The Baaa’d Goat Feast

May 31, 2015May 30, 2015 / Curt Mekemson / 33 Comments

Billy Goat, aka Rambo, stood on our front porch and posed for Peggy. He was a handsome fellow.

“Curt,” Peggy hollered at me from the kitchen, “there is a goat running around in our back yard.” I looked out. Sure enough, a white billy-goat was dashing back and forth in the field above our house baaing like the Hounds of Hell were on its heels.

“Maybe tomorrow’s dinner has escaped,” Peggy suggested. Perhaps she was right. Our neighbors Margaret and Bryan were hosting a goat bar-b-que for Memorial Day. It’s something of a tradition, but normally they cook a lamb. This year, our next-door neighbor, Jim, had donated a goat. I could understand why it might want to get away.

While Peggy called Jim and grabbed a camera, I went out to have a discussion with Billy. I baaa’d at him. I often talk to Jim’s goats. And yes, they talk back. Sometimes we have extended conversations. This time Billy came rushing over to tell me his woes. I started scratching him behind the ears. It works for dogs, cats, and horses, why not for goats. Soon Billy was purring like a cat, or he would have been if goats purred. Jim arrived in his truck.

I scratched Rambo behind the ears and calmed him down.

I scratched Billy behind the ears and calmed him down. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

“Come on Billy,” I suggested, “let’s go see Jim.” Billy dutifully followed along.

“His name is Rambo,” Jim informed me as he beat on a can filled with goat food to entice his errant ram. Rambo wasn’t buying it. He was obviously irritated. At a minimum, Jim had interrupted a good ear scratching.

“Are we looking at dinner, here?” I asked Jim. His last ram had ended up in stew.

“Oh, no,” Jim told me. “That’s Pinky.” Pinky had been a bad goat in the spring and caused the demise of two kids from another Nanny. That had irritated Jim, which isn’t a good idea. “Pinky was Rambo’s companion, however.” Jim explained. “And now he is mad.” Apparently Rambo had escaped from his pen to mount a rescue effort. Back in his pen again, he sounded like an angry bull elephant on a rampage. The whole neighborhood shook from his complaints. Jim retrieved another nanny to put in with him. Rambo shut up— immediately. So much for true love.

The next day…

“Stop that,” Bryan’s father Bernard urged when Jim referred to the goat that was roasting on the spit as Pinky. Obviously Jim was having fun, teasing. A fair-sized group of neighbors, friends, and a contingent from Southern Oregon University had gathered for the feast. Everyone had brought food to go with the goat meat and several had brought wine. Fred, the brewer from the Caldera Brewery in Ashland, had brought a generous supply of the brewery’s award winning beers. I considered it my responsibility to sample a few.

This Caldera IPA was quite tasty. So tasty in fact, that I had to drink another.

This Caldera IPA, Hopportunity Knocks, was quite tasty. So tasty in fact, that I had to drink another. I can honestly report that the brewery’s other ales were quite good as well.

Goat bar-b-que in Applegate Valley of Southern Oregon

Ex-Pinky roasting away over an open fire.

Spices and oil are bushed on the goat by Brian's brother-in-law Kieth. The brush is also made of spices such as rosemary and sage.

Spices and oil are brushed on the goat by Brian’s brother-in-law Keith. The brush is also made of spices such as rosemary and sage.

There is something primitive about carving your meat off of an animal that has just been roasted over an open fire. It’s enough to make squeamish folks hesitate. Throw in the fact that it was goat, and even more people opt out. The real gourmet challenge, however, was the Kokoretsi Bryan prepared. He had taken a portion of the goat’s intestine, stuffed it with cut up pieces of the goat’s lungs, heart and liver, trussed it up, and cooked it beside the goat. The meal required a bold palate.

Bryan carves meat off the goat roast.

Bryan serves on neighbor Jim, who donated the goat for the feast.

And serves our neighbor Jim, who donated the goat for the feast.

Kokoretsi being grilled in the Applegate Valley of Southern Oregon.

The Kokoretsi all trussed up.

But the goat and the goat intestines were quite tasty. With the exception of a vegetarian or two (understandably), everyone lined up for goat meat and most people tried the Kokoretsi. I went back for second helpings of each. As for the vegetarians and the more dainty eaters, there were numerous options, including a delicious apple pie Peggy had baked for the occasion. No one went home hungry.

Bryan’s father, Bernard, makes an annual trip down from Portland to oversee the cooking of the lamb/goat. It’s a family affair.

Margaret teaches at SOU and served as editor of my book, The Bush Devil Ate Sam.

