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.

Tarzan Shows Me the Light… The Friday Essay

May 8, 2015May 7, 2015 / Curt Mekemson / 25 Comments

The Episcopal Church in Placerville that played a significant role in my life for 16 years.

The Episcopal Church in Placerville played a significant role in my life for 16 years.

In my last Friday essay on Finding God in all the Wrong Places, I learned that some miracles are best witnessed with your eyes shut, and that the radio preacher my brother and I listened to on Wednesday nights believed the road to heaven was paved with gold— for him. It was not the best introduction to religion. My parents had a burgeoning seven-year-old skeptic on their hands.

But they weren’t giving up on introducing their children to church.

Next on their parental road map to religious enlightenment was the Episcopal Church of Our Savior in Placerville. This time they used a different tactic, bribery. After church, we stopped at Tom Raley’s grocery store and were allowed to buy a Pepsi and pick out a comic book. I would eagerly search the rack for the latest issue of Tarzan, and, on really lucky weekends, find one. It was like winning a gazillion dollars in the lottery. The mere thought of joining the ape-man on his romp through the jungle was more than I could resist. I became a devout Episcopalian.

Gradually, Tarzan was replaced by other rewards. Marshall and I were recruited to carry the California and American flags in the procession. They had great yellow tassels that we would wind up tightly and release during over-long sermons, anything beyond five minutes. The challenge was to see whose tassel would twirl the longest. When that became boring, we could always watch our parents frantically mouthing words to make us behave.

Then I was given an immense promotion. I was invited to sing in the six-person choir that consisted of five elderly white-haired ladies and me. We all had loud voices; singing on key was secondary. I often pictured Jesus wearing earplugs.

Eventually I was allowed to carry the cross and lead the whole parade. I became an acolyte and served the priest, lit candles, rang bells, carried incense and even served as a junior lay leader. I became seriously religious and entertained the thought of becoming a priest. Crosses that glowed in the dark and Brother Jones were in my distant past.

There were numerous side benefits as well. The first was having a Godmother who became my second grade teacher. She was willing to overlook my extensive first grade rap sheet. I still have my report cards where every subject was given a C and every behavior trait was checked below the line. Listens in class, no; comes to school on time, no; wears appropriate clothing, no— you get the point. I think the latter came about because I didn’t like to wear underwear. Once I got a rather delicate part of my anatomy caught in the zipper and the teacher had to help get me unstuck. That cured the underwear bit.

I quickly learned in the that being a teacher’s pet beat being spanked, which was still an option in those days. Both my grades and behavior improved.

Gainful employment was another benefit. At age 11, I obtained my first serious job of working for one of my fellow choir members, Mrs. McKenzie. She lived in a large house overlooking Placerville and had a yard full of weeds that I was paid $.75 an hour to pull. She also had a big German Shepherd named King who topped the scales at 100 pounds and had a serious attitude problem. His idea of fun was to run at me full speed, bark ferociously, and screech to a halt about six inches away, with his jaws snapping.

“He just wants to play,” Mrs. McKenzie would assure me.

Yeah, right. That dog wanted to eat me. He knew it and I knew it. My third time there he made an attempt. By the time Mrs. McKenzie responded to my yells, King had helped himself to a generous portion of my pants and was about to start on my leg. I went home with a few bruises, an extra five bucks, and the promise that King would henceforth be kept in the house. Of course he wasn’t. A month later King climbed over the fence and took a chunk out of a passerby. Mrs. McKenzie ended up with an $1100 dollar fine and a court order to keep the dog muzzled.

After that, King took a liking to me, unfortunately. I would enter the yard and he would come charging at me just like old times. He would slide to his six-inch screeching halt, pound his muzzle on my leg in a symbolic bite, and then roll over so I would rub his belly. It was a very one-sided friendship.

Along about 12, I was invited to be the church janitor. Each Saturday I would hitchhike the three miles to Placerville and earn my weekly paycheck of four dollars. While this may seem rather paltry in our present age of instant billionaires, it was a fortune to me in 1955. After cleaning the church, I would beeline it to the Hangtown Bowl, buy cherry cokes and play my favorite pinball machine. I was hot. With one thin dime I could coax enough free games to last all afternoon. My newfound wealth also meant I could peruse the Placerville Newsstand and spend $.50 a week on the latest Max Brand or Luke Short Western. I became hooked on cowboy books. Then I discovered the Gold Chain restaurant and its incredible coconut cream pie. Talk about addiction. One fourth of my weekly salary went to support my pie eating habit. After all of that, I still had a buck to get me through the week and a buck for savings.

I joined the church Boy Scout Group and the church Youth Group in addition to my roles as acolyte, choir member, janitor, etc. Had there been any more church groups, I would have joined them as well. The church became a central part of my life and got me through some tough times. I did a lot of growing up there. It even played a role in my ‘discovery’ of girls. Fortunately, confession wasn’t a requirement of the Episcopal Church given what I learned in the basement stairwell. Had I been a good Catholic, I would still be saying Hail Marys.

By my senior year in high school, I had given up my youthful thoughts of becoming a minister but still took my religion seriously and attended church regularly. College was coming, however. My faith and many other things I accepted as true were about to become maybes.

