At Home in Oregon

The Beautiful and Rugged Northwest Coast… Brookings, Oregon

/ Curt Mekemson / 10 Comments

Beautiful weather and early morning sunlight combined for this reflection photo of a rock jutting out toward the Pacific Ocean at Harris Beach State Park just north of Brookings, Oregon where I was camping this week.

Nobuo Fujita had a job to do: bomb the United States. It was September 9, 1942 and his plane was loaded with incendiary bombs. He launched his floatplane from the Japanese submarine that had delivered him to the coastal waters off Southern Oregon, climbed over the ocean, and flew toward the mountains behind Brookings. His bombs were supposed to ignite a massive forest fire.

The forest didn’t cooperate but Fujita returned to Brookings in 1962 and presented the city with a 400-year-old Samurai sword that belonged to his family. In 1967 Brookings made him an honorary citizen.

On March 11, 2011 another intruder from the East came roaring into Brookings. This time it was the remnants of the devastating tsunami that had struck Japan and caused such horrendous loss of life and property. Brookings got off easy but considerable damage was done to the town’s harbor. It was a solemn reminder of what might happen when the next big earthquake hits the West Coast.

It’s hard to imagine this peaceful harbor scene at Brookings, Oregon being disrupted by the remains of the tsunami that struck Japan a year and a half ago.

I was in Brookings this week to camp out at Harris Beach State Park and enjoy the beautiful and rugged coastline. I divided my days between working on a book about my African Peace Corps experience and hiking on the beach. The weather was close to perfect. Naturally, I had a camera along.

The view from Harris Beach State Park looking south toward Brookings, which was about a mile away.

A sandbar created a small lagoon that was excellent for capturing reflections. Note the seagull on the right.

OK, I admit I can’t resist reflections. This shot at Harris Beach State Park, Oregon was taken late afternoon.

This view, similar to the photo at the beginning, was taken early morning.

Another early morning photo at Harris Beach State Park. This one is looking south. The sun has gently touched the rock on the right while those on the left remain in shadows.

The sandbar that separated the lagoon from the ocean.

I liked the combination of dark rock, sandy beach, sky and water.

Looking north up the Pacific Coast from Harris State Beach.

Low tide uncovers an abundance of sea life. When my dad lived on the Oregon Coast, he would gather the mussels for cooking.

And what’s an ocean without a seagull… This guy was hoping I would break out lunch.

The restless ocean and its waves were calm for my visit to Brookings, Oregon.

This large log, bleached white by the sun and sea, is a reminder of stormy oceans. In fact watching storms hit the coast has become a major spectator sport during the winter on the Oregon coast.

I’ll finish off my post on Harris Beach State Park and Brookings, Oregon with a final reflection picture. Next up: A visit to Organ Pipe Cactus National Park in Southern Arizona.

Bigfoot Prowls Our Neighborhood… At Home in Oregon

/ Curt Mekemson / 16 Comments

The beautiful Applegate River in southwest Oregon is know to be Bigfoot Country. This photo is taken just down from our house at around 2000 feet elevation.

He’s Big, he’s Hairy, he’s Bad, or at least he smells bad. More importantly, he’s illusive, so illusive that skeptics doubt he exists. But I live in Southern Oregon on the Applegate River; it’s Bigfoot country. He’s been seen around here numerous times, “a growling and prowling and sniffing the air.” (Words from Smokey the Bear who is also big and hairy and wanders around on two feet.)

Several sightings have been made near the Oregon Caves National Monument, about 15 miles from where we live as the crow flies. The most famous involved Matthew Johnson, a psychologist from Grants Pass Oregon. He heard guttural sounds, smelled something pungent, and then saw Bigfoot hiding in the trees some 60 yards away. He was spying on Michael’s family. They made a quick exit. The story has received widespread media coverage since the July 2000 incident.

LP, a former army MP and English teacher who is now a policeman, relates seeing Bigfoot even closer to our house. He was staying in a friend’s home on the Redwood Highway just after it crosses the Applegate River. One night, he heard his friend’s dog “go ballistic” and went outside to see why. He saw a large creature crouching in the grass. “What the F ***…” he thought. “I saw the HUGE THING take off in a full BIPEDAL RUN.” LP admits to being more frightened than he had ever been in his life.

