYSRRE3BysAyXl676BFX0vZWwux2lkWOXz2n3B208QwVVkrfy-mNOdiqbYt91JhQ12HOMV9PWCPP6vKW162dZvCP5_74dhcZdH57ig-GV7hdRWNkZQNG0y9fo37emLW7lizGYfaQkKEVjHMIQSn-8bKj9_dg/s320/Grave%20w:%20rose%20petals%20copy.jpeg" width="239" /></a></div><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> </span>At the reception after my sister's service, person after person came up to me to thank me for the help Linda, </span></span></span></span></span></span>an occupational therapist, had given their children. Through the memorial service and following reception, I learned more about Linda's life that made me respect and admire her even more.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> At my father's memorial service friends and family laughed and told stories and radiated such love I have felt its warmth in my heart all these years. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span> So, listen, this is what I want to say. Go to the memorial services. Take advantage of this one last chance to know, </span></span></span></span></span></span>in many dimensions, this person you loved. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span> And by all means, when you are dying, don't say you don't want a memorial service. </span>This is for us, not for you. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div>Diana Cooglehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01101896692867725560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6342665766969794465.post-29368664263169176432023-11-09T20:48:00.003-08:002023-11-09T20:48:45.316-08:00Pipe Fork Not Saved (Not Yet)<div style="text-align: justify;"> <span> A few days ago I </span>listened in disbelief as the chair of the meeting of the Josephine County Commissioners told us that the board would not accept the Williams Community Forest Project's offer of over two million dollars to buy the forests of Pipe Fork. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span> </span>"I know you have worked hard to raise this money," he said, apologetically, "and I know the strong feelings you have about Pipe Fork. But you are more than $750,000 short of what we want for the land."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span> Let's see. They originally said if we came up with $1.6 million, we could have the land. We looked and looked for an environmental philanthropic organization that would buy the land and turn it over to the Bureau of Land Management to add to the Resource Natural Area the BLM established </span>on Pipe Fork <span>decades ago. We found that buyer. We had an assessment made and came up with $2 million to meet the assessment price—</span>more, as you see, than we were originally told we needed. Now the commissioners had raised the price. They would keep the land and sell the timber.<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/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx_ZjmB5PJ130J6HuNCBO07xh3y5eXO15Uf5ZmXsCvROXxaGgoD-OrXVmRG4nzkhjYJ7sOXD7K9v9Y7bNSs72T-vX2Ngm85uzGgBOuIOatIQh3DBktrDLAyhaZWOYAoE6KcZjrLDR3M3ZkfKEQawuPfmvIhDm5mooy-bcLsg7FQUHbZ7ILSDlmuCzOABwh/s1280/P1040303.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="796" data-original-width="1280" height="199" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjx_ZjmB5PJ130J6HuNCBO07xh3y5eXO15Uf5ZmXsCvROXxaGgoD-OrXVmRG4nzkhjYJ7sOXD7K9v9Y7bNSs72T-vX2Ngm85uzGgBOuIOatIQh3DBktrDLAyhaZWOYAoE6KcZjrLDR3M3ZkfKEQawuPfmvIhDm5mooy-bcLsg7FQUHbZ7ILSDlmuCzOABwh/s320/P1040303.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Imagine this scene, clearcut</span> <span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Photo by Kevin Peer</span></td></tr></tbody></table></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span> "</span>There are other people in the county who need what this money could bring," the commissioner said. "We will go ahead with our plans to clearcut Pipe Fork."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span> It is to my credit that I didn't spit in his face as I left the building. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span> We are just a little local organization passionately attached to our local stream, Pipe Fork, for its beauty, the importance of it as a water source for the community, and its ecological importance. We are just a handful of people, yet we raised more than two million dollars.</span><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span> Those three years of work—and anxiety—came to a close at the commissioners' meeting on Tuesday, yet </span></span></span></span>I cannot accept that reality. I cannot envision a clearcut Pipe Fork. It just should never happen. It just simply cannot happen.<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/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0SnIncaq7aToy5v8X0fMiy7wTb_2oSns3gBhaR8WOXg51QzXLK6UC_vSBVMffrbHYqALZEsYNmnOTTgj3IEzkc_zKNw7MrgB6hbcMhpnyWHiLIfKKONOiX58WGxEgLXldKG4oqCJnmzvxANpgQxmyIt8lla8jEGUZPktfgSdr471n_esEz8AP14KnttFY/s1280/Lower%20PFC1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="811" data-original-width="1280" height="203" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0SnIncaq7aToy5v8X0fMiy7wTb_2oSns3gBhaR8WOXg51QzXLK6UC_vSBVMffrbHYqALZEsYNmnOTTgj3IEzkc_zKNw7MrgB6hbcMhpnyWHiLIfKKONOiX58WGxEgLXldKG4oqCJnmzvxANpgQxmyIt8lla8jEGUZPktfgSdr471n_esEz8AP14KnttFY/s320/Lower%20PFC1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span> </span>This environment depends on a forest canopy.<span> </span><span> </span></span><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Photo by Kevin Peer</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span> If the commissioners are thinking, "Well, thank goodness that's over. Now we can get on with cutting the timber"—if they think we're going to have a little grieving ceremony for the trees and accept their fate—they're wrong. Cheryl Bruner, head of WCFP, said, "It's not over, and we will continue to fight." </span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> Saying that there were places in the county where the money was needed strikes me as a myopia we can no longer indulge in. When will we begin to understand that saving any portion of the environment, this small area of Pipe Fork, for instance, is in the interest of us all? When will we start seeing that destroying our forests for a handful of bills now means devastation for everyone later? Pipe Fork is important for the groundwater of Williams, where all residences depend on wells. If our wells run dry, will the county supply our water? Isn't everyone better off if we can continue to irrigate our fields (important agricultural income for many Josephine County residents) and supply our domestic water from our watershed? The Conservation Fund was willing to pay more than $2 million dollars for Pipe Fork, not to appease a small group of passionate citizens but because, in the bigger picture, the land is more valuable intact than the timber is worth, cut.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> But</span> the commissioners said no. </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> </span>We all live on this planet. Every ecological destruction affects us all. Yes, we who live in Williams are most acutely affected by a potential, unimaginable clearcut on Pipe Fork, but, in the long haul, it should be unimaginable for everyone in the county. </span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><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/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwP6HKFWv1Lr9nEEneJoEDbZxj_6iuLFwrTgDldZhoqXqETBmR9EPqkmRn5elK7NFp4zdYO2oK2HYJedYQa7e1mfO1eyh4tlAl4cbWY4ru8rI2wU_jcyf1QI6VknGJgG31O5t5i7kAcNkPocL6oB6hscHf-6wFiC1IvvXfYjJSMlnsbnjJuTW0tH0acF7X/s1278/Pipe%20Fork.