NEXT FRIDAY’S BLOG: My rock that was Peter relocates itself to an active fault zone.

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.

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.

The bridge under construction. (Photo from display next to the bridge.)

Ever the artist, McCullough incorporated Art Deco, Moderne, Gothic and Egyptian themes into his bridge.

Suislaw Bridge on the Oregon coast designed by Condi McCullough.

A view of the bridge as it looks today.

A view of the bridge from the other side rendered in black and white., giving it the ‘old time’ feel.

Suislaw Bridge in Florence Oregon across the Suislaw River

I walked along the sidewalk going across the bridge to get this photo.

The walkway across the bridge.

Structure on Siuslaw Bridge near Florence designed by Cond McCullough in the 1930s.

An art deco look? Or are we talking Egyptian here?

Having seen the bridge from both sides and on top, I decided to take a look underneath for my final view.

Thank You Bill and Hilary*… for Your Fine Words

April 24, 2015April 28, 2015 / Curt Mekemson / 16 Comments

Do You Part, the Liberian named Basenji that adopted me in the Peace Corps and that Bill Guerrant refers to in his book review below, is the small dog with the curly tail standing in the forefront. One of her many exploits was slipping behind me into the grand opening of a mosque in Gbarnga— almost causing a riot.

I am tickled that two of my favorite Word Press bloggers enabled me to create the above headline. Now, before you dash off a note to me that I have misspelled Hillary, the *Hilary I am talking about is not Hillary Clinton. It’s Hilary Custance Green, a writer and author living in England. Bill is Bill Guerrant, a one time attorney, now farmer, and soon to be author living in Virginia. Both have recently written unsolicited reviews of my book, a fact for which I am both grateful and somewhat humbled.

Writing a book is hard work. At least it was for me, and I am sure it is for most authors. Thousands of hours, even years, can be spent on the project. The page that takes a few minutes to read probably required several hours to write, or longer. Sometimes words flow; I have those minutes when my fingers dance over the keyboard. But more often than not, the process is painfully slow, like sitting in a dentist’s chair and waiting for the dentist to get his hand and drill out of your mouth.

As an aside, I was sitting in my dentist’s chair last week when my dental hygienist started giggling while she was reading my chart. “What?” I asked grumpily. My mouth is no giggling matter. Usually dentists start planning their next trip around the world when they look inside. “I see,” she said laughing, “that you have listed dentists under things you are allergic to.” Yep, that would have been me.

There is more to the book process than hard work. Call it an ego thing, if you must, but most writers are an insecure bunch, especially first time authors. We don’t have a clue how our book is going to be received. It is somewhat akin to having your child on stage for her first big solo performance. By the time I had finished The Bush Devil Ate Sam, I had put so much effort into writing the book, and so much of myself, that I was prepared to head for the cooking sherry at the slightest criticism. I am ever so thankful that I didn’t have to live with me. (Peggy nods in agreement.)

Fortunately people have been kind. It’s true that my book isn’t out there in the world where the professional critics are paid big bucks to be nasty, but people I care about and respect seem to genuinely enjoy the book. What I had hoped for— that it would introduce readers to Liberia and her people, that it would provide insight into what being a Peace Corps Volunteer is like, and that it would provide some laughs along the way, seem to be happening.

I reblogged Hilary’s post a week ago. Here’s what Bill has to say:

Just before starting Ben Falk’s book I read frequent-commenter Curt’s book The Bush Devil Ate Sam, a delightfully entertaining (and informative) memoir of his time in the Peace Corps in Liberia in the 1960s. The book is a page-turner, and I highly recommend it. Curt enrolled at UC-Berkeley just in time for the beginnings of the student rebellion there, putting him on the frontlines at the beginning of one of the world’s greatest movements for social justice. Some of that story is told in his book, and a fascinating story it is. Most of the book tells the story of the time he and his wife spent in Liberia. I laughed out loud and I learned a lot, which only happens with good books. The story of his dog Do Your Part crashing the grand opening of the community’s first mosque (Curt having been mistaken for “the international media”) is alone worth the price of the book.

The book closes with some insightful thoughts about Liberia’s tragic history of the past few decades. It caused me to think of a Liberian woman who was a classmate of mine in seminary, a kind and gentle person who lived through the horrors of the civil war there. Whenever she tried to talk about it, she cried. Something she said about Americans has stuck with me. She said that here when we say grace before a meal (if we bother), it just seems perfunctory. In Liberia, she said, people are truly grateful for every meal and they offer thanks with joy at the miracle that food is. I wish I could recall her exact words, because I’m not doing them justice. Suffice it to say that Curt’s concern for Liberia and the Liberian people resonated with me, even though I’ve never been there.

By the way, Curt is also one of the rock-stars of the blogosphere. Go check out his blog. You can buy his book from Amazon, but I recommend you contact him directly for a copy.**

Hilary and Bill are both caring and highly productive people, contributing to and making a difference in the world. Hilary is a sculptor and the author of two books that are available on Amazon. Presently she is working on Letters from Relatives of Far East POWS—Writing to a Ghost, a book that explores an almost forgotten aspect of World War II involving Far East Japanese prisoners of war and their families. It is a story that deserves to be remembered. Her blog is the Green Writing Room.