Margaret, looking chirpy, served as editor of my book, The Bush Devil Ate Sam.

It wasn’t only people who had fun at the goat feast. This dog made quick work of some spilled beer.

It was the Australian Shepherd puppies that stole the show, however. I don't know how many there were, but it seemed like there were plenty to go around.

It was the Australian Shepherd puppies that stole the show, however. I don’t know how many there were, but it seemed like there were enough to go around.

Like, how cute can you get?

After all of that attention, this one needed a nap.

After all of the attention, this one needed a nap.

Peggy attests to just how good the goat meat was. NEXT BLOG: I’ll take you back to the magical Greek Island of Santorini on my Wednesday photo essay.

Speaking of Afterlife, Did Pop Actually Haunt Me?

May 29, 2015May 28, 2015 / Curt Mekemson / 32 Comments

One of my favorite photos of my father taken by Glen Fishback at his studio.

Do you believe in ghosts? I’d like to say I don’t. Their existence isn’t rational. There is no scientific evidence that supports their presence. And yet, I’ve had a couple of ghostly experiences that are hard to explain rationally, other than my mind playing tricks (a distinct possibility). But consider the following:

In my last Friday essay on religion, I took readers to Alaska and a campfire discussion with my father. Pop lived for another eight years— and they were good years. He continued to read his Bible, smoke his pipe, paint pictures, and entertain the elderly women in his retirement complex with the photographs he had taken over the years. We had lots of opportunities to talk. I learned a great deal of his past and he never gave up trying to convert me.

Pop painted up until he was 85 or so. (Photo by Glen Fishback.)

The painting that Pop was working on now hangs in our guest bedroom.

One night I had him over for dinner to meet my new friend and future wife, Peggy. She charmed him as much as she had charmed me. I had already told him I planned on marrying her if I could persuade her to say yes. When I took him home, we shook hands at his doorway and, purely out of instinct, I said, “I love you Pop.” He got one of his big grins and responded, “I love you, too, Curt.”

A week later I found him sitting naked on his toilet, dead from a massive heart attack.

Of course I was grief-stricken. His passing was the passing of one of the most significant parts of my life. And I also felt guilt. I had known he wasn’t feeling well when I left him that night. I’d called a couple of times and he hadn’t answered, but I had assumed he had just been out on one of his walks. I couldn’t help but think if I had stopped by that I might have made a difference. Still, he had lived a full and productive life, taken care of himself to the end, and gone out quickly. It’s hard to ask for more.

The next day I went over to clean things up. I probably shouldn’t have gone alone because I was so stressed. I was in the bathroom cleaning when a light in the front room went on. I went out, thinking maybe the building manager had come by. No one was there. I went back to the bathroom where I had left a faucet on. Just as I walked in it jumped from a trickle to full force. The errant light and faucet shook me up; I grabbed my things and departed, quickly. That night I left the lights on in my apartment. It had been ages since I feared things that go bump in the night, but why take chances.

Just as I was finally drifting off to sleep from exhaustion, I heard a voice in my head. It was Pop. “I am alright Curt,” he said. “It’s okay.” And then I saw a vision of the proverbial white tunnel. It wasn’t a light at the end of the tunnel; it was the complete tunnel, the whole shebang— Pop’s spaceship. Were the light in his front room, the faucet, and the voice results of natural causes and my overwrought imagination? Probably. But who knows? Who knows what awaits us when the final bell rings? Maybe it’s a one-way ticket through the Universe.

Afterwards, when I thought about the experience, I was a little amused that Pop hadn’t taken advantage of the moment to say, “Read your Bible, Curt.” I would have started immediately. But maybe it wasn’t necessary. Maybe other fuel drove his spaceship.

CONCLUSION

In this series of essays, I have not argued against religion, I have argued against the abuse of religion. I have contended that the ‘leap of faith’ required by religions, combined with the concept of exclusivity (there is only one way to get to heaven), make abuse possible and even likely. Holding the keys to eternal life provides the holder with tremendous power. It’s something to die for. This power is an almost irresistible magnet to those who crave and need power for any number of reasons ranging from the sublime to the outrageous, from serving the flock to fleecing it, from helping the helpless to offing the opposition. When combined with fanaticism and government support, this mixture can quickly become a dangerous and deadly brew.

Religion has the power to do much good. I used my own personal example of how the Episcopal Church helped me get through difficult teenage years. I have a minister friend, the woman who married Peggy and me, who is known as the Disaster Pastor. She devotes her life to helping out where help is most needed, and has the full support of her congregation. My fellow blogger friend Bill, at Practicing Resurrection, is using his faith to encourage wholesome and humane farming practices, and healthy eating. Pope Francis is undertaking a major environmental initiative. There are thousands of examples.