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1278" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwP6HKFWv1Lr9nEEneJoEDbZxj_6iuLFwrTgDldZhoqXqETBmR9EPqkmRn5elK7NFp4zdYO2oK2HYJedYQa7e1mfO1eyh4tlAl4cbWY4ru8rI2wU_jcyf1QI6VknGJgG31O5t5i7kAcNkPocL6oB6hscHf-6wFiC1IvvXfYjJSMlnsbnjJuTW0tH0acF7X/s320/Pipe%20Fork.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>Photo by Kevin Peer</span></td></tr></tbody></table>Go to williamscommunityforestproject.org/save-pipe-fork to see a video of Pipe Fork by renowned videographer Kevin Peer.<br /><span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div>Diana Cooglehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01101896692867725560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6342665766969794465.post-33114856521077604732023-11-03T19:29:00.001-07:002023-11-03T19:29:21.292-07:00<div style="text-align: justify;"> For years a bone spur in my left foot would sometimes be so painful I would have to stop wherever I was and take off my shoe. It was a pain like a knife. It didn't last long, but it was bad when it hit.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span> I also have hallux rigidus in the left foot, the arthritic condition I had surgery to correct in my right foot last year. </span></span></span>(See posts on December 9 and 23, 2022.) Recovery from that surgery was three fairly difficult months—non-weight-bearing, no walking, no driving. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span> </span>So this time, when the doctor suggested an easier surgery, just to get rid of the bone spur—one-month recovery, walk (in a boot), and drive—I said yes, yes, yes. I would put up with continued pain from hallux rigidus in exchange for a shorter, easier surgery and no bone spur.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span> Surgery was last Wednesday at the Grants Pass Surgical Center. Everyone is so nice there they make the whole experience not exactly fun but certainly pleasant. The woman at the entrance desk greets patients with a broad smile and says, "Thank you; I appreciate that" every time you answer a question. The prep nurse chatted pleasantly and asked if I wanted something from Netflix on the TV screen, and when I said I didn't want to start a movie I couldn't finish, she found a wonderful video about mating dances among tropical birds that kept me entertained and my mind off what was going to be happening very shortly.</span><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span> The anesthesiologist remembered me from last year. He and the nurses joked about my age as they wheeled me into the operating room. "The form says she is 79, but I think there was a mistake," he said. "She can't be almost 80." The operating room nurse asked me what I was going to do for my 80th birthday. I remember saying I would be hiking 800 miles on 80 different trails. That was the last thing I remember.</span><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span> My friend who had taken me to the surgical center took me home again. Another friend came up to visit shortly after I got home and brought home-made tomato soup and pumpkin pie for my dinner. This weekend, my friend Bryan, who is an excellent cook, is bringing me dinner. Ibuprofen and Tylenol are keeping the pain under control. I'm doing fine.</span><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span> Just one month. Then no more bone spur pain. I can't wait for my next hike.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></div>Diana Cooglehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01101896692867725560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6342665766969794465.post-3809116637397728292023-10-27T19:11:00.002-07:002023-10-27T19:11:29.477-07:00Autumn, 2023<div style="text-align: justify;"> It's actually not a very spectacular autumn this year. The trees seem confused. Some are still vigorously green with only one branch trying on yellow. Many turned brown in a dried-up fashion before they started turning yellow or red, so now they look half-dead and half-autumnal. Still, in the high country, the colors are better. Here is a picture from a hike on the beautiful Cook and Green trail last week.<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/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqMq3AQM9K490NYGQnLbX0dsJy4UwX8tdsgn99VxmaD06Aex-HqOKWD1gEXfQJWY4QINnHT9OH7VlC5KO5ujjL7mn0BXoSxL65nFeqWcMJjG8syHfRw0zyR5VbVUgpZiIvvQzfk9EqZYqFUeeXs9udjgiwoO3s_Z667IbzjajDkJ5ijFo9J7ZljHxqgZR9/s4080/Cooki%20&%20Green%20trail%20with%20Margaret%202.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4080" data-original-width="3072" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqMq3AQM9K490NYGQnLbX0dsJy4UwX8tdsgn99VxmaD06Aex-HqOKWD1gEXfQJWY4QINnHT9OH7VlC5KO5ujjL7mn0BXoSxL65nFeqWcMJjG8syHfRw0zyR5VbVUgpZiIvvQzfk9EqZYqFUeeXs9udjgiwoO3s_Z667IbzjajDkJ5ijFo9J7ZljHxqgZR9/s320/Cooki%20&%20Green%20trail%20with%20Margaret%202.jpg" width="241" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span><span style="font-size: small;"> </span><span style="font-size: small;"> </span><span style="font-size: small;"> </span><span style="font-size: small;"> <span> </span><span> </span><span> </span> </span><span style="font-size: small;"> </span><span style="font-size: xx-small;">photo by Margaret della Santina</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><br /></span></div> Southern Oregon's autumns can be absolutely stunning</span>. Here is what I wrote in 2013 to accompany Barbara Kostal's painting, "Autumn: Equinox," in our book, <i>Wisdom of the Heart</i>. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span> </span><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span> This autumn, on a sun-warm day in the woods, my heart is yellow—not a sickly pale jaundice, but a hearty, bright upspringing of rich, aqueous yellow; not a cowardly jealousy but a bold, brilliant glory of cadmium-rich yellow given it by maples, oaks, alders, and hazelnut trees flaming with the lustrous colors of canaries, goldenrods, and honey. Like a match, the sun ignites a maple in a dark hillside of evergreens with yellow fire. Gathering this fire in the palms of their hands, the broadleaf maples fling it into the air. Circles of yellow spiral from the trees like whirling embers, flowing through the leaves like warm air in a house, falling from the saturated yellow of broadleaf maples and the softer lemon of alders and the fulvous amalgamation of colors in the starry-tipped leaves of viney maples.</span><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span> I cannot drink it in enough, this aureateness, the gildedness of trees in autumn. </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span> If the autumn of 2023 isn't as brilliant as that one, it also isn't as drab at the autumn of 2011, about which I wrote, "What happened to the autumn color? </span>Where are the golden yellows and the flaming oranges, the scarlets and the vermilions? Who dulled the brilliance? Who rubbed the blush from the complexions of the trees? Who sucked the energy away? Who gave us acrhomatism, pallor, wanness in our autumn this year? Brown, brown, brown—everywhere it's brown."</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span> Well, every year is different. Even in its diminished brilliance, autumn is a beautiful time of year, and I am loving my hikes in the mountains this fall.</span><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div>Diana Cooglehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01101896692867725560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6342665766969794465.post-24694480453067196212023-10-20T10:53:00.000-07:002023-10-20T10:53:33.073-07:00An Unsettling End to an Afternoon Hike <div style="text-align: justify;"> <span> We had beautiful weather on Tuesday, so when I finished my work by noon, I decided to take an afternoon's ramble up Bolt Mountain, in Fish Hatchery Park, just outside of Grants Pass. </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span> The trail is</span> a good, brisk six-and-a-half-mile hike up Bold Mountain and down. It's a great spring wildflower hike. Not so good for autumn color, but I enjoyed being in the woods, seeing the views, and taking strenuous exercise.