Bill is a farmer who is a leader in the movement to reintroduce America to the natural and healthy foods being grown on small farms across the country. In his own words: “Our produce is grown naturally, without pesticides, herbicides, or synthetic fertilizers. Our animals are raised humanely.” His blog is Practicing Resurrection.

** For those of you that do your reading in EBooks, The Bush Devil Ate Sam is available on Amazon and a number of other sites around the world. Simply click on the cover of the book in the right hand column above. It will take you to my author’s page and the sites. If you prefer a written copy, the book will eventually be available on Amazon and several other sites as print on demand copies. In the mean time you can write me at cvmekemson@gmail.com and I will be glad to send you a copy while supplies last. Please include your address. I will send an invoice with the book. You pay when you receive the book. The cost is presently $13 plus mailing costs, normally $3.00 in the US.

Happy Earth Day 2015… A Walkabout in Southern Oregon

April 22, 2015 / Curt Mekemson / 34 Comments

White oak woodland in Southern Oregon in the Applegate Valley. Photo by Curtis Mekemson.

A variety of trees exist on the five acres around our home in Southern Oregon. These are white oaks. It looks like the Sherwood Forest of Robin Hood, or at least like I imagined it as a child. The road leads down to our house.

It’s Earth Day 2015. To celebrate, I am writing this post from a small deck Peggy and I had built on the upper portion of our property. I took the photo of white oaks from where I am sitting.

An Acorn Woodpecker is hammering away at a dead pine. He just stopped to issue a staccato comment on the day, a Woody Woodpecker laugh. I can also hear a Robin’s distinctive chirp— they are migrating through, scratching around for juicy bugs. Flickers and Stellar Jays join the chorus. The jays are discussing the fact I haven’t put out their morning helping of sunflower seeds. They are loud and raucous, hoping I will hear them. How could I not? I was soundly scolded on my walk up here.

As for the Flicker, he has gone to pounding on our roof vents several times a day. Who knows why, but it sounds like a jack hammer. It gets Peggy quite excitable and she charges around whacking our ceiling to scare him away. I’ve checked the roof, so far no damage. I am not so sure about the ceiling.

One very pregnant and obviously uncomfortable Black Tail doe walked by a few minutes ago. She’s restless. I watched her yesterday as she disappeared behind our pump house for a few minutes (it’s cool and shady), came out, munched on some grass, walked to our house, and plopped down against the side. She will be having her fawn soon, probably down in our blackberry filled canyon. We won’t see the baby for a week or two since does carefully hide their babies and insist that they remain hidden for several days.

Pregnant doe on Upper Applegate River in Southern Oregon. Photo by Curtis Mekemson.

The ballooning mom-to-be leans against our house and looks at me with her big brown eyes. It’s like she is saying, “Really, now what?” The deer are used to being lectured by Peggy about eating her flowers.

A cool, fresh breeze is blowing. Puffy clouds float by. The wind is welcome; it’s been hazy for the past few days. The weather people tell us that the haze is caused by smoke blowing in from Siberia. Apparently fires that Siberian farmers were using to clear their fields escaped. Our earth, this seemingly huge planet, is a small place after all. We are all neighbors. If people choose to pollute the air, discharge waste into water, cut down forests, and litter the landscape with the leftovers of modern civilization, it impacts all of us. We all suffer.

Haze from Siberia fills the valleys between our homes and the Red Butte Mountains.

Haze from Siberia fills the valleys between our home and the Red Butte Mountains.

But enough doom and gloom—today is a day to celebrate the natural beauty of our earth. Let’s go for a walk. We will start at the Applegate River at the bottom of our property and move up the hill to the National Forest boundary marker. I’ve built signed trails throughout our property and named them after our grandkids (all boys). Ethan’s Hidden Springs Trail and Connor’s Jungle Trail are examples. The first thing the kids do when they arrive is run off to explore their trails. It is Peggy and my hope that we can instill in our grandchildren the same love of the natural world and desire to protect it that we have.

A Note: I wrote this piece and did our walk yesterday so this post could go up today.

This beautiful river flows out of the Siskiyou Mountains a few miles away from out home.

This beautiful river flows out of the Siskiyou Mountains a few miles away from our home.

Looking down into the river.

I scrambled over and down these rocks to get to the river. Bureau of Land Management land is on the opposite shore.

This handsome guy is a mere shell of his former self, literally. I believe it was a dragonfly nymph before the dragonfly popped out of the shell and flew away.

This handsome guy is a mere shell of his former self, literally. I believe it was a dragonfly nymph before the dragonfly popped out and flew away in one of the miracles of nature.

Likely native American grinding rock on the Applegate River in Southern Oregon.

Located among the rocks is what Peggy and I suspect was a Native American grinding rock.

Lichen on river rock of the Applegate River in southern Oregon.

Lichens (from my perspective) always make interesting photos.

Here’s a closeup.

Now it is time to hike up the hill. Our small 1500 foot with its sunroom is perched on the side. The tall tree on the right is a Douglas Fir.