He went inside and got a big gun.

Given the local interest in Bigfoot, Peggy and I decided to spend July 4th checking out a well-known Bigfoot site… the only trap ever built to catch the large fellow. It is located four miles from where we live on a small, seasonal creek that flows into Applegate Lake. The story starts with Perry Lovell discovering 18-inch human-like tracks with a six-foot stride in his garden near a stretch of Applegate River that became Applegate Lake.

Ron Olsen, a Eugene based filmmaker who headed up a group called the North American Wildlife Research Team, decided to catch Bigfoot so he could be studied. In 1974 he built a sturdy 10 by 10 foot trap with a metal grate door near where Lovell had lived and baited the trap with fresh meat.

A local miner was hired to hang out in a cabin near the trap.  He was given a tranquilizer gun and large handcuffs. I would have included a barrel of whiskey.

The trap worked. They caught a couple of bears… but no Bigfoot. After six years the idea was abandoned. In 2006 a group of volunteers working with the Forest Service restored the trap but sealed the door to protect the public.

Peggy and I drove the three miles up to the Collings Mountain Trail, which is on Applegate Lake just beyond Hart-tish Park. A big foot painted on the trail sign let us know we had arrived. A short and pleasant three-quarters of a mile walk up the seasonal creek took us to the ruins of the old miner’s cabin and then up the hill to the trap.

A big foot on the Collings Mountain Trail sign lets you know that you have found the right path to the Bigfoot trap.

Even if we hadn’t been on a mission to find the Bigfoot trap, the pleasant stroll along the shaded path would have been worth the trip. These are maple leaves backlit by the sun.

Towering Douglas Fir also decorate the Collings Mountain Trail on the way to the Bigfoot trap. Douglas firs are second only to Redwoods in being the world’s tallest trees.

If you spend much time wandering through the lower forests of Northern California or Southern Oregon, you need to recognize this plant. It is poison oak.

Our hike to the Bigfoot trap included enjoying the flowers along the way.

This was fun. The path to the Bigfoot trap follows a seasonal creek that still contained small water holes. What you are looking at is the shadow of a skipper or strider, a small insect with long legs that strides or skips across the water. They are incredibly fast. I am shooting down into the water. Look carefully and you can see the bug located near the right front foot shadow.

A miner was hired to monitor the Bigfoot trap. He was given a tranquilizer gun and large handcuffs to subdue the big guy when he got caught. This is all that remains of the miner’s cabin.

As reported, the Bigfoot trap is large and sturdy. It is also covered with graffiti. Too bad the trap is inoperable. I would have baited it with a spray paint can. It would be much easier to catch a miscreant teenager than Bigfoot.

The graffiti covered Bigfoot trap located in Southern Oregon near Applegate Lake. It is now permanently sealed open.

My wife Peggy provides a perspective on the size of the trap and the trap door.

Looking up at the metal grate door designed to capture Bigfoot.

Back home I looked up the Bigfoot Field Researcher’s Organization (BFRO) on the Net. It’s worth checking out. The site describes hundreds of North American encounters by region. And it also describes Bigfoot characteristics. They weigh up to a thousand pounds, like to make whoop, whoop sounds, and throw rocks at people.

What do I believe? Definitive proof would be nice. I’ll remain skeptical until I meet one but I would love to make one’s acquaintance as I wander through the woods of Northern California and Southern Oregon. Here’s one final encounter I discovered in the Rensselaer Republican, a newspaper my great-grandfather George Marshall published out of Rensselaer Indiana on February 7, 1902.

Human Monster Abroad with a Club… Facts About His Feet

Residents of the little town of Chesterfield in an isolated part of Bannock County, Idaho are excited over the appearance in that vicinity of an eight-foot, hair covered human monster. He was first seen on January 14 when he appeared among a party of young people who were skating on the river near John Gooch’s ranch. The creature flourished a club and started to attack the skaters but they reached their wagons and got away in safety. Measurement of the tracks showed the creatures feet to be twenty-two inches long and seven inches broad, with the imprint of only four toes. Stockmen report having seen the tracks along the range west of the river. The people of the neighborhood, feeling unsafe while the creature is at large, have sent twenty men on its tracks.