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span> Just as I was coming to the top of the mountain, I passed a man with a dog coming down. On the way down I passed another man with a dog, a single man, three or four single women, each with a dog, and a group of three hikers together. I was surprised at how late people were starting up the mountain.</span><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span> As I approached the parking lot at the end of my hike, a park ranger in a pick-up was just pulling up. "Checking on parking passes," I thought smugly, mine all in order, but that's not what she was interested in. She asked if I had met a tall man in a red shirt, without a dog.</span><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span> No, I didn't think so, I said. The only man without a dog I had met was in a black jacket ("Could it have been covering a red shirt?" she asked), and I didn't think he was especially tall. "But," I added, laughing, "almost everyone looks tall to me."</span><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span> She continued looking grim. This man, she said, had become so</span></span></span></span></span> irritated with a woman whose dog was off leash that he had<span><span><span><span><span> threatened her with a knife. </span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> I hike alone in these hills all the time. I carry a personal locator beacon (a PLB) in case of emergency, which I have always thought of in terms of injury—breaking an ankle on slippery rocks, for instance, or some other fall. I have not been concerned about violence on the trail. </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> </span>Until now. </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> M</span>aybe I could think that that danger would only be on trails close to town except for remembering that the first year I lived here a family went missing on the Cook and Green trail, in the Red Buttes Wilderness. Rumors of UFOs flew around, but the perpetrator—the murderer—was caught a few years later. </span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> I often hike with friends, but I also enjoy hiking alone. I like the solitude, the communion with the trees and flowers, with the earth and sky and the mountain itself, in a way that doesn't happen when I'm with other people. I like conversation, but I also like the way my own thoughts wander and, especially, the way I enter a meditative, empty-minded, in-the-moment state. I like the spontaneity of taking off for a hike at the spur of the moment, when the moment is right, not having to make plans.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> I don't want unreasonable fear to rule my life. But I don't want to be naive, either. Can I keep pursuing my favorite solo activity? Or should I be grateful for safety up to now and not push my luck? </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> </span>I don't know. I just don't know.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span> </span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span> </span><br /></span></span></span></span></div>Diana Cooglehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01101896692867725560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6342665766969794465.post-8092154611909818532023-10-12T10:01:00.001-07:002023-10-12T10:01:37.226-07:00A Getaway into the Red Buttes Wilderness<div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;"> I am pleased to say that it has been raining for days. I like to think the winter rains have started and that it will be wet and gray for months to come. Should we be so lucky.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> However, I am just as pleased to say that there was no rain Wednesday through Saturday last week because I was on a backpacking trip in the Red Buttes Wilderness Area, my back yard, with my friends Cheryl, Janet, and Sandy.<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/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTYUJJjzoGEn6BnNUB_7YwEc-GOVXOnUOeo3oaBLTKKrk1vfgLgiaTA8Oj2YrIowFyHhpC4hUSTYifraOTYjuzCcTeYemXblTyI-wytfZnik5xp9zulUiupNGQEWMMHgS_jvXFytOp_C1n0ScnUQAQYzLRRdCCYN2sCP5na5QmTEbFZWQq0xPZq_tPymaN/s320/Selfie%20of%20four.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="320" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTYUJJjzoGEn6BnNUB_7YwEc-GOVXOnUOeo3oaBLTKKrk1vfgLgiaTA8Oj2YrIowFyHhpC4hUSTYifraOTYjuzCcTeYemXblTyI-wytfZnik5xp9zulUiupNGQEWMMHgS_jvXFytOp_C1n0ScnUQAQYzLRRdCCYN2sCP5na5QmTEbFZWQq0xPZq_tPymaN/s1600/Selfie%20of%20four.jpeg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">L-R: Janet, Sandy, me, Cheryl <span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span></span><span style="font-size: xx-small;">(selfie by Janet)</span></td></tr></tbody></table></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> <span> </span><span> </span>The weather was glorious, as was the landscape. Mostly, we were hiking through old-growth forests, past true-giant cedars and pines. We laid hands on the big, shaggy-barked trunks, in veneration and gratitude. How we need these magnificent forests!<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/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKfRCIh5MCQvnbvfqNIVsPRrjRH6zd_MMDfHq8wW2lXV9Pif6aXsiUQSlSNuWvBrGUmFsEiWGVOSaVbmiiXzNflyYBYBDXpTGy17RESf-Ii2oQ1ifQnQIefat0qRXRt-Gjufb2Z6oLr0bDt6orBFSmHfJiSqWzzTXW4EjuPvRVmUtuJkWl9t58IEmx9fKV/s2016/At%20a%20Ponderosa%20pine.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKfRCIh5MCQvnbvfqNIVsPRrjRH6zd_MMDfHq8wW2lXV9Pif6aXsiUQSlSNuWvBrGUmFsEiWGVOSaVbmiiXzNflyYBYBDXpTGy17RESf-Ii2oQ1ifQnQIefat0qRXRt-Gjufb2Z6oLr0bDt6orBFSmHfJiSqWzzTXW4EjuPvRVmUtuJkWl9t58IEmx9fKV/s320/At%20a%20Ponderosa%20pine.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Me with a ponderosa pine.</span> <span> </span><span> </span><span style="font-size: xx-small;">photo by Cheryl</span></td></tr></tbody></table>After a seven-and-a-half gradual climb up the Butte Fork trail, we made camp at Cedar Basin.<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/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJhoXFYHFwPPH9dd-8elEC7-sUfYE-x4OQt9DoxAhMra3eZFPYRPnIxO9yZWMNTh0IvfaXp7Zj92Ql3RIyec0RBp4PslIEB-3AUcmCMF_cr3fH2Uv92jWEKCzpx3tXfvoheGZdzNBen3oGYSaacWISbSzZxGwUl1rApMC0ZvUALa9XMdL_L_Rc-b3RY3hU/s2016/Cedar%20Basin%20camp.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJhoXFYHFwPPH9dd-8elEC7-sUfYE-x4OQt9DoxAhMra3eZFPYRPnIxO9yZWMNTh0IvfaXp7Zj92Ql3RIyec0RBp4PslIEB-3AUcmCMF_cr3fH2Uv92jWEKCzpx3tXfvoheGZdzNBen3oGYSaacWISbSzZxGwUl1rApMC0ZvUALa9XMdL_L_Rc-b3RY3hU/s320/Cedar%20Basin%20camp.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>photo by Janet</span></td></tr></tbody></table></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> Then we made a late afternoon hike up to Lonesome Lake, where I had my best swim of the trip, under the headwall, where the water was deepest, even though that part of the lake was in shadow by that time.<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/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW91Hw1doUBrYDvswIOk8NBxH_X7OZle_LeeHzz6Hq3lRvSOB5FCxwehfM5I0LpL5Onwrb5oGD-bXMgaKrXczh-qgXh86Hs-zz6Jra6WMZWdb7zQWGq2IGgiwUXaTyjKDtGdDCz4ihuIHOc72QGto6RFYS3I04BCQkyuA3zwlJRckDZZg78umG3l7bmFYx/s2016/Getting%20ready%20to%20swim%20Lonesome.