Now it is time to hike up the hill. Our small 1500 square foot house with its sunroom is perched on the side. The tall tree on the right is a Douglas Fir.

Our fence is designed to fit into the local environment.

Our front fence is designed to fit into the local environment.

While oaks dominate the northern side of our property, Ponderosa Pines, Douglas Fir and Madrones dominate the south. I've created signed trails running through our property and named them after the grandkids such as Ethan's Hidden Spring's Trail and Connors Jungle Trail.

While oaks dominate the northern side of our property, Ponderosa Pines, Douglas Fir and Madrones dominate the south. This is Ethan’s Hidden Spring Trail.

Ponderosa Pines growing in the Upper Applegate Valley near Applegate Lake.

The trees, like these Ponderosa Pines, grow quite tall.

Ponderosa Pine growing at the 2000 foot elevation on the Upper Applegate River.

Check out this beauty.

Large Madrone growing near Applegate River in southern Oregon.

This large Madrone with its unique bark lives next to our house.

Madrones shed their leaves in summer. It is like having two falls. The shadow of a fly can be seen through the leaf. Shortly afterwards it flew down to bite me. Bad decision.

Signs of animal life are found throughout the property. This large hole was probably drilled by a Pileated Woodpecker.

Cat eye flower grown in the Upper Applegate River Valley.

Flowers were few and far between on my walk but I did find this interesting cat eye.

One of the reasons we bought our property was this sign, a boundary marker for the Klamath National Forest that borders the back of our property. Between Klamath and other national forests, over a million acres of public lands are found out our back door.

While our front fence is a fairly serious fence, our back fence is strictly for aesthetics. It is an open invitation to the deer, cougars, bear and other wildlife that live in the national forest to “come on down.” We’d even welcome Bigfoot. (grin.) HAPPY EARTH DAY.

Oregon’s Coastal Bridges… Where Engineering, Environment, and Art Meet

April 20, 2015 / Curt Mekemson / 37 Comments

Cape Creek Bridge north of Florence, Oregon was designed by Conde McCollough and built during the early 1930s.

Combining form and function, Cape Creek Bridge in Oregon is an example of how highway bridges can move vehicles, provide beauty, and fit into the natural environment.

With Earth Day 2015 coming up on Wednesday, I stopped to think about the battles we fought during the 70s to protect the environment. One of the toughest was against the highway lobby—bankrolled primarily by the oil industry. “Build more highways!” it and its allies screamed. Buried under a burgeoning population of automobiles, local and state transportation agencies usually agreed. Moving cars and trucks, not people and goods, was the objective. Most traffic engineers believed that their sole task was to move vehicles from point a to b as quickly and efficiently as possible. And they did their job extremely well. Nothing got in the way, including established communities, farmlands and valuable natural habitats. It was the bulldozer era of ‘pave Paradise and put in a parking lot.’ (Joni Mitchell)

In the mid to late 70s, I was working with a community group called the Modern Transit Society (MTS) that was fighting to bring light rail transit to Sacramento, California. The City Traffic Engineer was adamantly opposed to the idea. More dollars for mass transit meant fewer dollars for highways, and the Engineer, along with his counterpart in the County, had roads and freeways planned everywhere. My role with MTS was to oversee political strategy. At one point, relations became so tense between the traffic engineer and me that he would walk out of a room when I walked in. Eventually we won. Today, Sacramento has light rail lines stretching throughout the city and county.

Bridges built at the time, and also during the 50s and 60s, reflected the mania for moving cars. Function, not form, was what mattered. As a result, large ugly concrete structures with minimal aesthetic appeal often dominated urban and even rural landscapes. Bridge construction hadn’t always been that way.

The coastal bridges of Oregon reflect an earlier era. Many were constructed in the 1920s and 30s when Highway 101 was being built to connect coastal towns. Oregon was extremely fortunate to have Conde McCullough at the helm of the highway department’s bridge division for much of this time. Part civil engineer, part architect, and part artist, he believed that bridges should be built economically, efficiently, and aesthetically. His vision lives on today, as any trip down the Oregon Coast quickly demonstrates.

Conde McCollough served as Oregon’s state bridge engineer from 1919 to 1935, following which he spent a couple of years designing bridges along the Pan American Highway in Central America. (Photo from information sign on Highway 101.)

Today I am going to feature one of McCullough’s creations, the Cape Creek Bridge located on Highway 101 north of Florence, Oregon, and a small park that lies below the bridge. Later, I will do posts on two of his other bridges plus a modern pedestrian and bike bridge in Redding, California that is breathtaking.

Cape Creek Bridge north of Florence, Oregon on Highway 101.

Another view of the Cape Creek Bridge, this time including Cape Creek. It had been raining hard, as reflected by the creek’s muddy waters.

Looking out from a span of the Cape Creek Bridge onto the small ocean cove the creek empties into.

Cumulous clouds outline sea stacks in Cape Cove on the Oregon Coast.

Small islands in Cape Cove outlined by the dramatic sky. Sea gulls are gathered in the lower left corner.

One of the sea gulls takes flight. I was walking along behind it, posed to takes its photo when it flew.