To me, the greatest role religion can play is to enable us to see beyond ourselves, to understand that on some deep level we are all connected, not only to other human beings but to all life. Our salvation as a species lies in realizing that all of life is sacred and acting accordingly. Few of us have the capacity for sainthood but most of us have the capacity to see a bit further beyond ourselves than we normally do, and think through the long-term implications of our actions— whether it is being unkind, marching off to war, or wiping out another species.

I believe that the easiest way to counteract the negative aspects of religion is to modify the concept of exclusivity. Simply put, it’s okay for us to believe that the path we have chosen will take us toward whatever afterlife has to offer, but we also need to recognize that someone else’s path may be equally valid. Religious tolerance would eliminate one of the primary causes of conflict in the world today. Freedom of religion and separation of church and state are essential to obtaining this objective. Maybe the day will come when people of different religious beliefs (or none), can live next to each other in peace and prosperity throughout the world.

I’ll let Pop get a final word in. He once told me that he regarded his extensive reading of the Bible as an insurance policy. If he were right, it was his key to the afterlife. If he were wrong, what’s the harm? I granted him that. But I countered with the opposite argument. What if he were wrong? What if this is all we have? Then life becomes incredibly important. Each moment is precious. Yes, practice your religion if it is significant to you— read your Koran or Bible or Bhagavad Gita— but live each moment as though it were your last. Be kind, make sure that your loved ones know that you love them, give back to the community, have adventures, expand your mind, practice tolerance, and be passionate. If there is more after the curtain falls, wonderful. If not, you have lived your life fully and can die knowing that you achieved everything humanly possible from your brief time on this earth. What’s the harm?

NEXT WEEK: Monday’s Blog: A neighborhood goat feast. You’ll meet a clothed Rambo and a naked Pinky. Wednesday’s Photo Essay: I return to the magical island of Santorini. Friday’s Essay: How twenty-five cents saved one million lives and $134 billion in health care costs. Part I.

The Natchez Trace National Parkway, AKA— the Devil’s Backbone

May 27, 2015May 26, 2015 / Curt Mekemson / 27 Comments

Peggy and I were driving down the Natchez Trace when we came on this beautiful Luna Moth with a wingspan of about four inches. It was one of many treasures we found along the way. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

It’s Wednesday, time to scroll down through my iPhoto and find photos to feature. This time, my finger landed on the Natchez Trace, one of America’s premier drives— or bicycle trips. If you are ever wandering through Mississippi, Alabama or Tennessee, be sure to include it as part of your itinerary.

Large game animals, including buffalo, first used sections of what would become known as the Natchez Trace. Later it served as a major trade route for Native Americans. By the early 1800s, the Trace had been modified by a young United States into a 450-mile transportation corridor between Nashville, Tennessee and Natchez, Mississippi. Soldiers, highwaymen and missionaries travelled the route, but Kaintucks were its primary users.

Kaintucks were rough frontiersmen from Kentucky who operated flatboats on the Ohio and Mississippi Rivers. They would load their boats with merchandise in Nashville and then oar down the Mississippi to Natchez where they would sell their goods for a handsome profit. Getting the money home was the challenge. Rowing up the Mississippi was not an option. Kaintucks were faced with the 450-mile hike back up the Trace— and they were faced with a multitude of folks who wanted to separate them from their newfound wealth.

First came the gauntlet of booze, prostitutes, gamblers, and gangsters in ‘Natchez Under the Hill.’ Assuming the Kaintucks got out of town with fortune intact, they became fair game for highwaymen. It was open season on the rivermen and their cash. For this reason, the Natchez Trace became known as the Devil’s Backbone. Today the Trace is a beautiful National Parkway with no commercial traffic. I’ve driven it several times, and once, I bicycled 370 miles of it from Natchez into southern Tennessee.

A number of lakes and waterways are found along the Trace. We took this photo from our campsite. We also watched a beaver working while relaxing in our camp chairs.

I found this grass growing in the lake the next morning and enjoyed its reflection.

Numerous trails lead off of the Trace, often leading to babbling brooks.

And lots of fungi, including this shelf fungus, which decorated a rotting log.

Miles and miles of dogwood bloom along the Natchez Trace in Spring.

Peggy and I also found these colorful violets.

Meriwether Lewis of Lewis and Clark was found dead in a hotel on the Trace. To this day it is debated as to whether he was killed or committed suicide while under the influence of opium.