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW91Hw1doUBrYDvswIOk8NBxH_X7OZle_LeeHzz6Hq3lRvSOB5FCxwehfM5I0LpL5Onwrb5oGD-bXMgaKrXczh-qgXh86Hs-zz6Jra6WMZWdb7zQWGq2IGgiwUXaTyjKDtGdDCz4ihuIHOc72QGto6RFYS3I04BCQkyuA3zwlJRckDZZg78umG3l7bmFYx/s320/Getting%20ready%20to%20swim%20Lonesome.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Me, preparing for a swim in Lonesome Lake </span><span style="font-size: xx-small;">photo by Janet<br /><br /></span></td></tr></tbody></table></div><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/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX78-xmpqfhqscuAJS9mX4xcvFLSbVz9uFDPdBMZzpvgJWvTxRteSiG7GragnbQuUzHqq1H1GqaTMpEqfnYBApHEPW1a-SLrtHrNdP8NGaSUIFBntWNXQ8ryyJpSRJ__Wvx5pDzFcAjE4xqkZG-o8R6mc5OyASvoSUIZ4QpFFSfacwACNbSOYcPn4JCKKI/s320/Me%20in%20Lonesome.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="240" data-original-width="320" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX78-xmpqfhqscuAJS9mX4xcvFLSbVz9uFDPdBMZzpvgJWvTxRteSiG7GragnbQuUzHqq1H1GqaTMpEqfnYBApHEPW1a-SLrtHrNdP8NGaSUIFBntWNXQ8ryyJpSRJ__Wvx5pDzFcAjE4xqkZG-o8R6mc5OyASvoSUIZ4QpFFSfacwACNbSOYcPn4JCKKI/s1600/Me%20in%20Lonesome.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>photo by Cheryl</span><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;">Coming into sunshine after swimming </span><span style="font-size: x-small;">under the headwall.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;">Azalea Lake is large but probably not even six feet deep and the pond at Sucker Gap is even more shallow and dotted with lily pads, but because we camped at both places, I could indulge in one of my favorite things to do: step out of my tent into a lake first thing in the morning.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span> In some places, low-growing bushes gleamed umber, copper, burnt sienna, fire-engine red. <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/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQyzP0iZ05ft0pHu-f6pDT-isJVk0oAWQIt-MPfH5rBY581efKSKEfLzS2dNNV5ldpnIRkZXCj6zYq-ZIQUyl1AVI5CRmWpAi3XhnBrED5lt8S5Ef3ZmRmKm9JEXXjoOXqv8HbCnCqUnNI5ZAwvcJ0kxmHbnhEeytLDE28-JeLElbES5dzqKGQftf8wZ_d/s2016/IMG_2674.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQyzP0iZ05ft0pHu-f6pDT-isJVk0oAWQIt-MPfH5rBY581efKSKEfLzS2dNNV5ldpnIRkZXCj6zYq-ZIQUyl1AVI5CRmWpAi3XhnBrED5lt8S5Ef3ZmRmKm9JEXXjoOXqv8HbCnCqUnNI5ZAwvcJ0kxmHbnhEeytLDE28-JeLElbES5dzqKGQftf8wZ_d/s320/IMG_2674.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;">photo by Janet<br /><br /></span></td></tr></tbody></table>They were especially striking where they lined Azalea Lake, with the ghostly trunks of the burned forest behind them and their reflection doubling the color in the lake in front of them.</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span> What else? Well, the company. What great backpacking partners they were! Besides the talks and the stepping in to help when needed, all three had brought </span>chocolate to share. And at our first lunch stop, Cheryl astonished me by handing 'round large pieces of spanakopita and baklava she had made the night before. Imagine having carried all that weight! I had no qualms about helping lighten the weight of her pack by accepting the lunch she offered. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span> Janet and Sandy both joined me for swims in the lakes. </span></span>Cheryl picked mushrooms we found on the trail. Janet religiously stuck to her commitment to meditate every day. <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/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_qLoMGULTJJGsDh_iJOqhX6QlZEt0elZyp5dtHMtg1ZmCIp4bsxzIcUNclSA4W5SEg-7yc9x4GHHYeugrJNkNPSUKhflAlVblf9-CM38zrxIsESanbRI-YMqQkC8eViDocRv2R2bbyA8C1CJ3c3I1Ald8LlulE2_w9yh9hmkbsqINCZr2M0Xk57Nfgx1N/s1280/Janet%20meditating%20at%20Azalea%20Lk.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_qLoMGULTJJGsDh_iJOqhX6QlZEt0elZyp5dtHMtg1ZmCIp4bsxzIcUNclSA4W5SEg-7yc9x4GHHYeugrJNkNPSUKhflAlVblf9-CM38zrxIsESanbRI-YMqQkC8eViDocRv2R2bbyA8C1CJ3c3I1Ald8LlulE2_w9yh9hmkbsqINCZr2M0Xk57Nfgx1N/s320/Janet%20meditating%20at%20Azalea%20Lk.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Janet meditating at Azalea Lake<span> </span> </span><span style="font-size: xx-small;">photo by Cheryl</span></td></tr></tbody></table></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><div style="text-align: justify;"><span> It's hunting season, so we used brightly colored pack covers to keep us from being mistaken for deer. We did meet two sets of two hunters, all in their camouflage. Afterward, Cheryl told us of the days of her past when she used to hunt.<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/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn5T_fXeb9oEXGZ1_JvxWcRxolbDVCtbvlps_5V_BkzOxqUudXH-Zes-lsLwA2PN1o_uMCMlOY1-3xZDSHIG-eXG9H0Fzkk3F_jVBGE5YZC9YBGo4Xdbvp1Dgxkw4JV18_arVZp6edwYKQauae4Qb-LC00f5vv91JFMQrlX-em7ZtDVmQyGE1ZbmP1WPK4/s4000/backpacks.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2252" data-original-width="4000" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn5T_fXeb9oEXGZ1_JvxWcRxolbDVCtbvlps_5V_BkzOxqUudXH-Zes-lsLwA2PN1o_uMCMlOY1-3xZDSHIG-eXG9H0Fzkk3F_jVBGE5YZC9YBGo4Xdbvp1Dgxkw4JV18_arVZp6edwYKQauae4Qb-LC00f5vv91JFMQrlX-em7ZtDVmQyGE1ZbmP1WPK4/s320/backpacks.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>photo by Sandy</span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></td></tr></tbody></table></span></div></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span> We misjudged the mileage of the last day's hike, so we were two hours early for meeting the person coming to pick us up at the trailhead. Janet, Cheryl, and Sandy looked through the woods for morels. I read a novel on my Kindle. I recited a few poems, while Cheryl and Janet danced. The lovely long afternoon was waning when our driver arrived, and we returned to the valley for pizza and beer in the Applegate and a toast to </span>a great four-day getaway with friends.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><br /></span><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><br /></span></span></div></div>Diana Cooglehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01101896692867725560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6342665766969794465.post-64690644573623497092023-09-28T13:24:00.000-07:002023-09-28T13:24:56.303-07:00Swimming in the Upper Rogue<div style="text-align: justify;"><span> As I said in last week's post about backpacking on the Upper Rogue River, Cheryl, Janet, and I were walking hard on the last day to walk the twelve miles back to the trailhead in time for dinner at the Prospect Hotel, so we set a faster-than-normal pace. Nonetheless, when we got to the only place on the river that looked possible for a swim, we stopped there. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLHDBij4sw9ihD3TQTeZDWNfjDQ0DL9x0HMq4Iw55Mj-fAFtH0BXF-DeBZfhiQ83EciJxPoZYdpmIh5Ga4w8zqc3QJCFQ17FckYWXuTkciMLefsP6PtlhBIoqY6txJG_WYmoMeDaeWtYId16f-Ofeyen7t64CrITy-bTZX4Pv7lRlF8ygXs2S0xnNDVHTD/s1024/C10AE93B-5C3B-4728-A1E3-A3B39EC64AFD_1_105_c.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLHDBij4sw9ihD3TQTeZDWNfjDQ0DL9x0HMq4Iw55Mj-fAFtH0BXF-DeBZfhiQ83EciJxPoZYdpmIh5Ga4w8zqc3QJCFQ17FckYWXuTkciMLefsP6PtlhBIoqY6txJG_WYmoMeDaeWtYId16f-Ofeyen7t64CrITy-bTZX4Pv7lRlF8ygXs2S0xnNDVHTD/s320/C10AE93B-5C3B-4728-A1E3-A3B39EC64AFD_1_105_c.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span> The river was wide, and the current looked slow, but I don't trust rivers. Besides, t</span></span>he bank dropped so steeply into the river I didn't think I could safely get in. And if I got in, how would I ever get out?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span> Janet thought she could do it. Holding onto the branch of a riverside bush, she carefully lowered herself into the water. Then lower. And lower. </span>She sank up to her chest before her feet touched a strong root growing out of the bank, where she stood for a split second before letting go of the branch. Then she was swimming downriver with the current. Shortly she turned and swam easily back. Holding onto the branch, she pulled herself out. She was exhilarated.