The other morning Peggy and I awoke to the neighbor’s dogs barking wildly and a strong, not quite skunkish smell. Our property backs up to a million acres of National Forest. Hmmm. To be continued at a future date…

A final view of the Bigfoot trap. Given how clever Bigfoot has proven to be at avoiding people, I think the only way this trap could have caught him is if he had fallen down laughing so hard at the people thinking he would go in it.

Your Mama Was a Ground Squirrel… A Journal Entry

/ Curt Mekemson / 1 Comment

It's a random morning as I look out my window at the woods surrounding our home in Southern Oregon and am amused by the wildlife. A Steller Jay scolds me with a staccato comment. Apparently the bird feeder is running low on sunflower seeds.

I plug along, seeking a different perspective for my morning journal. CT runs by. “Your mama was a ground squirrel,” I yell after him. I am probably not being PC. He can’t help it if he has an ugly little crooked tail when all of his gray squirrel relatives have big bushy ones.

A dove lands under the madrone. She is as round as she is long. An elderly friend of mine would say, “Wow she is fat!” in a voice loud enough for the whole neighborhood to hear. It’s the privilege of old age, calling things as you see them. But I think the dove has fluffed her feathers out to stay warm on this 38-degree morning. Or possibly she is pregnant… very pregnant. Or she’s fat.

Random thoughts, random mind.

My computer tells me ‘random thoughts, random mind’ is not a complete sentence. There is nothing random about my computer. It lives by the rules. A fragment is a fragment is a fragment. I tell the software to get lost. I will write what I want. It’s a random morning and I am feeling like Jack Kerouac. Let the thoughts flow where they will.

But still I write in sentences with punctuation and paragraphs with themes. I can’t escape the discipline of writing. But I can play. We are far too serious in this world. We would rather bump each other off than laugh at our foolishness, which makes us all fools but not fool enough.

Whoa, where did that come from? “Gibberish,” you say, and gibberish it is but those are the rules of random. I write sentences but they don’t have to make sense. Or do they?

A Steller Jay interrupts my thoughts with his staccato complaints. Apparently the bird feeder is running low on sunflower seeds. It’s back to the basics.

Two tom turkeys come by, fluff out their feathers, and do the Turkey Two Step. It’s a fan dance. They have a harem of hens to convince of their masculinity. “Take me, baby!” But first they have to convince each other. It’s a dance as old as time.

Are these two tom turkeys putting on a show for their lady loves? Or is it each other?

And what is the hornless buck doing licking his nose with his bright pink tongue. “Ah,” I think to myself, “He is going after a bit of breakfast that has escaped his mouth.” I can identify. I stuck out my tongue frog-like this morning to capture a piece of scone that was charging down my sweatshirt. “Escapee!” my mind screamed.

Lip smacking good. The pink tongue says it all on this buck who is just starting to grow a new set of horns.

And thus my daily journal goes this third day of April in 2012 as I write from my home in the woods of Southern Oregon. I’ve been filling pages with the minutia of my life for 12 years now. It’s how I kick off my day, an old friend, as comfortable as the chair I sit in. I write for me. Occasionally I’ll share.

A (not so) Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Burning Man

/ Curt Mekemson / Leave a comment

“I want you to drink and pee, drink and pee, and drink and pee,” Doctor V prescribed. It was a unique prescription. I pictured myself happily downing Oregon beer. Then he specified water.

My wife Peggy and I were on our way to Burning Man. I wasn’t feeling well and decided to drop by the Medford Medical Clinic before jumping off into the remote Nevada desert. My lower abdomen had developed the personality of a watermelon.

The Doctor ordered all the tests. I was to give blood, donate urine and expose my innards to x-rays. I dutifully ran around to be poked, prodded and pinched while Peggy waited patiently. (Don’t you just love alliteration?)

Anyway, before I knew it, I was back in Dr. V’s office sitting on a hard chair and memorizing a wall chart on intestines. I was approaching anal when the doctor appeared and pulled up my results. “Looks good, looks good, looks good,” he murmured as visions of Burning Man danced in my head.

