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SAGE THRASHER — DULL in COLOR BUT A diligent SINGER Features
7 9/11 ceremony takes a year BREAK COVID-19 cancels remembrance in Cashmere
9 THE FIRE THIS TIME
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TO JUNEAU
They finally arrived! Brothers finish trek started 40 years ago
monsterlove art: letting the freak flag fly unlikely chelan home offers stunning lake views
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LIVING LARGE IN A SMALL
LLamas are an aging hiker’s best friend heart disease in women: more deadLy than breast cancer
plus LIVING FULLER BY SLOWING DOWN TIME
plus PERFECT MATCH WIFE GIVES HUSBAND THE GIFT OF LIFE
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MY BEST DAY
READERS’ STORIES FROM 2018 of birth, rebirth, travel & joy Second look
REVISITING THE CONTAINER HOUSE NOW THAT IT’S FINISHED
Some of our favorite photos from 2018
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The challenge is for cyclists to ascend the same amount of elevation as from sea level to the top of Mount Everest... in one continuos loop
18 SASQUATCH!
Fact or fiction — you decide, but we do have a photo
20 NEW RULES FOR A BACKYARD BBQ
The steaks are grilling, the wine is pouring, but the questions keep coming up on how to stay COVID-19 safe
22 THE REMOTE COMMUNITY OF STEHEKIN Looking for answers of who lives there, and why
Mike Roberts brings his distinctive touches — and racing gear — to his personal new home in East Wenatchee
City:
4
Todd Strahm loved the ocean and the surfing culture... but living in Chelan took him away from it — until he discovered an electric foil surfboard
26 THE WOULD-BE HOME TOUR HOME
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When Susan Sampson discovered raccoons pooping under her deck — she tried every solution the internet offered. And then her husband stepped up to the task
16 EVERESTING MISSION
SPACE DOWNTOWN
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One more adventure: 'We felt like kids again'
now a citizen of where her heart belongs
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BRAND NEW, OLD TIME FARMHOUSE
MOVE TO MEXICO
becoming an american
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September 2018
RACCOON WARS
14 SURFING LAKE CHELAN
ADVENTURE LEARNING NOT TO BE A KLUTZ • EVENTS CALENDAR
Contents
Columns & Departments 8 A bird in the lens: Never ending song of the Sage Thrasher 24 Calendar & a Dan McConnell cartoon 25 Pet Tales: Oh, what a difference for Woodstock 30 The traveling doctor: Do unto others 31 June Darling: How you ‘see’ affects how you think 32 History: Dr. J.I. Pogue — Renaissance Man 34 That’s life: Unexpected money
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editor’s notes
MIKE CASSIDY
Letter from Seattle
Now, for something totally different Last fall, when our one —
and likely only — granddaughter was approaching six months old and her parents needed to go back to work, my wife, Donna, volunteered to babysit the tiny tot if her parents would provide housing for us. As her parents lived in Seattle, housing would mean moving west of the mountains for us. “We need something new, right?” my wife said in selling the idea to me. By chance, our daughter-inlaw had a condo on Capitol Hill in Seattle that renters were moving out of, so a deal was struck — we got free rent in a vibrant neighborhood just east of downtown Seattle, and the baby, named Roux, got delivered to her loving grandmother’s arms each weekday morning. My wife and I had lived in Seattle in our early years, but as soon as we started having babies, we moved to the Wenatchee Valley, partially because we could buy a business here, but also to have a smaller town to raise children in and to be around her family. (Built-in babysitters, right? Funny how the generations change, but the motivations don’t.) “Something new” is exactly what we found on Capitol Hill. First of all, in Wenatchee, when we went to an event at Pybus, or walked the Riverfront Trail or hit tennis balls at the WRAC, we were among people just like us. And by that, I mean people sporting gray hair. But walking down Broadway street, we are definitely the oldsters. And gray hair? Orange hair, green hair, purple hair,
wild hair… This city is much younger than Wenatchee, which makes for a more visual street scene. Living on Capitol Hill in Seattle is certainly “interesting.” I have to say that Seattle in no way resembles some of the comments I see on Facebook — people are nice and generally polite here and the older residential areas we stroll with Roux daily are lovely and well-kept — but I also have to add it has taken a while to accept as normal seeing people sleeping on the sidewalks, sometimes only in their clothes, as if they had suddenly just fallen down. We haven’t gotten used to the street litter and tents that pop up in open areas. The homelessness is seemingly an intractable problem. I don’t know if readers remember Evelyn in Wenatchee, who would sometimes stand at street corners and talk to cars. She was thought of as kind of cute, our town character. Here, we have street-corner yellers aplenty. Not so cute. We were sitting in a pocket park the other day, and listened to a long one-sided conversation of a street person talking about dealing with aliens from other planets. Maybe he was talking to a publisher/friend about a book he was writing — as people do ramble down the sidewalk, holding rather odd phone conversations via ear pieces — but probably not. There was a story circulating a couple of years ago that Seattle was dying, but you certainly wouldn’t know it by the residential building going on. Just a few blocks from us, three block-long apartment