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span> That looked wonderful! If she did it, I thought, I could do it, too. Cheryl and Janet assured me they could help me get out, so, holding onto the branch, I lowered myself into the river. But Janet is taller than I, and I sank to my neck before my foot touched the root. Then I let go and swam downriver.</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span> It was a great swim. Cold, yes, with a gentle current and an easy return next to the bank, where the current was slower. I thought about swimming down and back up again, but the cold was beginning to pound at the back of my neck, so I thought I should get out.</span><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span> Not so easy. The bank fell perpendicularly deep into the river. Even standing on the root and holding onto the branch, I couldn't scramble out, as Janet had done, so Cheryl grabbed one arm and Janet the other, and, as I scrambled for a footing in the slippery grass, they hauled me ashore. </span><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span> Worth every moment. I'd do it again with the same help.</span><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span> </span><br /></span></span></span></div>Diana Cooglehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01101896692867725560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6342665766969794465.post-45847118167581519992023-09-21T19:50:00.002-07:002023-09-21T19:55:23.983-07:00Backpacking the Upper Rogue River Trail<div style="text-align: justify;"><span> Few people backpack the Upper Rogue River trail because it is so easy to day-hike it in sections. I have hiked River Bridge to Woodruff Bridge and Woodruff Bridge to Natural Bridge many times. But when </span>Cheryl, Janet, and I were on our way for a four-day backpacking trip in the Sky Lakes Wilderness Area last week, we stopped in Prospect to check on air quality and were told there was a fire in that area, just where we were planning to hike, so we just shifted plans. We would hike the nearby Upper Rogue instead.<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/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp1OU2mP7sBQFV400BQmxZriBQz8egZMw_H9rnPyTz1DIUA0syaRbXvvwWDXyvYsabJxw3Vs22m6C2h4dHPDib8h6Zg51_tiR4ODJ-R39R-yUHAYU3Q74ATEglVjHIeHvTuoLDkIikNOdv362Y9y6VnZdrQ-GKdJt0eyOJgNR2Mdxqv_CAha03ykRpnoEX/s1024/5ADF6EC2-9593-4D14-A950-B3F315E6B54A_1_105_c.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp1OU2mP7sBQFV400BQmxZriBQz8egZMw_H9rnPyTz1DIUA0syaRbXvvwWDXyvYsabJxw3Vs22m6C2h4dHPDib8h6Zg51_tiR4ODJ-R39R-yUHAYU3Q74ATEglVjHIeHvTuoLDkIikNOdv362Y9y6VnZdrQ-GKdJt0eyOJgNR2Mdxqv_CAha03ykRpnoEX/s320/5ADF6EC2-9593-4D14-A950-B3F315E6B54A_1_105_c.jpeg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>(All photos by Cheryl Bruner)</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span> Starting at River Bridge, we decided, we would go as far as we wanted, then find a place to camp, do the same the next day, and repeat for the two days back. Pretty simple.</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span> We left my car at River Bridge Campground and hiked five miles the first day, from the trailhead past the Baptist Church Camp, where Cheryl's family used to have family reunions, through the beautiful Takelma Gorge, then </span></span>across the road at<span><span> Woodruff Bridge and onto the next section of the trail, where we found a sandy flat on the river for our first night's camp. After dinner I recited</span></span> Robert Frost's "The Death of the Hired Man" while Janet danced an extemporaneous interpretation of it, the river dancing its own rhythm behind her.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span> That was the first five miles.</span><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span> The next day we hiked past a spectacular waterfall just before the Natural Bridge section of the trail. We stopped for lunch at a bench facing the lava cave, where the river famously disappears for a short distance. Three women with backpacks are an unusual sight on this popular section of the trail. Asked by curious tourists how far we were going, we said, "As far as we want."</span><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span> Once past the paved parts of the trail at the lava cave, I was in new territory. The trail began ascending steeply, through big trees and masses of viney maples just beginning to turn red. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTR6WHQbSWc7Wj9og_uaasuGtUvXPtAHlF18Pm4OWYROEBFh8g_DV7Qm-JqXdzmtEKP0wck48wxKjijRIgs6jWhIAAakG4KPt5MLu_tR85_pSXjyPJQndlYeK-6r-kbbSVE3HgO0DnSkXo3GWguxdIQ9fxtH65VVBPCo9iDACvhQUUF7lSaEfmPIyk_YOE/s1024/3D9DE16D-A6C3-4704-AD46-AE1C06567377_1_105_c.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTR6WHQbSWc7Wj9og_uaasuGtUvXPtAHlF18Pm4OWYROEBFh8g_DV7Qm-JqXdzmtEKP0wck48wxKjijRIgs6jWhIAAakG4KPt5MLu_tR85_pSXjyPJQndlYeK-6r-kbbSVE3HgO0DnSkXo3GWguxdIQ9fxtH65VVBPCo9iDACvhQUUF7lSaEfmPIyk_YOE/s320/3D9DE16D-A6C3-4704-AD46-AE1C06567377_1_105_c.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br />The river, far below the trail, was mostly out of sight. The hiking was more difficult than it had been the day before, steeper, up and down, with several stream crossings. By the time we had hiked a seven-mile day and found a flat, sandy spot next to the river, we were ready to make camp. Before dinner, Janet and I took cold-plunge baths at the river's edge, holding on to willow branches to stay in the cup where the river lapped the shore.</span><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span> We woke up to an overcast sky. Rain was predicted for that night. We could avoid camping in the rain, we told ourselves, by hiking out the entire twelve miles. And if we did that and got back to the car in time, we further encouraged ourselves, we could have dinner at the Prospect Historic Hotel.</span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span> Motivated, we hit the trail at a pretty fast pace. In spite of the press of time, though, we stopped at one of the few places on the trail where the river looked suitable for a swim, and Janet and I both swam. (More about that in the next post.) </span>We had lunch at the same bench near the lava cave where we had eaten the day before, then put our packs back on our backs and headed down the trail again.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span> At this point Cheryl took over the lead position and set an insane pace. Even moving at a faster clip than I normally would and ignoring my aching feet, I couldn't keep up. Jane, hiking behind me. distracted me from weariness and the difficult, rocky trail by telling me the trees were glad to see me again. </span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> Twelve miles, and we were</span> back at the trailhead, before 6:00, gratefully throwing our packs into my car and looking forward to dinner at the Prospect Hotel. First, though, I changed into the dress I had left in the car. Then, looking much fresher than I actually was, I drove us to the Prospect Hotel, where we toasted our adventure with a glass of wine and had a very good salmon dinner. Afterward, Cheryl drove us through the dark back to the Applegate.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> It wasn't Sky Lakes, but backpacking the Upper Rogue with Cheryl and Janet was its own satisfying adventure.<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/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmp9b2iV0KhN7qZwzT24YMkZ20v8bw72OZatdTplR0rAvk3PKFSvImJ-xOhkc67lTToCo2coYgj2RahBs1O-CEg4oyXVUYMQDuCJ89ePoBb9in5_8B73lAXo9qCZVDlugKjvCopPec8-qg53gJLaFKgpEmbfKCBT9Ka01aPbqe0TFvGPRyi-PqCkBsp6_t/s1024/43762848-9877-41AC-A249-839715837ABB_1_105_c.