That was just before he uttered “Uh-oh.” These are two of the worst words in a doctor’s vocabulary. They should be banned. My blood pressure shot up, sphincter clamped down and big toe developed gout.

Turns out my kidneys had joined a union and gone on strike. They were refusing to process the toxins out of my system. My body was becoming a hazardous waste site reportable to the EPA. “Drink and pee,” the Doc ordered. I was to come back on Monday.

The clock was ticking. I would miss the first and second day of Burning Man.

The Rogue Valley Medical Center was on my agenda Monday. My kidneys and bladder were to be scanned by an ultra-sound machine, a sonar-type device similar to what my brother-in-law Jim Hockett uses for finding fish and the Navy used for finding U-boats in WWII.

But first I had to prove myself worthy. A series of small cubicles lined the hallway leading into the hospital proper. I was to report to one. Before the magical machine scanned one centimeter of my body, I had to show I could pay. Hospitals, drug companies, lawyers, health insurers, doctors, nurses, therapists, technicians, clinicians, secretaries, janitors, business managers and at least a hundred other health care affiliates were depending on me. I was at the bottom of a very large and hungry food chain. “FEED ME,” they yelled in unison.

I boldly moved forward and whipped out my Oregon Driver’s license, Medicare Card, AARP Card, and United Health Care Insurance Parts B and D cards. I was a card-carrying member of the Baby Boomer Generation. Plus I had excellent credit. I was prime, well-aged beef. The gatekeeper smiled and gave her stamp of approval. “You are good for a year,” she told me.

The young technician in charge of ultra-sounds led me through a labyrinth of hallways to her inner sanctum, laid me out on the sacrificial table and begin lathering me with warm oil. I liked it. But I didn’t like what the scans showed, a vast ocean of pee and a small growth on the side of my bladder. She returned to it again and again. “I like to take lots of pictures,” she told me. Her diligence made me late.

“You missed your appointment,” the scowling receptionist at the Medford Clinic told me shortly afterwards. “You will have to reschedule.” I had apparently committed a grievous sin. But I was not properly repentant. I scowled back.

“Your office made the appointments,” I pointed out. “The hospital made me late and the technician told me she was in contact with Doctor V. I am leaving town tomorrow.”

The room temperature dropped several degrees. “I’ll check with the Doctor,” she said. Each word was coated with ice.

She came back all smiles. “You are going to Burning Man,” she exclaimed. I was no longer just a crotchety old guy whining about his afflictions. I was a crotchety old guy going to Burning Man. I was ‘cool.’ “The Doctor says he needs you to take another blood test. He will call you later with the results.”

It was his nurse who called.

“You have Acute Kidney Failure. The Doctor recommends that you skip Burning Man.” I was to be handed off to a specialist.

I didn’t have a clue what Acute Kidney Failure meant but it definitely didn’t sound like something I wanted to be caught with in the Black Rock Desert of Northern Nevada. We cancelled our adventure.

Next up: Dr. M. draws a picture. The kidneys are connected to the bladder and the bladder’s connected to the prostate and the prostate’s connected to the well, um… you get the idea.

When Bears Come to Visit

/ Curt Mekemson / Leave a comment

A local bear has been cruising our area on the Upper Applegate River in Oregon. A neighbor caught this photo of him three weeks ago. He's a big fellow. This week he came to visit us.

A large black bear has been cruising our neighborhood. Monday night he stopped by for a visit and had a wresting match with our garbage can.

The garbage can lost.

I could tell by the garbage strewn around the yard and the claw marks on the side of the can. The can now lives in our shed. I’m hoping the move will solve the problem. So does the can.

Hiding inside doesn’t always work. Kori Titus, a friend out of Sacramento, noted on my Facebook page that a black bear broke down the door of an acquaintance living at Lake Tahoe and entered his kitchen.

The thought of a bear breaking and entering our house makes me think of a thick bear rug to keep my toes warm on cold winter nights.

“Do you have a weapon?” my neighbor Tom asked worriedly. I should warn the bear. This is rural Oregon. The folks around here have guns, lots of guns, lots of big guns.