Meriwether Lewis of Lewis and Clark was found dead in a house on the Trace. To this day it is debated as to whether he was killed or committed suicide while under the influence of opium. This monument stands over his grave.

I wondered if Peggy had some type of message in mind when she asked me to pose for this photo. The sign is pointing toward portions of the historical Trace that are still found along the Parkway. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

The Phar Mounds located north of Tupelo, Mississippi were left behind by nomadic Native Americans somewhere between 1-200 AD as burial mounds.

These are the brick restrooms at Phar Mounds. I am sure you are wondering why i've included them. They are my favorite restrooms in the whole world, bar none. I hid out in them when I was on my bike trip around North America as a tornado ripped apart the woods a quarter of a mile away.

These are the brick restrooms at Phar Mounds. I’ve included them because they are my favorite restrooms in the whole world, bar none. I hid out in them when I was on my bike trip around North America and a tornado ripped apart the woods a quarter of a mile away. My bike hid with me.

I’ll conclude with a final photo of dogwood. NEXT BLOG: The Friday Essay: Just possibly a ghost is involved.

Bruneau Dunes State Park, Idaho… The Wednesday Photo Essay

May 20, 2015May 18, 2015 / Curt Mekemson / 34 Comments

Peggy and I discovered Bruneau Dunes State Park after we had been up in Central Idaho admiring the Sawtooth Mountains.

It’s Wednesday. That means I let my fingers do the walking down through my 20,000 pictures to come up with today’s photo essay. I closed my eyes, scrolled down through iPhoto, and randomly stopped.

I landed on Bruneau Dunes State Park in southwestern Idaho. It’s a gem. Driving south on Idaho 51 heading toward Elko, Nevada, Peggy and I found the park pretty much the same way I found it on iPhoto— randomly. This 4800 acre state park features sand dunes and a small lake that gives the area an oasis feel. It’s noted for having the tallest single-structured sand dune in North America— 470 feet above the surrounding desert. (Photos by Curtis and Peggy Mekemson.)

Peggy and I had been up in central Idaho admiring the Sawtooth Mountains and were on our way to Nevada when we found Breneau Dunes State Park.

Peggy and I had been up in central Idaho admiring the Sawtooth Mountains and were on our way to Nevada when we found Bruneau Dunes State Park.

The small lake backed up by the 470 high dune gives the area an oasis feel.

Moving around the lake provided different perspectives on the dune.

This view provided a reflection.

A view focused on the lake.

Having hiked around to the opposite side the lake, we were rewarded with a view of the dune.

Having hiked to the opposite side of the lake, we were rewarded with a closer view of the dune.

And lots of animal tracks. Coyote possibly.

Bird tracks

Your guess. I am thinking sidewinder rattlesnake.

Later in the day, the dunes took on an almost purple tint as the sun went down.

I liked the sage and other shrubs in this photo caught in the glow of the late afternoon sun.

The sun was almost down.

Good night.

We Visited Jackson, California and Bought a Giraffe. Help!

May 18, 2015May 17, 2015 / Curt Mekemson / 30 Comments

Peggy fell in love with this balsa wood giraffe we found in Jackson, California. So the giraffe came home with us. Little did we think it would have a taste for petunias.

And here I thought our deer herd with its greedy appetite was bad. At least they couldn’t reach our hanging plants. It may be our imagination, but it seems that the wooden giraffe we bought in Jackson, California is poaching on Peggy’s petunias! We pretended to drive up the road and then I snuck back with the camera to see what the long-necked marauder was up to.

Aha! He was eating Peggy’s hanging petunias that the deer couldn’t reach.

I caught the culprit purple lipped.

And apparently he was helping himself to all of our other hanging plants.

He was as much a glutton as the deer were.

There was no stopping him!

I confronted the giraffe with the photos. “I was not eating Peggy’s potted posies,” the giraffe replied indignantly. “I was sniffing them.” Yeah, right.

Jackson, California is an old gold rush town located on Historic Route 49 in the California foothills of the Sierra Nevada Mountains. It’s about 30 miles away from where I was raised in another old gold rush town, Diamond Springs. Highway 49, with its logging trucks and cattle drives, fronted our property. Jackson was a long ways off. I’ve driven back and forth across the country a lot more times that our family visited Jackson when I was growing up— seriously.

We also found other wonderful creatures in Jackson on our March visit including a frog, a Hindu monkey king, a topless hula dancer, and a wildebeest. Fortunately we didn’t bring any of them home even though I lobbied for the hula dancer.

I like frogs. And let me assure you, they can get their mouths open this wide when going after tasty morsels such as flies.