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmp9b2iV0KhN7qZwzT24YMkZ20v8bw72OZatdTplR0rAvk3PKFSvImJ-xOhkc67lTToCo2coYgj2RahBs1O-CEg4oyXVUYMQDuCJ89ePoBb9in5_8B73lAXo9qCZVDlugKjvCopPec8-qg53gJLaFKgpEmbfKCBT9Ka01aPbqe0TFvGPRyi-PqCkBsp6_t/s320/43762848-9877-41AC-A249-839715837ABB_1_105_c.jpeg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cheryl<br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><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/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbb3m5LMNWnJLOg0h2G2X1OCmbqOsEkJRIZ-XWSxC7UDRgbjjlbO_sx7lYbWjaEqnG38FYTsgI53cYn7TZ9jOB82whl_jAVQ1oI1LyD3WrYb0yO_qGCJp0b5LvPyrUJOVbIT7cyFwDcHw7pv1pwUKLFFbAvMI7oNpum9NsHfouIKc_nLAhEyvQj5mmKBlG/s1024/C6ACAF0E-D405-46BE-ACD4-C0FF8A63241A_1_105_c.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbb3m5LMNWnJLOg0h2G2X1OCmbqOsEkJRIZ-XWSxC7UDRgbjjlbO_sx7lYbWjaEqnG38FYTsgI53cYn7TZ9jOB82whl_jAVQ1oI1LyD3WrYb0yO_qGCJp0b5LvPyrUJOVbIT7cyFwDcHw7pv1pwUKLFFbAvMI7oNpum9NsHfouIKc_nLAhEyvQj5mmKBlG/s320/C6ACAF0E-D405-46BE-ACD4-C0FF8A63241A_1_105_c.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Janet and me</td></tr></tbody></table><br /></div><br /></span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span> </span><br /></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div>Diana Cooglehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01101896692867725560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6342665766969794465.post-21711992315292365812023-08-25T16:34:00.001-07:002023-08-25T16:34:21.997-07:00<div style="text-align: justify;"> <span> Our perfect summer days, such as I wrote about two weeks ago, have come to an end</span>. Now our skies are white with smoke. Visibility is diminished to my closest trees, and Humpy Mountain is obscured behind a veil of smoke. <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/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIZ7EEOiU3dhJH0Par9J5MyiHsra3xZLCuvApXhfEoDOJCr0kvbi7Y04T8ThQT88Ggr0rRkB2biIagcgM0GFrU2oOv1t3S_O89VPszeGt97ly1MNOmUNMr9sxzdM18OeJrw-YZMhOa5Grg60XObcZ8ZOUlpsilC5_EP2axaHRdP4cvpuU9AMtRSp4WDVan/s2016/IMG_0426.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2016" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIZ7EEOiU3dhJH0Par9J5MyiHsra3xZLCuvApXhfEoDOJCr0kvbi7Y04T8ThQT88Ggr0rRkB2biIagcgM0GFrU2oOv1t3S_O89VPszeGt97ly1MNOmUNMr9sxzdM18OeJrw-YZMhOa5Grg60XObcZ8ZOUlpsilC5_EP2axaHRdP4cvpuU9AMtRSp4WDVan/s320/IMG_0426.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Humpy Mountain yesterday afternoon</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><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/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeU4nd0YvXcSBRKvahh9rS7yscCtEldBfr4nC9jf2c6MQkZixUG_kKAff5ZhExV8kLZnDkSjJkj089_x14ytzGlMAmh-EBB-0sSFI2MJVaQemy4TtcUTt3Z0C3eLqkrLjuzHUtgykX_AtQG7Qp-M0lmkEuB7QeNh869VMgugy6sF5THx5A2es_1rLBDvmC/s4032/IMG_0272.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeU4nd0YvXcSBRKvahh9rS7yscCtEldBfr4nC9jf2c6MQkZixUG_kKAff5ZhExV8kLZnDkSjJkj089_x14ytzGlMAmh-EBB-0sSFI2MJVaQemy4TtcUTt3Z0C3eLqkrLjuzHUtgykX_AtQG7Qp-M0lmkEuB7QeNh869VMgugy6sF5THx5A2es_1rLBDvmC/s320/IMG_0272.jpg" width="240" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Humpy Mountain in the idyllic days of summer</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span> But smoke is not as bad as fire. Although we suffer the lung-stifling effects of the fires in other places, the Applegate itself is not on fire. At least, not yet.</span><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span> It would help if we would roll back climate change. Get busy, damn it, all you politicians and lawmakers and industry CEOs who could be making a difference! </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span> </span>According to some thinking we should be thinning the forests of their century of fuel build-up. But there are problems there. One is that BLM, at least around here, seems to be taking advantage of "thinning for fire" to do some pretty damaging logging, taking large trees that are both carbon storers and fire resistors. Another problem is that logged-over land, often the result of "thinned" forests, is seemingly more susceptible to fire than our old-growth and large-tree forests. A third problem is that even if forests thinned of small trees (leaving big trees) would create slower and cooler fires, who's to say that those areas would be the ones to get the fire, so was that a good use of money? I'm no expert on fire or on forests, but I do see that if an agency says "for fire protection," the public falls right into line with whatever the proposal is and that not all such proposals are either especially <i>for</i> fire protection or actually protective against fire or, even, good for the forest.<br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span> A couple of years ago the Devil Fire burned not too far my house. It was a ground fire, burning low and slow, doing the good work of forest health that fire does. So why didn't the Forest Service let it burn? If this is a fire-dependent ecology and if a century of fire suppression has put us in this quandary, then why put out fires that pose no danger? </span><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span> Experts speaking in the documentary film <i>Elemental</i> (see if if you can) and elsewhere are advocating defensible space around structures as the only sensible way to approach fire preparedness. Fire prevention, of course, is preposterous, and fire suppression has been disastrous, but protecting homes and other structures from fire seems sensible. I love my trees, but I am ready to do what I have to do to defend my house from the fire that is as likely to be here as in Lahaina or in Paradise, California. I can only hope that the fire that is sure to come will hold off till I get that work done.<br /></span></span></div>Diana Cooglehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01101896692867725560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6342665766969794465.post-45338652234156693142023-08-17T17:44:00.000-07:002023-08-17T17:44:15.774-07:00Hiking in the Eagle Cap Wilderness Area in the Wallowa Mountains of Northeastern Oregon<div style="text-align: justify;"><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/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKrwfaOWlKA1ejtovcpDFnZgtX6-jyYMA67KtQINEOh0wSm49h559xDh3JZdB79BoVJWMtIexjAzDqpfmN6EbxnHx-_JXkFrivPII8ctH4HVvFQy6MzMUKJKeK9BsjhPt_yMaQsDKvqJRxbKbIxCQoQkAe6nZx9PtMoHz6OMwbEYrqTCGr4nBs2lVMzS8Y/s1280/Diana%20copy.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKrwfaOWlKA1ejtovcpDFnZgtX6-jyYMA67KtQINEOh0wSm49h559xDh3JZdB79BoVJWMtIexjAzDqpfmN6EbxnHx-_JXkFrivPII8ctH4HVvFQy6MzMUKJKeK9BsjhPt_yMaQsDKvqJRxbKbIxCQoQkAe6nZx9PtMoHz6OMwbEYrqTCGr4nBs2lVMzS8Y/s320/Diana%20copy.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>photo by Scott Mattoon</span></td></tr></tbody></table> <span> After seven days in the mountains, the twelve of us on this </span>Sierra Club backpacking trip hiked 2 1/2 miles to the trailhead, found our cars, then reassembled for lunch in Joseph. Then we hugged good-byes and headed back to Pennsylvania, New York, California, Missouri, Illinois, and various places in Oregon. I drove to a sub-par Motel 6 in The Dalles, took a shower, ate some dinner, and lay down to sleep in a real bed again.