Have you ever come across a large pile of fresh bear scat. It's enough to make you wish you were elsewhere. Our friend left this behind. Bone provides perspective.

I’ve had numerous encounters with bears. Leading backpack treks in and out of Yosemite National Park for years guaranteed contact. Once I woke up at 4 AM with a bear standing on top of me. His snout was about six inches away from mine. I screamed and vacated the premises. Fortunately, he did too.

The big fellows in Alaska worry me more. A grizzly stalked me when I was leading a backpack trip across the Kenai Peninsula.  I had checked with a friend in the forest service before going. He warned me that a large grizzly was working the area and had treed one of his rangers two weeks earlier. The fall before a black bear had bitten through the sleeping bag of a woman ranger and wounded her leg.

Our group made lots of noise when hiking through the region. A forest service cabin provided shelter that night. There would be no biting through sleeping bags. I figured we were out of the woods, so to speak. But one of my Trekkers wanted to go for a hike the next morning. I offered to keep her company.

We were on our way back when I heard something big moving though the brush on the side of the trail. “What’s that?” my companion gasped. We looked down and saw the distinctive hump on the back of a grizzly. He was moving parallel through the brush, stalking us.

“What do we do now? Run!?”

She was a marathon runner and fast. I wasn’t. I suggested we turn around, walk over a bridge we had just crossed and find a tall tree. If the bear appeared we would climb the tree. Quickly.

An hour later there was still no sign of the bear. We hiked back to camp holding hands. She had an iron grip. A mouse in the brush would have sent us fleeing.

I also had an encounter with an Alaskan Brown Bear. These are the monsters of the bear world that National Geographic likes to feature. I’d flown into Katmai National Park located at the beginning of the Aleutian Peninsula. The area is known for its remoteness, unusual volcanic features, trophy size trout, and Alaskan Brown Bears. The last two go together.

The bears have competition. Fishermen come from all over the world to try their luck. Human-bear encounters are inevitable. A park ranger greeted us upon arrival and explained proper bear etiquette. If you have a trout on your line and a bear shows up, cut your line. If you meet one on the trail, talk to it and slowly back away. “Talk to it???”

I managed to meet my first bear on my first evening. It wasn’t large by Brown Bear standards… only about one and one half times the size of a grizzly. But the trail was narrow. I still remember our conversation.

“Um, good evening Mr. Bear,” I stuttered respectfully. “I am an American, just like you. If you are hungry, I understand there is some great Japanese food on the menu. Or you might want to try the German.”

The bear stared at me for a long two minutes, barked a growl of annoyance and wandered off in the opposite direction. I didn’t hear any Japanese or German fishermen screaming that night. All’s well that ends well.

So I have a fair amount of experience in dealing with bears. Will this help me with our nighttime visitor? Probably not but I’ll keep you posted.

Mm, mm good. Our neighbors with the night camera have a compost box that the bear finds particularly fascinating. Note the metal around the box. He couldn't get in through the sides so he went in through the top.

Earth Day 2011… a Home in the Woods

/ Curt Mekemson / 4 Comments

A view from our patio. Tomorrow is Earth Day 2011, a time to stop and appreciate the diversity and beauty found in nature, a time to remind ourselves of the critical role we have in protecting this beauty and diversity for future generations.

My earliest memories of childhood are of exploring the rural countryside around my home in Diamond Springs, California. As a result, I have always loved wandering in the woods. When other boys my age took up baseball bats, I disappeared into the forest and tracked Jack Rabbits.

This splendid fellow considers our property part of his range... Here he reminds me.

Later my enjoyment of nature turned into a passion for protecting the environment.

I was recruiting for Peace Corps Volunteers at the UC Davis when Earth Day I took place. It started me on the road to becoming an environmentalist. I quit my job with Peace Corps and became Executive Director of Sacramento’s Ecology Information Center.

The beauty of nature is found in many forms, from the small flower to the grand vista. The hills behind our home are now filled with spring wildflowers, such as this Shooting Star I photographed last week.

Forty years later the message of Earth Day remains the same.