One of the sea gulls takes flight. I was walking along behind it, poised to takes its photo when it flew. There are three things I like about the picture: the wings, the gulls left foot as it runs, and the reflection.

The tide rolls onto shore at Cape Cove on the Oregon Coast near Florence, Oregon.

The tide rolls in to Cape Cove.

Low tide exposes the beach at Cape Cove off of Highway 101 on the Oregon Coast.

And the tide rolls out.

Cape Creek Bridge in Lane County on the Oregon Coast.

A final perspective on the Cape Creek Bridge. The bridge is 619 feet (188.6 meters) long and was designed to look like a Roman aqueduct. NEXT BLOG: Earth Day

The Bigger Sacramento Book Club (BSBC)… 26 Years and Counting

April 16, 2015 / Curt Mekemson / 22 Comments

This bookshelf includes about half of the books the BSBC has read during its 26 years of existence.

Three things happened when I climbed off my bicycle in Sacramento during the second week of September in 1990. First, I met Peggy and promptly fell in love. (It took me five seconds; Peggy was more like five months. She liked the look of a guy in tight bicycle shorts who had just biked 10,000 miles but was a little concerned about the sanity of a guy who would do such a thing. Rightfully so.)

Two, I was seriously hassled for being one week late. Mind you, I had just travelled for six months on a solo journey around North America. An extra seven days didn’t seem like a big deal. To be fair, however, time is different for someone sitting in an air-conditioned office eight hours a day than it is for someone sitting on the back of a bicycle and peddling 50–100 miles a day through every type of terrain and weather North America has to offer.

Here I am biking up a mountain in Nova Scotia with 60 pounds of gear. I had already biked 5000 miles. Time slows down in such circumstances.

The third thing that happened is the subject of today’s post. My friend Ken Lake informed me that a meeting of the Bigger Sacramento Book Club, more fondly known as the BS Book Club, or simply the BSBC was coming up. Ken had started the book club and recruited me as a member in the fall of 1988, a few months before I started my bike odyssey.

I love this photo of Ken because it makes him look like a Druid Elder, or someone out of Lord of the Rings. I think the look on his face reflected that the 49ers were losing.

I love this photo of Ken because it makes him look like a Druid Elder, or someone out of Lord of the Rings. I think the look on his face reflected his disapproval of a SF Giant’s play.

The BSBC reads a wide variety of books based solely on the tastes of whoever is selecting the book.

The BSBC reads a wide variety of books based solely on the tastes of whoever selects the book.

The rules, Ken had explained, were simple. Members of the BSBC would rotate having the book club meet at their homes. The host would pick the book, provide the main course, and supply whatever alcohol was to be consumed. Other members would provide hors d’oevres, salad, veggies, dessert and breads— plus any insights they had on the book.

BSBC is only partially about books. This particular meeting featured a beer tasting. Dinners are often planned around whatever food was featured in the book.

BSBC is only partially about books. This particular meeting featured a beer tasting. Dinners are often planned around whatever food is featured in the book.

So far it sounded like a standard dinner/book club. And then Ken mentioned the other rule: You didn’t have to read the book. Maybe you ran out of time or couldn’t struggle your way through the first chapter. Fine. It was after all, the BS Book Club. You didn’t even have to confess. I laughed and signed on the imaginary dotted line. I even remember the first meeting. The book was To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee. One of our members hadn’t read the book but had brought Cliff Notes. We gave him an appropriately hard time. When he insisted on discussing the motif, things got even more raucous. It set the tone for future meetings.

Another shelf of our books. BTW, I highly recommend the book just to the left of Lake Woebegone Days. (grin)

Another shelf of our books. BTW, I highly recommend the book just to the left of Lake Wobegone Days. (grin)

So, even though I was still wearing my bike clothes, wasn’t sure where I was going to live, and didn’t own a car, I told Ken that of course I would be at BSBC. And could I please bring something that didn’t require cooking.

It was a while before I was ready to choose a book and host the book club, however. Living with a former girlfriend while pursuing Peggy made things a little, um, awkward. Finally, I obtained my own apartment in downtown Sacramento and hosted my first ever BSBC, on a couch and folding chairs. People ate off their laps. The book was an old favorite of mine: A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole. If you haven’t read it and enjoy offbeat humor, add it to your list.

The first book I selected for the BSBC to read.

By 1992 membership had settled down to five couples, the same five couples who are members today. It’s an interesting mix of people including two teachers, a physician, two prevention specialists, a principal, a judge, an office manager, a pilot/man of many trades, and me— a person of even more trades. (Most of us are semi-retired now.) Our politics range from sort of out there to moderate. It’s amazing we have hung out together as a book club, not to mention as couples for a quarter of a century. I once mentioned the odds against all of us still being married to the same person. “We could never get divorced,” one of the couples responded. “We don’t know who would get book club.”

They were semi-serious.

The five couples of the BSBC on the steps of John Muir's home, now a museum, in the Bay Area.

The five couples of the BSBC on the steps of John Muir’s home (now a National Historic site) located in the Bay Area.

To date, BSBC has read 217 books and two magazine collections. We have also watched five movies and been on three side trips that didn’t involve reading or watching anything. That’s a total of 227 meetings.