We found this marvelous frog at the same shop we found the giraffe, Richard and Sherry’s Collectables. Were you ever told by your mother, “close your mouth or you’ll catch a fly.” Now you know where that come from.

I was also impressed with this Monkey King with his pet snake. I assume he is Hanuman from the Ramayana.

I remembered this, um, hula princess and her surf board from another visit to Jackson. She hangs out, so to speak, on main street and is kind of hard to forget.

Wilbur the Wildebeest lives in the Book Store.

Wilbur the Wildebeest lives in a book store.

Apparently he has lived there a while.

Wilbur the Wildebeest lived in the Hein and Company Bookstore along with a cat, strange masks, columns of books, and a number of other unusual items. It may be the most interesting used bookstore I’ve ever been in. Be sure to put it on your itinerary if you visit Jackson.

In addition to Wilbur, the Hein and Co Bookstore in Jackson is packed full of used books and numerous unusual/interesting items. Or do I mean weird?

Such as this en-gage-ing collection

Who knows what you might find around the next corner?

Certainly made me want to go upstairs and check out books…

Where we found a virtual maze of book shelves and long corridors with mysterious doors and signs. I couldn’t resist walking down to the door to read the sign.

And found the end. Wouldn’t you be slightly tempted to open the door and meet kitty?

Kitty?

No, this was kitty. Many good bookstores have one.

Our visit to the town also included a walk up and down the main street and dinner at the National Hotel, which also dates back to gold rush times. Ladies of the evening made liberal use of the hotel in its early days. They say you can still hear their ghosts giggling at night. Black Bart, the infamous gentleman bandit who robbed stages on foot (he hated horses) and occasionally left behind a poem, reputedly stayed here. As did Mark Twain, Chester Garfield, Herbert Hoover, and John Wayne. Wayne lost $43,000 in a 1933 game of poker at the hotel. His check bounced and the local sheriff hunted him down and made him pay in cash.

A look up main street, Jackson.

The community has done a great job of renovating and maintaining its historic buildings.

The National Hotel that has entertained every one from US Presidents, to outlaws, to movie stars— and possibly ghosts.

We finished off our visit to the Jackson area by checking out several local wineries. I was looking for wine to feature at my book-signing event in Sacramento. By the end of the day, they all tasted pretty good. And no, I wasn’t driving.

Grapevines. Amador County has become an important wine-producing area.

We visited several wineries looking for wine to use at my book-signing in Sacramento.

I thought my fellow bloggers who are into farming would appreciate this sign.

I’ll conclude with a final photo of the giraffe munching flowers. Guilty.

Who Needs a Dog When You Have a Deer?

May 13, 2015May 12, 2015 / Curt Mekemson / 50 Comments

Blacktail deer stares in window of home in southern Oregon.

“I know you are there Curt. Feed me.” One very pregnant deer showed up on our back porch last week. Here, she is staring in the window at me.

We don’t have a clue why a pregnant doe showed up on the back porch last week at our home in southern Oregon. But there she was, curled up, resting on the cement, and behaving like a dog, a very big dog. She looked up as if to say, “You wouldn’t make a pregnant lady leave, would you?” Or maybe she was saying, “Do you have one of those green apples you occasionally toss out because they are old?” I suspect it was the latter.

Momma doe sleeping on porch in southern Oregon.

We looked out our back door and momma doe was curled up on the porch, sleeping like a dog. Her ears are whipping around to keep off flies.

She looked up, curious about what we were going to do, but hoping it involved food.

She looked up, curious about what we were going to do, hoping it involved food.

Deer have insatiable appetites. We have gone to extreme measures to encourage them to leave our flowers and shrubs alone. Peggy has long discussions with them about what they can eat and can’t. We have planted things that give them tummy aches, such as foxglove. And we are seriously into fencing.

One of the plants we have found that deer won’t touch is foxglove. We are planting it liberally around our house.

In addition to being deer proof, it provides beautiful flowers.

Close up.

Last week, we put in a number of native Oregonian plants to eventually form a hedge. But first they have to avoid being eaten. This is a fence I put up. It seems to be working.

We recently put in a number of native Oregonian plants to eventually form a hedge. But first they have to grow up and avoid being eaten. This is a deer’s eye view of the fence I put up. The spider-web top is to keep deer from jumping in. The herd comes by daily to check things out. So far, so good.

Last week we made a quick trip to Sacramento, leaving plants and mom behind. We didn’t know what to expect on our return. The plants are fine; mom is gone. I suspect she went off into the forest to have her baby. We are just glad it wasn’t on our back porch. In the meantime, our neighbors reported we have a visiting bear. Things are never dull around here.