Diversity in nature helps assure our continued survival. Within that diversity there is also unity. All of life is tied together in a complex whole. When we destroy one part of life it has a rippling effect, reaching out and disrupting other aspects of our existence.

Predators, such as this small fox who has a den on the back of our property, have historically been considered an enemy to be wiped out. Ecology has taught us of the vital role these predators have in maintaining the balance of nature.

It’s not nice to mess with Mother Nature.

Protecting the diversity of life through maintaining natural areas does more than help assure our survival, however; it provides a sanctuary where we can escape the busyness and worries of our everyday urban life and return to roots that reach back to the very beginnings of human consciousness.

The beautiful Applegate River flows by our home and provides a rich riparian habitat for birds, mammals, plants and fish. My wife Peggy has already claimed a rock where she can sit quietly and meditate on the beauty.

I am convinced we lose something of our humanity when we isolate ourselves from nature.

When I hike down a woodland trail, a sense of peace settles over my mind even as my fat cells scream for mercy. Both body and soul gain. The benefits are so persuasive I have been drawn to the wilderness again and again during my life.

At an elevation of 2000 feet we have a mixed woodland forest of Ponderosa Pines, Douglas Fir, White Oaks and Red Cedar. A March snowstorm decorated this Douglas Fir.

Our recent move to the Upper Applegate Valley of Southern Oregon is but one more example. The Applegate River flows past out front door and 1.8 million acres of national forest and wilderness form the boundary of our back property.

A herd of deer and a flock of wild turkeys consider our five acres as part of their range. Fat Gray Squirrels chase each other through the mixed oak, pine, fir and madrone forest. A small fox has chosen to make its den in our blackberries.

A herd of seven black tail deer often bed down on our property. They drop by our house frequently to see if Peggy has her garden in yet.

As I look out our window, Mountain Jays, Gold Finch, Grosbeaks and tiny hooded Oregon Juncos are gathered around our bird feeder, more or less taking turns.

Larkspur, shooting stars, buttercups and numerous other wildflowers provide spring decorations on the slope below.

I realize how very, very lucky Peggy and I are to have this home in the woods. With the approach of Earth Day 2011, it is my hope that future generations will still have such wilderness areas to enjoy and cherish.

Sunset from our patio... and a final reminder of the beauty and peace to be found in the natural world. May our children and grandchildren continue to enjoy it. Earth Day 2001.

(Next Blog: How the Pond and the Woods introduced a seven-year-old child to the wonders of nature.)

When Being Goofy Isn’t Enough

/ Curt Mekemson / 5 Comments

Goofy

OK, I am a little strange. I admit it. But Goofy… no way. I confess, however, I’ve had a long affinity for the floppy eared, big-footed fellow. Yuk Yuk.

It all started when my mother told me that a cousin of hers, Vance ‘Pinto’ Colvig, was the original voice of Goofy.

I had never heard of Pinto so I looked him up. Sure enough, he was the voice of Goofy. In fact Walt Disney was so taken with the voice that he gave Goofy a starring role as one of Mickey’s best buddies.

I was willing to let the connection slide after that. I did trot Goofy out on an occasion, however. In the competitive world of dating, it’s valuable to have a famous relative, even if he’s a cartoon. More than one woman was impressed with my shirttail link, including my wife Peggy.

I never used “I am related to Goofy,” as a conversation starter, though. It was more like a third or fourth date thing.

When Peggy and I recently moved to the Applegate Valley in Southern Oregon, I decided to do more research on Pinto. He’s a native son of the area and grew up in the historic town of Jacksonville, which is where Peggy and I go to play.

Turns out Pinto’s big brother, Donald Colvig, married my mother’s aunt, Star Marshall. I guess that made my mother a second cousin, once removed and makes me… nothing. But I am still going to claim Goofy. And there’s more:

I learned that Pinto was also the creator of Bozo the Clown! Now I have a choice. I can either claim I’m related to Goofy or claim I’m related to Bozo. I am not sure what that buys me but it might make an interesting epitaph.