These days it is more difficult to get together. One couple lives in France six months out of the year, another has moved to the Bay Area, and Peggy and I are living in Oregon. But we still manage. BSBC has priority.

I asked Ken and his wife Leslie why they thought the book club has survived for so long. The essence of their reply was that BSBC’s long continuity reflects the depth of the friendships that have evolved over time and the informality of our approach to books. The club is as much, or possibly more, of a social gathering than it is a discussion of books. Ken described our meetings as “free flowing within a structure of friendship.” And free flow they do. A full hour’s discussion on the book out of a four-hour evening means people really liked the book.

A final shelf.

For fun today, I’ve posted photos of Peggy and my BSBC bookshelves that contain about half of the books we have read over the years. If you look at these shelves closely, you will see the breadth of books we read. They reflect the very different tastes in books of ten different people. We all end up reading in genres that we normally wouldn’t. We are constantly being introduced to new authors and new ideas. And that, along with the friendships, is what our book club is about.

Strong friendships have developed over the years in BSBC. The photo features LaReene Sweeney and I.

Strong friendships have developed over the years in BSBC. This photo features LaReene Sweeney and me.

Once a year, the BSBC comes to our house in Oregon for 2-3 days. A couple of years ago we took them kayaking on Squaw Lakes. In this photo Ken Lake hides his paddle so it looks like his wife, Leslie, is doing all the work.

Spring Is Sprung… And Love Is in the Air, Or Is It Lust?

April 10, 2015 / Curt Mekemson / 20 Comments

Grey squirrel Applegate Valley of southern Oregon, tackles a bird feeder. Photo by Curtis Mekemson.

“Where are the birdies? The heck with the birdies, where’s the bird food?”

“Spring is sprung, the grass is ris. Let’s go where the birdies is.” Ogden Nash

A male dove just landed smack on top of a female dove. She flew away in disgust. But that didn’t stop her suitor. Nothing does. It’s that time of the year when the birds are in love, or at least in lust. They are twitterpated to the nth degree, a laugh a minute.

Tom turkeys are the most humorous. These guys know how to strut their stuff. Full of self-importance, they parade back and forth in front of the hens with feathers fluffed out and tails in full display. Adding to the show, their snoods stand at attention and their wattles turn a bright red. And no, I am not being obscene. Their snoods are the red, fleshy protuberance you usually see draped over their beaks. Even their beards, the feathers hanging down from their chests, stand straight up.

Tom turkey on display in Upper Applegate Valley, southern Oregon.

“Shall we dance?” Young toms on parade. Is the flamenco too tough…

Tom turkeys strut their stuff in southern Oregon.

Then join the Conga Line.

“You talking to me?” Note the gorgeous color of this tom turkey’s feathers.

These guys are in constant motion, so Tom is slightly out of focus. But check out his snood and bright red wattles. How could the girls resist?

As for gobbling, the toms do it in unison, staccato like. Heads and necks shoot out at the same time: Gobble, Gobble, Gobble. I gobble back, of course. How could I not? Their response is instantaneous, as if to put me in my place.

The hens totally ignore the show for the most part, and go about the serious business of eating. If they could yawn, I swear they would. Ho hum.

Each evening the flock uses the railing on our deck as a launching pad to fly to the tall Ponderosa Pines where they like to roost. (Turkeys need all the help they can get for lift-off.) Their morning starts at first light. Gobble, Gobble, Gobble. Lately they have been joining in chorus with the neighborhood dogs, who almost always have a howl fest around 6:30. It goes like this: Woof, Woof, Wooooooo, Gobble, Gobble, Gobble; Woof, Woof, Wooooooo, Gobble, Gobble, Gobble— on and on and on. Sleep is not an option.

Peggy and I have a front row seat on the wild kingdom. Each window has its view. I like our library the best. I turn my swivel chair around so I can watch the action while I write. I’ve recently added a bird feeder. It’s a round cage with openings set up to allow some of our smaller feathered friends a chance to eat without competition from their larger cousins. Finches, juncos, tanagers and nuthatches take advantage of the opportunity. Inevitably, some of the seeds fall on the ground. The tanagers are particularly messy eaters. Turkeys, tree squirrels, and ground squirrels consider it their responsibility to clean up the leftovers. Nothing goes to waste.

Our rustic back yard and the bird feeder. My look out window is on the right. A couple of years ago, a black bear turned over the Weber Grill. My daughter Tasha was sleeping in the closest bedroom. “Curtis!” she yelled.

The grey squirrels understand the source of the food and passionately believe they should have access to it. They are notorious in their efforts to help themselves, as demonstrated in the photo at the beginning of this blog. Here are three more examples.

Squirrel hangs upside down from a bird feeder in southern Oregon.

An upside down perspective.

A view from the side.

“Let’s see if I can unscrew this top.”

Our grandsons, Ethan and Cody, got me this very appropriate T-shirt.