This photo is to provide perspective. I have a very comfortable lounge chair that I can swivel around to look out the window.

This is one of my favorite writing spots. I have a very comfortable lounge chair that I can swivel around to look out the window. When the footrest is up, my feet touch the windowsill. The doe in the top picture was pressing her nose to the opposite side of the window. The door on the right provided the view of her lying down.

The door on the right has a screen that we use when the door is open. Here, Mom has her nose up against the screen looking at me in my chair. Had the screen not been there, she might have invited herself in.

The door has a screen that we use when the door is open. Here, Mom has her nose up against the screen looking at me in my chair. Had the screen not been there, she might have invited herself in. Note the size of her ears.

Later she came over, stood looking in the window at me, and then took a nap.

Seaside, Oregon… Caught between the Past and the Future

May 10, 2015May 10, 2015 / Curt Mekemson / 21 Comments

A fortune teller had a small shop on the main street in Seaside, Oregon. This dog rested under the table where fortunes were told.

A fortune-teller had a small shop on Broadway Street in Seaside, Oregon. This dog rested on a carpet under the table where futures were foretold. I suspect his future is that he will be well-loved.

There is a certain feel to coastal tourist towns that earned their glory in an earlier era. I’d define it as rundown charm. Shops are crammed full of made-in-China souvenirs. Taffy and ice cream tempt people off of the street. Occasionally, one can hear the unmistakable sound of carousel music as horses and lions and emus and giraffes go around and around to the echoing laughter of generations of children.

Coffee shops have a down-home, utilitarian atmosphere where you can buy a cup of steaming clam chowder, coffee and cherry pie for under ten dollars. The saltines are free. The waitress is likely to have a few thousand miles on her feet. She may even call you honey.

But I am being nostalgic. Such places are a dying breed on the edge of extinction. Boutique shops and upscale restaurants are now the rule. Yesterday’s $7.00 T-shirt has become today’s $200 blouse. Lunch for two can easily cost $50.00. And the ten percent tip (remember it?) is now twenty.

We can thank the yuppies of the 1980’s and 90’s for this. They rolled out of the major cities along the West Coast of America from San Diego to Seattle with money to burn. Sharp entrepreneurs quickly figured out ways to separate them from their cash. Ocean side property was scarfed up and prices skyrocketed. Old buildings were renovated and new buildings built. Everything was impacted. The closer a town was to a major city, the greater the impact.

I am not saying all of this is bad. Things change. I like my designer coffee and handcrafted beer as much as the next person. And I am glad that artists and artisans have profited by being able to sell their work in the upscale shops.

I found a bit of the old and a bit of the new when I visited Seaside, Oregon last fall. Seaside was one of the grand old resort towns, like Santa Cruz in California or Myrtle Beach in North Carolina. It was where you flocked to in the summer if you had money. You can still see the old buildings: now renovated, spruced up and repurposed— to use a modern term. For example, the old courthouse had morphed into a modern brewpub. The single jail cell that once housed Saturday night drunks, now houses kegs of beer. I ate my $12.00 hamburger there and washed it down with a decent porter.

The brick drunk tank in Seaside’s old jailhouse now serves as a cooling room for kegs of beer. The beer taps are built directly into the wall. I am not sure about the skulls. They may have been left over from Halloween.

After lunch I walked downtown. Midweek, clouds, and rain meant I had Broadway more or less to myself. A few tourists, locals, and I scurried between store entranceways, trying to stay dry. I admired the old buildings, checked out the local carousel, and stopped off to visit a dog that was lying under a table in a small shop where its owner sat and offered to read my palm. I opted out of fortune-telling but did buy a book on the future at the local bookstore. Watch out for robots.

I was pleased to find a carousel with its horses eager to be ridden. Peggy loves these things. Had she been along, I probably would have been forced to climb on and ride around with her and the little kids.

A touch of Seaside's glory days can be seen in these buildings along Broadway Street.

A touch of Seaside’s glory days can be seen in these renovated buildings along Broadway Street.

Had I walked downtown before stopping off at the Seaside Brewery, I probably would have eaten at the Pig and Pancake.

Had I walked downtown before stopping off at the Seaside Brewery, I may have eaten at the Pig ‘n Pancake.

This mural was as closes as I got to Seaside’s famous beach. It was not a day for sunbathing.

The sunshine was of the liquid type. Other tourists, locals and I went searching for awnings that protected us from the rain.

It was a good day for being inside, though, and I always enjoy futzing around in antique shops, where I found this dead pig room divider.