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span> But I couldn't sleep. I missed the hum and thrash of the river outside my tent. I missed the chill of the night and the warmth of the sleeping bag. I missed the other hikers who had been sleeping in their own tents near me, those eleven good friends who had been strangers to me only a week before. The mediocre dinner from the Indian-cuisine food truck had left me missing the amazing camp-food dinners Leah, trip leader, had prepared for us—risotto with three kinds of cheese and tuna, noodles with Thai peanut sauce, curry-and-rice. And I knew that whatever I found for lunch on my way home the next day couldn't match Nutella on lavage bread with dried bananas, mangoes, and turkey jerky. Such imaginative meals Leah had planned!</span><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span> I missed the mountains. Several days before, as I was hiking the 1000-foot elevation gain up 8540-foot Glacier Pass, then down the other side along the West Fork Wallowa River—<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/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn4_oUoEnaPEqDeNw6xxWaJIsPH0bQO4aI1-FlCccsS89SaHqyHYGvba36Rr-bVBlxRM0DlJWuSQbdUhdd_EtvQZrsGA6bAGMyBUaydlEY0epdZB2GVLBpK7AQQuRa_gG5GLCxauhuxe9cUbCrDIyGlF5Gn2FJD-ZvlHJ22-jdA7ofIQy2cF8xvX4NCCaH/s4032/IMG_7615%20copy.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn4_oUoEnaPEqDeNw6xxWaJIsPH0bQO4aI1-FlCccsS89SaHqyHYGvba36Rr-bVBlxRM0DlJWuSQbdUhdd_EtvQZrsGA6bAGMyBUaydlEY0epdZB2GVLBpK7AQQuRa_gG5GLCxauhuxe9cUbCrDIyGlF5Gn2FJD-ZvlHJ22-jdA7ofIQy2cF8xvX4NCCaH/s320/IMG_7615%20copy.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>photo by Gabe Oprea</span></td></tr></tbody></table>the steep slopes streaming with wildflowers, the river cascading white through black rock, the peaks rugged and stark above the narrow valley—I thought, "I have hiked in the Dolomite Mountains of northern Italy, in the French and Swiss Alps, in the mountains of Costa Rica and Corsica, in the Rockies, the Sierra Nevada, the Cascades, and the Appalachians, and I can say that this is world-class hiking." <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/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnca2n2wRS_nxPAFZcYhGly5AyNu5KDBlk2q4ScCsOhFcZn28d3ggjnbIn6X-jnUFFFZTXAD0y4sZV9VINYJV84dFxNINS57GLJaxM4Yg8XjiEPvBXHVUNOkKTtGBPfKbQfykLHCQH6RILzjIfNVhi3UW7alFkrlqZ0CJX2k3c-TwgOXkCy_Dm1TghoPmK/s4000/P8090176%20copy.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnca2n2wRS_nxPAFZcYhGly5AyNu5KDBlk2q4ScCsOhFcZn28d3ggjnbIn6X-jnUFFFZTXAD0y4sZV9VINYJV84dFxNINS57GLJaxM4Yg8XjiEPvBXHVUNOkKTtGBPfKbQfykLHCQH6RILzjIfNVhi3UW7alFkrlqZ0CJX2k3c-TwgOXkCy_Dm1TghoPmK/s320/P8090176%20copy.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span><span style="font-size: xx-small;">photo by Mark Dumont</span><br /></span></td></tr></tbody></table></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span> Everywhere wildflowers amassed in stunning arrays—purple asters splotched with scarlet firecracker flower and Indian paintbrush, sunshine-yellow groundsel, sunflower-bright arnica—occasionally a rein orchid, catchfly, pearly everlasting. Horse mint scented the air. I grew dizzy trying to name all the flowers and finally gave up.<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/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSqvOUu-WH_v42qx-srL1VputBrdhkPcZMZRVmdWqaxTIq_7PrXDmWAInS1SqHEwZsyGhRXivibLbcc_O9nmrYqSTIKYki15PuYqwufJtpyGp-I4o7kRP10b-g1ba_U_iJrg1jScOJWd4Bky0j2xc14sk7gXzAzqRxHP4uhNKptSGRGrbcNyReY43Omsxw/s4032/IMG_7616%20copy.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2638" data-original-width="4032" height="209" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSqvOUu-WH_v42qx-srL1VputBrdhkPcZMZRVmdWqaxTIq_7PrXDmWAInS1SqHEwZsyGhRXivibLbcc_O9nmrYqSTIKYki15PuYqwufJtpyGp-I4o7kRP10b-g1ba_U_iJrg1jScOJWd4Bky0j2xc14sk7gXzAzqRxHP4uhNKptSGRGrbcNyReY43Omsxw/s320/IMG_7616%20copy.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>photo by Gabe Oprea</span></td></tr></tbody></table></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span> We saw picas and mountain goats. At one campsite we were awakened by a large herd of horses galloping past camp. When it rained (and it rained a lot), w</span></span></span></span></span>e just donned rain gear, covered our packs, and kept on walking.<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/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiekWs2HrEnJB_Imw83NHg8DRVTWhkRvrzfFoKzwNgibVkJHaczsxnriQwlwNVL9iT6gC53nJoO_pRw4E0EGRMF3CoJog8GJz5PDDa3q6LJ14vbBcnouFNY7M0cQkDD7zgReXBAtKA_in0yCREpdekL9Y2d1u2BNUHm7G-3Q6jfZqST7yDMWSxvjyCI71iq/s4000/P8060022%20copy.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiekWs2HrEnJB_Imw83NHg8DRVTWhkRvrzfFoKzwNgibVkJHaczsxnriQwlwNVL9iT6gC53nJoO_pRw4E0EGRMF3CoJog8GJz5PDDa3q6LJ14vbBcnouFNY7M0cQkDD7zgReXBAtKA_in0yCREpdekL9Y2d1u2BNUHm7G-3Q6jfZqST7yDMWSxvjyCI71iq/s320/P8060022%20copy.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: xx-small;">photo by Mark Dumont<br /></span></td></tr></tbody></table></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span> Was the best day the day we hiked up to Ice Lake, a good steady climb from camp at 5500 feet to the lake at 7849 feet, followed by a beautiful long swim, <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/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcws7vvDl4Rd_0fy8HzcxLhI4wwLbf27MiuHWEyan6VwSRKwIwFZmKNCPsgiC0cLSAmln-duyydloHgC0FgeKCP6Eztxhnw-zx7EVkrwGHFGwouLlfd14Fp-owvi2QtvQqmE81FP8YNIFBZiky4EjSXAjw9lVFpm8hpYy1zJWjqzV5hr34lMcJdREBKqM9/s4000/P8110284%20copy.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcws7vvDl4Rd_0fy8HzcxLhI4wwLbf27MiuHWEyan6VwSRKwIwFZmKNCPsgiC0cLSAmln-duyydloHgC0FgeKCP6Eztxhnw-zx7EVkrwGHFGwouLlfd14Fp-owvi2QtvQqmE81FP8YNIFBZiky4EjSXAjw9lVFpm8hpYy1zJWjqzV5hr34lMcJdREBKqM9/s320/P8110284%20copy.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Swimming in Ice Lake. I am behind Leah.<span> </span></span><span style="font-size: xx-small;">photo by Mark Dumont<br /></span></td></tr></tbody></table>lunch lakeside (watching mountain goats descend to the lake), then a walk halfway around the lake to a remarkable white-sand beach, where I swam again? </span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><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/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxbwFOfRrGafx3RbsgFN9QZ-TpYKPNxdfso1JdFQAEuwW-hCQei9Ta1btFRPSpW9a-T99ibHjgL_getP6dUNOhDenbR9qauNe8TbQzn4bc6CFZaZlA910dSPLktRHiiQpI7lBljf2cDVgM3-osdo-4nY5rYMNO-5A0S7BK0-OFsVWPahru1-MzOOnb-8yV/s4000/P8110286%20copy.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxbwFOfRrGafx3RbsgFN9QZ-TpYKPNxdfso1JdFQAEuwW-hCQei9Ta1btFRPSpW9a-T99ibHjgL_getP6dUNOhDenbR9qauNe8TbQzn4bc6CFZaZlA910dSPLktRHiiQpI7lBljf2cDVgM3-osdo-4nY5rYMNO-5A0S7BK0-OFsVWPahru1-MzOOnb-8yV/s320/P8110286%20copy.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>photo by Mark Dumont</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span><span> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span>Or was the best day the day we climbed Glacier Pass (where I sprinkled some of Mike's ashes; see post on June 21, 2020, for an explanation), then hustled down the other side through that gorgeous scenery, on and on until it was starting to get dark and Leah and John, our leaders, found a possible campsite ("It would be miserable, but it would only be one night of misery"), which we rejected in favor of walking another two and a half miles in hopes of finding there a better place to camp? What a fast walk it was! But we got to a large meadow and threw up our tents just before dark.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><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/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXpMgfR35oumvWOKFxmCLQ0oZ4BZa7k5YMz6u59iI7dO2DqeRuve8YZW6OAffnXgkizAv0jSZf9vycSMjDoO1z6Sdf3SSxLX4CZFxjlJRjFvdMZCoUEr2YCpxWSy9W_hZ0yPl5Du1zY63pvHMa5K2mw1UI3nKJ6iFaUcULHqYhil67hBwz3WwrB5rdknmN/s4000/P8090200%20copy.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXpMgfR35oumvWOKFxmCLQ0oZ4BZa7k5YMz6u59iI7dO2DqeRuve8YZW6OAffnXgkizAv0jSZf9vycSMjDoO1z6Sdf3SSxLX4CZFxjlJRjFvdMZCoUEr2YCpxWSy9W_hZ0yPl5Du1zY63pvHMa5K2mw1UI3nKJ6iFaUcULHqYhil67hBwz3WwrB5rdknmN/s320/P8090200%20copy.