Ground squirrels, of which we have far too many, also want to rob the source but lack the aerial capability of tree squirrels. It doesn’t mean they don’t try. I watched one try to shimmy up the metal pole attached to the bird feeder yesterday. He would get up about a foot and then slide down, only to try again. By the time I retrieved my camera he had given up. Larger birds are frustrated as well, but two acorn woodpeckers with long beaks and tongues have mastered the art obtaining sunflower seeds.

A ground squirrel peers through a glass pane on our door. “Come on Curt, lend a hand.”

An acorn woodpecker is forced to ‘think outside the cage.’

Remember Linda Blair in the “Exorcist” and how she turned her head around backward on her neck? Now, check out the Acorn Woodpecker. Am I looking at evil here? (grin)

Black tail deer are also daily visitors to our back yard. I find it surprising they don’t eat sunflower seeds since they seem to eat almost everything else. The does are looking quite pregnant now and will soon be disappearing into the woods to have their fawns. Bucks are in the process of growing new antlers, having lost the old ones in February. They took care of their mating duties in the fall.

A doe and a buck checked each other out in our yard last fall. “Hey Big Boy, looking for a little action?”

It isn’t unusual for the deer to bed down in our yard, and sometimes on our back porch! We often find them staring in the window, as curious about us as we are about them. Such is life in the woods. Who needs TV?

One doe lies down next to the bird feeder.

Another chooses to lie down under our Madrone, just to the left of the first doe.

And a third decides to take over our porch. She is studiously ignoring me, BTW. If she can’t see me, I don’t exist.

It isn’t unusual for deer to look in our windows. I caught this doe checking me out last summer while I sat in the library. Aren’t the ears magnificent?

A Ground-Floor Environmentalist— from Earth Day I… and On

February 23, 2015 / Curt Mekemson / 28 Comments

A final view of the 1500 year old rightfully named Big Tree in Prairie Creek Redwoods State Park.

Before the beginning of the environmental movement, many people believed that trees such as this 1500 year old redwood should be cut down to provide homes, jobs and decks.

Peggy and I drove down to Sacramento, California on Thursday. She wanted to visit her mom. I came down to do an oral history interview for the Environmental Council of Sacramento (ECOS). The organization has been protecting Sacramento’s environment for so long it had forgotten its childhood.

I think ECOS wanted to catch up with me while I am still around. (Yikes!) Or at least while I had my memory left. Fortunately I have a long memory, or at least notes, and I was there for the organization’s birth.

My connection with the environmental movement started on April 22, 1970. For those of you not familiar with the date, it was Earth Day I. At the time I was running Peace Corps’ Northern California and Nevada’s Public Affairs office out of Sacramento. It was a great job, but I was getting tired of the recruitment business— I’d been at it for three years. So, I was easily distracted away from my recruitment booth at the University of California Davis that day.

Earth Day was my type of happening. UC Davis puts on great fairs. It probably has to do with an event it calls Picnic Day. Picnic Day is a rite of spring event with roots as deep as humankind. The birds are singing, flowers are blooming, and the snow is melting in the mountains; let’s have a party! All of the departments become involved, put on shows, put up displays, and do silly things.

Earth Day was like that but it also incorporated a vitally important message.

Somehow we had forgotten where we came from in our rush toward progress and the good life, in our deification of the dollar, in our maximizing of profits, and in our greed. In the process we were chopping down our forests, polluting our streams, poisoning our air, destroying our last remaining wilderness areas, and saying goodbye forever to innumerable species whose only evolutionary mistake was to get in our way.

We had forgotten that birds can make music as beautifully as any stereo, that peace and balance can be found in the wilderness, and that somehow, in some yet unfathomable way, our fate might be tied to that of the pup fish. It seemed okay that the last Brown Pelican was about to fly off into the sunset forever so we could squeeze one more bushel of wheat from our crops, and that it was appropriate for the last of the great Redwoods, silent sentinels who had maintained their vigilance for over 4000 years, to die for our patio with a lifespan of 20 years.

“Once you have seen one redwood, you have seen them all,” Ronald Reagan would proclaim.

Rachel Carson, in her landmark book Silent Spring, had sounded a clarion call to a Holy Crusade: saving the earth. Others, too, were raising the alarm. Earth Day I was an expression of growing concern. Its message struck a deep chord within my soul. The years I had spent wandering in the woods while growing up, my exploring of the rainforest around Gbarnga, Liberia during Peace Corps, and my hiking in the wilderness as a backpacker, all came together in a desire to join the environmental movement and help save the wilderness. (The urge, I cheerfully admit, was closely connected to my desire to disappear into the woods as much as possible.)

How to go about pursuing a career in saving the wilderness wasn’t all that clear, though. My occupations to date had been political science major, teacher and Peace Corps recruiter. None of those spelled environmentalist. I committed myself to look around, however, and to be ready for any opportunities that came my way.

Serendipity or synchronicity, being what they are, an opportunity arose immediately. I read an article in the Sacramento Bee about an Ecology Information Center (EIC) that was being organized in Sacramento as a response to Earth Day I. The organization was forming different committees to focus on a variety of environmental issues and was seeking volunteers. Lights went off in my head as I was struck by one of my brainstorms. What if I went in and volunteered to set up a committee that would focus on environment and politics, two of my passions of the moment? Certainly the environmental movement in Sacramento needed a political arm and would benefit from a focused effort. I further reasoned that EIC would have a tough time turning down a full-time volunteer.