And what I believe is Chinese foo dog statue. (Or maybe it is a lion about to eat a horse).

Another shop that caught my attention featured preserved scorpions and tarantulas. I once caught a scorpion like the fellow on the left outside of my house in Liberia and kept it in a jar for a while. Maybe that is when my former wife first contemplated divorce.

Another symbol of historic coastal resort towns was the Penny Arcade. Although the games and prices have changed, the purpose remains the same: capturing youth. It worked for me. I happily mis-spent many hours in such joints playing pinball machines.

Historic street lamps with attached starfish were found along Broadway and seemed an appropriate symbol for Seaside.

Historic street lamps with attached starfish were found all along Broadway. They seemed an appropriate symbol for Seaside and a fitting end for this post. NEXT BLOG: A photo essay on the pregnant deer that has apparently adopted us. Maybe by Wednesday she will have had her fawn, preferably not on our back porch.

What Do You Get When You Cross a Sundial with a Bridge? Beauty.

May 3, 2015 / Curt Mekemson / 27 Comments

Built to accommodate walkers, runners and bicyclists, the Sundial Bridge in Redding, California was constructed primarily with private funds.

Having written about the beautiful bridges found on the Oregon Coast and built in the 1930s, I now turn to a modern bridge with equal but different beauty built in 2004: The Sundial Bridge across the Sacramento River in Redding, California.

It seems like I have been driving through Redding, California forever— traveling back and forth between Southern Oregon and Northern California, heading into the beautiful Trinity Alps on backpacking adventures, and once, even starting a seven-day canoe trek down the Sacramento River from the town. I often stop for food or gas, but I have never considered Redding a destination.

That has changed.

In March, Peggy and I met our friends Ken and Leslie there to begin a week of wandering. We didn’t have anywhere we needed to be, so we decided to spend a day exploring the town and area, which Ken knows well. Our explorations led us to Turtle Bay Park and the incredibly beautiful Sundial Bridge. In addition to its architectural beauty, the bridge happens to be exactly what its name suggests, a sundial. In fact it is one of the largest sundials in the world.

The bridge, completed in 2004, spans the Sacramento River with a 700-foot deck that is made up of 200 tons of granite and glass. Graceful cables connect the deck with the bridge’s 217-foot tall sundial/pylon and provide suspension. The renowned Spanish architect, Santiago Calatrava, designed the bridge. Known for his work on bridges in Europe and numerous other structures around the world, the project was his first freestanding bridge in the United States.

Walkers, bicyclists, runners and one very large group of children on a school field trip were crossing the bridge when we arrived. Peggy, Leslie, Ken and I joined the crowd. I took out my camera and went to work while the others waited patiently. I think you will agree with me on just how spectacular the bridge is.

The Sundial Bridge in Northern California was designed by Spanish Architect Santiago Calatrava.

4300 feet of cable connect the deck with a 217 foot pylon, the sundial, and create a freestanding bridge. The deck is composed of glass and granite.

I was particularly struck by the elegance of the pylon that forms the sundial and took several photos from different angles.

Sundial Bridge in Redding, California photographed from beneath the deck.

I shot this photo of the pylon from under the bridge. It also captured the glass used in the deck.

From the base looking up.

Another perspective.

View of Sacramento River from the Sundial Bridge in Redding California.

A view of the Sacramento River from the bridge. Coastal Ranges can be seen in the distance.

The Sacramento River is the main source of water for the Northern Sacramento Valley, one of the richest farmlands in the world. The river eventually flows into San Francisco Bay and out into the Pacific Ocean. The region is now suffering from a severe drought.

One of the reasons for the bridge is to connect the town of Redding with an extensive series of hiking and biking trails on the opposite side of the river, starting with a trail through the McConnell Arboretum. Redbud can be seen on the left.

Manzanita was also in bloom with its sweet smelling flowers. This shrub also grows on our property in southern Oregon.

Manzanita was also in bloom with its sweet-smelling flowers. This shrub grows on our property in southern Oregon.

A final view of the pylon that captures its ‘sundial’ look. NEXT BLOG: Since we were in the area, we went for a hike along the Sacramento River. I’ll feature photos.

Out of 20,000 Photos… Newspaper Rock— a petroglyph wonderland!

April 29, 2015April 29, 2015 / Curt Mekemson / 20 Comments

Newspaper Rock. I am standing beside the National Historic Site to provide perspective. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

It’s Wednesday, so that means a quick photographic essay, selected from my 20,000 pictures. It would be ever so easy to spend a day selecting photos, which would seriously detract from my objective of freeing up time. So I decided to do random. I closed my eyes and scrolled down iPhoto. When I hit enter, I opened my eyes, and there was Newspaper Rock, staring at me.