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span><span style="font-size: xx-small;">photo by Mark Dumont</span><br /></span></td></tr></tbody></table>It had been a long, beautiful, and exhilarating day.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span> The lakes were superb. I loved my swims, and the stream crossings, too, which I usually did barefooted. <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/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX_vKK6ipHcMCLnG4cegVSE9jE5WMO7VzbfKWl4LF5OvRrrMONLkWUtvLBGhYzn7cBL9p8CfSu4HyQ9SDawQr7tj3dzEINqhK61wHi1kIc3Soi-h3kCbXbJTGiqbchNdy5zP5F7Wg_i1e10MYV8GwODHUjzNeasUzKbD2NPrtWKYfRY1i5TFHa8_8Ckcqa/s4000/P8090194%20copy.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX_vKK6ipHcMCLnG4cegVSE9jE5WMO7VzbfKWl4LF5OvRrrMONLkWUtvLBGhYzn7cBL9p8CfSu4HyQ9SDawQr7tj3dzEINqhK61wHi1kIc3Soi-h3kCbXbJTGiqbchNdy5zP5F7Wg_i1e10MYV8GwODHUjzNeasUzKbD2NPrtWKYfRY1i5TFHa8_8Ckcqa/s320/P8090194%20copy.jpeg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">I am about to cross behind Traci, my boots in my hands. </span><span style="font-size: xx-small;">photo by Mark Dumont</span></td></tr></tbody></table></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> Have I mentioned the food? Did I say the leadership was great? Did I say the scenery was breathtaking (to say nothing of the breathtaking hiking)? Did I mention the company? W</span></span></span></span></span></span></span>e were teachers, a pianist, a farmer, an engineer, people who worked in tech, in non-profits, in academia. We spanned the ages of 39 to 79. Phenomenal hikers all.</div><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/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8k6qr-jo92qBVJPGHr0avdSEfc_K2kzdplNZCwfNXimzCLaG0rT8jNPfkIgYI5cRSoNZVFYYYJLnqlGHnYiAkauIG0x7fa8_oUMpHWvT8bdHz5VJt6Iv9VpkDZN2zA8E7w6tbyfZrHK1tC6_2Ej0Ljcj15JVykcPAkU0BnOo4WUhj40BGvHi2dBiW7KHe/s4000/P8120329%20copy.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8k6qr-jo92qBVJPGHr0avdSEfc_K2kzdplNZCwfNXimzCLaG0rT8jNPfkIgYI5cRSoNZVFYYYJLnqlGHnYiAkauIG0x7fa8_oUMpHWvT8bdHz5VJt6Iv9VpkDZN2zA8E7w6tbyfZrHK1tC6_2Ej0Ljcj15JVykcPAkU0BnOo4WUhj40BGvHi2dBiW7KHe/s320/P8120329%20copy.jpeg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> <span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: xx-small;">photo by Mark Dumont<br /></span><span style="font-size: x-small;">Everyone is in this picture but Gabe, who is taking it. Note Leah,<span> </span>our leader, far right. She and John, assistant leader (4th from left), carried enormous packs.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: justify;"><span> No wonder I had a hard time going to sleep that first night off the trail. My body was there in Motel 6, but my spirit was still in the Wallowas, among those wildflowers, in those lakes, with those friends.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><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/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp6LOLZVHeYX3ekk5asyZP6Q-nHttnmonmGNFS53h0TGfdWK2_nLkbwG9FyOx4KbAVAXAV2vCsrP70eOsbeRZsM3wogoQ1jPwIlp66cz31veHi3VwSJ9F7x66N34D2pwBcQWAjRrSVT8zgwi5hs_sdZHgjSwH7rkgJsOQTA7IuHK-0hKjOF9AZBDmUBpPQ/s4032/IMG_7575%20copy.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp6LOLZVHeYX3ekk5asyZP6Q-nHttnmonmGNFS53h0TGfdWK2_nLkbwG9FyOx4KbAVAXAV2vCsrP70eOsbeRZsM3wogoQ1jPwIlp66cz31veHi3VwSJ9F7x66N34D2pwBcQWAjRrSVT8zgwi5hs_sdZHgjSwH7rkgJsOQTA7IuHK-0hKjOF9AZBDmUBpPQ/s320/IMG_7575%20copy.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;">photo by Gabe Oprea<br /></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span><br /></span></div>Diana Cooglehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01101896692867725560noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6342665766969794465.post-9790810504425289872023-08-03T18:23:00.001-07:002023-08-14T16:32:01.136-07:00On a Perfect Summer Day I See My Fox<div style="text-align: justify;"> Our summer days lately have been as beautiful as they come—warm but not overly hot, balmy, gentle, smoke-free. In fact, it has been something close to this all summer—no smoke, no triple-digit temperatures. I have been hiking a lot, with a 30-pound pack, training for a six-day backpacking trip in the Wallowa Mountains, in northeastern Oregon, but today I took a rest day and sat on the deck in my new swing, now my favorite place in the house, reading some, writing some, swinging gently.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxRgPcSaad1YC9FQkVx-u3jjOu2Jbsi17ZizjbrK1H7FjbN4c_AzdjmoicNKG6m1oxZsRgK1ZgowAfQzGI0oR3ovQiZ6I1Pouee_NQiT24iD9IFmWKVQ622jrh4GF2HHktGM4-n7ZArCPOHvvY7ISXBDtmnG2WHM-7wktnV9ChO7PerdntQ6eFyQM-juOl/s2016/IMG_3987.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxRgPcSaad1YC9FQkVx-u3jjOu2Jbsi17ZizjbrK1H7FjbN4c_AzdjmoicNKG6m1oxZsRgK1ZgowAfQzGI0oR3ovQiZ6I1Pouee_NQiT24iD9IFmWKVQ622jrh4GF2HHktGM4-n7ZArCPOHvvY7ISXBDtmnG2WHM-7wktnV9ChO7PerdntQ6eFyQM-juOl/s320/IMG_3987.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span> I looked up at a strange scraping sound in the yard in front of me, on a bare, flat bit of ground downhill from the house, between the woods and the apple tree . </span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span> </span>It was my fox, rubbing his back on the rough ground. Then he sat up, glanced at me when I made a slight noise, then sat there, </span></span></span></span></span>looking around, attentive but at ease, before loping off down the hill towards the woods.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span> I see this fox from time to time, and I often hear him at night. Sometimes he stops twelve or fifteen yards from the house and barks his saw-blade-sharp arf. If I come out the door, he looks at me and barks again. I greet him with a few words, then go back inside.</span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span> He is a gray fox, very beautiful in his red-and-gray lush fur coat and long handsome tail. </span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span> I know it's the same fox I see every time because he is lame in one foot. He limps on his right front foot, lifting the paw off the ground and trotting angularly, though swiftly enough. I thought at first the paw might have a temporary injury, maybe a thorn in it, and I imagined myself playing the part of the mouse </span></span></span></span></span></span>who took the thorn out of the lion's paw in Aesop's fable. But I have seen the fox often enough that I think the paw is permanently injured. I doubt that it was caught in a trap; trapping isn't usual around here. I wondered if it were a birth defect. Maybe the mother fox sat on the foot when the kit was born. That happens sometimes with domestic animals. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> I know better than to be sentimental about wild creatures, and I feel strongly about the wrongness of making pets of wild creatures. But I do love my fox. We are cordial, if distant, friends. It is between us as Emily Dickinson said:</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> </span><span> </span><span> Several of nature's fellows</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> </span><span> </span><span> I know, and they know me</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> </span><span> </span><span> I feel for them a transport</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span><span> </span><span> </span><span> Of cordiality.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span><span><span><span><span> So it is with my fox. </span></span></span></span></span></div>Diana Cooglehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01101896692867725560noreply@blogger.com0