A church out in Carmichael, a suburb in Sacramento, had donated the Center some free space so I took a break from the recruitment business and drove out to see what I could learn. When I walked in, two people were in a hot debate, almost yelling at each other. My presence seemed to make little difference. It was my introduction to the world of grass-roots organizations.

“I’ll come back another time,” I announced and turned to leave. This was not a situation I needed to be in.

“Oh, we’re sorry,” the young woman half of the debate announced and sounded like she meant it.

“Yes, please stay. We’re finished with our discussion,” the older man added, obviously a little embarrassed.

I hesitated and walked back in. The man introduced himself as Chuck Wiederhold. The young woman was Katie Easterwood and they had been arguing over the direction of the Center. Chuck felt the organization’s primary direction should be environmental education while Katie was more into environmental action. She was specifically interested in implementing a major recycling project in Sacramento modeled after one she had initiated at American River College. They both seemed like bright, capable people and Katie was particularly impressive at 18 years of age. The two of them were founding members of the organization and on the Board.

“I am interested in another area,” I said with a smile, throwing another option into the mix and wondering how long it would be before the two were yelling at me. I outlined my thoughts on creating a committee that would focus on electing environmentally concerned people to the City Council and Board of Supervisors. I added that I was willing to work full-time as a volunteer and outlined my background. The Director of Peace Corps Public Affairs for Northern California and Nevada sounded more grand that it was. Apparently my resume, or possibly my willingness to work full-time for free, impressed them— more than I had intended.

“I have an even better idea,” Chuck had announced with Katie’s concurrence, “why don’t you consider becoming EIC’s Executive Director.”

There it was, just like that. After a 15 minute discussion based on a whim, I was being offered the opportunity to become a card-carrying environmentalist, a leader in Sacramento’s fledgling environmental movement. I was in on the ground floor.

Three months later, I was up to my ears in garbage. Katie’s idea to run a once a month, community wide recycling drive was underway. Ten thousand families were dropping off tons of newspapers, cans and bottles at six sites we had set up throughout Sacramento City and County. EIC was running an operation that involved 300 volunteers and 15 rental trucks with one wildly enthusiastic young woman and one totally exhausted executive director, who was receiving a whopping $100 a month in compensation. Twenty-four hours after starting, we stored our last bundle of newspapers in a vacant building in Old Sacramento (later to become Frank Fat’s restaurant) and limped off to sleep. Shortly afterwards, the Board doubled my salary to $200 per month.

As crazy as the recycling drives were, I managed to become involved in other environmental issues. One of the most memorable was Proposition 18, a 1970 California Initiative spearheaded by the Tuberculosis and Respiratory Disease Association of California (later to become the Lung Association). Proposition 18, as it turned out, would serve as the foundation to ECOS.

The TB folks had gone a long way toward conquering tuberculosis and were looking around for other challenges. Since they were experts in matters pertaining to the lungs, it made sense to tackle other lung diseases. Research was showing that smoking and air pollution were two major causes of lung disease. Proposition 18, the Clean Air Initiative, was designed to raise money from the motor vehicle fuel tax and license fees to control automobile caused air pollution and develop mass transportation alternatives.

In Sacramento, a coalition of organizations ranging from the League of Women Voters to the American Association of University Women, the Audubon Society and Sierra Club had joined the TB Association in its effort. It was a natural for EIC to join as well. I was soon attending meetings and helping out with the campaign.

The highway interests (with money provided by the oil companies) defeated Proposition 18, but the coalition had worked well together. I had enjoyed the opportunity of working with leaders from other community-based groups and knew I would miss the interaction. At our wrap up session after the November election, someone suggested we should maintain the coalition. I jumped on the idea. There were a wide range of environmental issues that would benefit. It was one thing for EIC to make a point; it was something else when the Tuberculosis Association or League of Women Voters spoke out on the same issue.

Pulling together a variety of organizations to support environmental issues recognized a central tenet of the ecology movement. Solutions to environmental problems demand multi-faceted approaches. Everything is related. Urban sprawl encourages extensive automobile use, which, in turn, leads to air pollution. Reducing urban sprawl supports mass transit and has the added advantage of protecting valuable farmland and rapidly disappearing natural areas. It was clear as we talked that coalition members were excited about the potential of working together and believed we could make a difference in the quality of life in Sacramento.

“I move we create an ongoing organization,” I offered. The motion was immediately seconded and support was unanimous. We decided to call our organization the Environmental Council of Sacramento, ECOS. Each organization could have two representatives. Membership would be open to any organization concerned with improving and protecting Sacramento’s environment. Kris Corn, the young woman from the Tuberculosis Association who had headed up the Clean Air Initiative, was selected as the first president.

ECOS continues to function in Sacramento today as one of the longest continuing community environmental coalitions in the nation. I worked closely with the organization for several years and am proud of my early involvement. I am even more proud of what the organization has been able to accomplish in the 45 years since.

Wandering through Time and Place

Exploring the world with Curtis and Peggy Mekemson

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