A painting of Bozo

Pinto was a very talented man who spent his life making people laugh. Here are some of his other accomplishments. He was:

  •      The voice of Pluto, Mickey’s dog.
  •      The voice of the anal pig who built the brick house in the Three Little Pigs.
  •      The voice of Grumpy and Sleepy in the original version of Snow White.
  •      The co-composer of ‘Who’s Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf.’
  •      The voice of one of the three Munchkins who sang the Lollipop song in Dorothy and the Wizard of Oz.
  •      The voice for Popeye’s nemesis Bluto who was always hustling Olive Oyl.

In this early photo, Walt Disney listens in on a song. Pinto is on the right, playing the Clarinet.

It’s quite a legacy. Pinto also had a nationally syndicated comic strip and was co-owner of an animation studio. Interestingly to me, Pinto was also one of the first people to urge that warning labels be put on cigarettes. ( I spent three decades doing battle with Big Tobacco.)

Goofy and Bone share a moment.

A Wilderness Home in Oregon

/ Curt Mekemson / 6 Comments

This view is looking south from our front patio. The mountains are part of the Red Buttes Wilderness area of Northern California. The whole area is being proposed for national monument status because of its beauty and biodiversity.

Our son Tony, his wife Cammie, the two-year old Connor and the nine-month-old Christopher just completed a visit to our new mountain home in Oregon. It was obvious they loved it.

They also liked the historic community of Jacksonville. In fact Cammie raved about the town. I was surprised, however, when she asked Peggy why we hadn’t chosen to live there instead of at our more rural retreat in Applegate Valley.

A view of Jacksonville's main street. My barber, Ed McBee, has his shop on the right.

On one level, I understand the question. It is great to have good restaurants, cultural opportunities such as the Britt Festival, a library, a variety of shops and a grocery store all within walking distance. Finding such a place is rare in our world of urban sprawl.

My ancestors apparently liked the community; I have Great Grandparents buried in the cemetery overlooking the town and a related family, the Colvigs, owned a home there that is now on the National Historic Registry.

But there are also inherent values connected to living in the woods. Peggy quickly related them to Cammie and assured her that I hadn’t forced my lovely wife into a world of isolation. (Jacksonville is only a short 30-minute commute away from our home plus it is a beautiful drive. There are no clogged freeways.)

The view looking westward from our front patio toward the Pacific Ocean.

I was thinking about Cammie’s comments last night as I stood outside our house and looked up at the Milky Way. It’s a view you rarely get in urban areas or even small communities. The bright lights and pollution hide the stars. I could hear the Applegate River rushing by the front of our home and some small animal rustling around in the bushes behind me.

One of the deer that Connor visited who is interested in any garden Peggy may plant.

Earlier in the day I had given Connor a wheelbarrow ride up to the back of our property so he could say ‘bye-bye’ to the deer that hang out there. He’d been up to visit them several times. The herd comes down from the Rogue National Forest that forms our back property line. They are eager for Peggy to put in a garden.

Connor also waved goodbye to the swing that Tony and I had put up for him in a White Oak.

We had carefully surveyed our property looking for the perfect swing tree and a future tree house site. With over a hundred White Oaks on our five acres plus Douglas Fir, Red Cedar, Ponderosa Pines and Madrones there are numerous options.

Don’t get me wrong about Jacksonville, we could live there quite easily and may someday.  But for now, our retreat in the woods with its beautiful views, abundant wildlife, national forest and rushing river is exactly where we want to be. It’s a place that we are eager to share with family, friends and children.

And it is a place where our grandchildren can come and wander through the woods to their heart’s content. It was this freedom and the introduction to wilderness that I loved most about growing up in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada Mountains. I can’t think of a better gift to give to our newest generation.

A view of the Applegate River just down from our property.

A side view of our house looking toward front patio.

While we haven't been snowed in, we have seen a fair amount of snow this past week as demonstrated by one of our Red Cedars.

A distant Peggy stands in the middle of our White Oak forest, points to our distant house and says "mine."

Behind this sign at the back of our property are 1.8 million acres of National Forest. I consider this photo one of the most scenic I have ever taken.

One of the reasons we bought our mountain retreat is so our grandchildren Christopher and Connor and their cousins Ethan and Cody can grow up playing in the woods and learning to appreciate the value of protecting America's great wilderness areas.