Newspaper Rock National Historic Site in Utah.

Over 2000 years of Native American petroglyphs are found on Newspaper Rock.

Newspaper Rock sits on the edge of Canyonlands National Park up in the northeastern corner of Utah. It contains all of the news that’s fit to print, or at least all the news from the perspective of local Native Americans who have chipped away at the rock for over 2,000-years. Who knows what it all means. As the information sign says, “We do not know if the figures represent story telling, doodling, hunting magic, clan symbols, ancient graffiti or something else.” That means the figures are open to interpretation, right? So interpret, I will.

Food has been sighted. What’s on today’s menu?

Two flying squirrels were seen leaping between Ponderosa Pines.

Buffalo at Nrewspaper Rock National Historic Site in Utah.

A large buffalo is down at the wallow.

Three elk are up on the ridge.

Big horned sheep are feeding up on the ridge.

A Big Horned Sheep with scrawny front legs is feeding up on the mountain.

And Big Bird is down at the pond. (Nothing scrawny about her legs.)

Stay out of the canyon. The tracks of Momma Bear and her cub have been sighted.

Hop on your horse and grab your bow and arrows. It’s time to get dinner.

Petroglyph of Native American with bow on horse at Newspaper Rock near Canyonlands National Park.

Ready for the hunt.

Whoops.

Having been warned, Walks on Feet went into the canyon anyway. Now he is being stalked by Momma Bear.

Having been warned, Walks on Feet hiked into the canyon anyway. Now he is being stalked by Momma Bear. The trail ends here.

Success! Always Gets His Buck shoots elk in butt.

Success! Always Gets His Buck shoots an elk in the butt.

It’s time for a feast. All the cool guys will be there.

Scorpion Hat shakes a leg and Sheep joins in.

Ladder Man shouts “Woo hoo!”

And Horny Fellow practices a flying leap.

For after dinner entertainment, Stands On Horse will perform his amazing tricks.

Frisbee starts at four. NEXT BLOG: Looking for God in all the wrong places.

And Antenna Guy will display his recently captured flying saucer. That’s it for today. NEXT BLOG: I start my essay series. First up: Looking for God in All the Wrong Places.

The Beautiful Bridges of the Oregon Coast… Part Two

April 27, 2015April 26, 2015 / Curt Mekemson / 18 Comments

One of many bridges designed by Conde McCullough in the 1930s Yaquina Bay Bridge is located next to Newport on the Oregon Coast.

Gorgeous skies provide a dramatic backdrop for the Yaquina Bay Bridge near Newport, Oregon.

Last Monday I posted a story and photos on the Cape Creek Bridge designed by Conde McCullough. Today I am going to feature two more of his bridges: the Yaquina Bay Bridge near Newport, and the Siuslaw Bridge near Florence. I first became aware of these two beauties when I used to visit my dad who managed a hotel on the coast for my brother in the late 70s. Marshall later sold the place, an action for which I have never quite forgiven him. Neither have I forgiven my cousins who had the luck of growing up in Newport.

The property my brother owned and my dad managed. Writers, artists, and professors from the University of Oregon stayed there for $10 a night in the 70s. Now it is an expensive Bed and Breakfast.

Gull Haven: The property my brother co-owned and my dad managed. Writers, artists, and professors from the University of Oregon stayed there for $10 a night in the 70s. Now it is an expensive Bed and Breakfast.

I was driving across the Yaquina Bay Bridge on my trip down the coast last fall when I thought, damn, I have to get a photo of this (above). Being by myself meant I was designated photographer. You know all the warnings about driving and using your cell phone, or driving and texting— they should add driving and taking photos. Enough said. Once I got across the bridge I found a side road where I was able to get out of the car and take Highway Patrol approved photos.

Yaquina Bay Bridge near Newport, Oregon.

A side view of the Yaquina Bay Bridge. The gull on the right added a little action.

The Yaquina Bay Bridge on the Oregon coast designed by Conde McCullough.

A close up of the spans with the historic Newport waterfront in the background.

I spent the night at a delightful campground next to the Florence Marina. This gave me the opportunity to walk over to the Siuslaw Bridge and spend time admiring it. The bridge was built under Franklin Roosevelt’s New Deal Public Works Administration during the Great Depression. It was one of hundreds of projects across the nation designed to put Americans back to work. Both Peggy’s dad in Pennsylvania and my dad in Iowa benefited from this program. Some 140 men worked on the Siuslaw Bridge. It was opened March 31, 1936.