buildings are nearing completion. And in every other block of our walks, older homes are coming down, being replaced by multi-story apartments and condo buildings. By the way, a one-bedroom, one-bath, 700-square-foot condo goes for $500,000 to above $700,000 on Capitol Hill. And, they are selling. The most common job in Seattle is that of a computer programmer, with salaries of $100,000-plus. Young, single, earning more than $100,000, yeah, these condos are affordable. Donna was disappointed by the shopping — funny to say, but cute little Seattle shops are few and far between. Ducking into a boutique and finding treasures for a gift or for your home is a bygone experience. Instead, Amazon Prime trucks buzz the neighborhoods. When the protests started, the police station three blocks from our condo was a focus, and Cal Anderson Park across the street from us was a staging area. We went to a couple of protests — history in the making — and strolled our granddaughter through the “occupied zone” during the day. An enterprising entrepreneur set up a stand selling hot dogs ($6) we sampled while listening to earnest speeches. I in no way want to dismiss or make light of the protests. Coming from Wenatchee, we just could not understand the urban experience and anger that propelled the protests day after day, and night after night. Being gray-hairs (did I mention that already?), we were in bed by the time the tear gas and bang grenades were employed, but we heard the loud blasts and the shouting, along with police helicopters overhead. At the moment, the Seattle way of talking things to death has pretty much returned the streets and parks to their normal state: women sun bathe in the park, dog-owners toss balls
September 2020 | The Good Life
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to off-leash pets and tech workers check their phones. Some shop windows are boarded up (a precaution I thought silly when the coronavirus shut everything down, but later I saw the wisdom of — as my daughter-in-law said, Capitol Hill has seen troubles before), and there is graffiti everywhere. One evening walking the occupied zone, we came upon two young women in nice dresses — one was holding a stenciled slogan while the other was carefully spraying paint. I wanted to say, “That’s not your building, shame on you,” but that impulse was the Wenatchee in me. When I talk with friends, they want to know if we are staying safe. Safety has never been a worry here. First of all, we don’t put ourselves in dangerous situations — we don’t hang around bars at 2 a.m. and we don’t flash gang signs. (OK, we don’t know any gang signs, but we wouldn’t flash them if we did.) We socially distance ourselves from the street talkers and we live in a locked building. (An aside: One day I noticed the back door of our building was unlocked, so I looked out into the alley way. I saw a guy standing on a window ledge peering into a second-story condo. “I’m staying here for a friend while they’re out of town,” he said. “I left my keys inside when I went out, but I left a window open, so I think I can get in.” And, I’m such a small-towner that I believed him.) We wanted something different in our move to Seattle, and we’ve gotten it. That’s what new adventures are about — you can’t predict a worldwide pandemic or widespread protests — but if you keep your eyes open, you will see a fresh, new world — and in my case, a second-story man at work. Life is more fun with occasional change. Enjoy The Good Life. — Mike
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OPENING SHOT
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Year 14, Number 9 September 2020 The Good Life is published by NCW Good Life, LLC, dba The Good Life 1107 East Denny Way, Apt. B-7 Seattle, WA 98122 PHONE: (509) 888-6527 EMAIL: editor@ncwgoodlife.com sales@ncwgoodlife.com ONLINE: www.ncwgoodlife.com FACEBOOK: https://www. facebook.com/NCWGoodLife Editor/Publisher, Mike Cassidy Contributors, Kristen Lovene McCamey, Tom Green, Diana Rigelman, Susan Sampson, Susan Lagsdin, Todd Strahm, Deborah Strahm, Brad Brisbine, Mark Shaffer, Jamie Howell, Linda Reid, Ken Reid, Darlene Matule, Donna Cassidy, Jim Brown, June Darling, Dan McConnell and Rod Molzahn Advertising: Lianne Taylor Bookkeeping and circulation, Donna Cassidy Proofing, Dianne Cornell Ad design, Linda Day TO SUBSCRIBE: For $25, ($30 out of state address) you can have 12 issues of The Good Life mailed to you or a friend. Send payment to: The Good Life subscription services 1107 East Denny Way, Apt. B-7 Seattle, WA 98122 For circulation questions, email: donna@ncwgoodlife.com EVENTS: donna@ncwgoodlife.com BUY A COPY of The Good Life at Safeway stores, Mike’s Meats at Pybus, Martin’s Market Place (Cashmere) and Dan’s Food Market (Leavenworth) ADVERTISING: For information about advertising in The Good Life, contact Lianne Taylor at (509) 6696556 or lianne@ncwgoodlife.com WRITE FOR THE GOOD LIFE: We welcome articles about people from Chelan and Douglas counties. Send your idea to Mike Cassidy at editor@ncwgoodlife.com
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The best views come after the toughest climbs by Kristen Lovene McCamey Though there are no certainties in life, you can always count on the mountains to offer peace, beauty and space for thought. This has been a tough year for
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many of us: we’ve suffered from financial, emotional and physical loss. Our routines and comforts were stripped away and we were given no other option but to learn new ways to navigate through this rough patch. Time heals all, but that doesn’t make today any easier. Finding ways to obtain solace and normalcy are crucial until things are able to go back to normal. We may not be able to hop a plane to Europe, or go out dancing, but we always have the
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September 2020
option to step outside and enjoy the fruits of nature. This photo is from my latest trek up to Snow Lakes, located within The Enchantments up the Icicle in Leavenworth.
On the cover
Todd Strahm carves across Lake Chelen on a hydrofoil surfboard propelled by an electric motor that is controlled by a wireless Bluetooth handheld device. Photo by Deborah Strahm
COVID-19 halts 9/11 ceremony in Cashmere T
By Tom Green
he 9/11 Spirit of America Memorial Foundation Board has announced the cancelation of the September 11, 2020 event due to current COVID-19 health requirements. Since its dedication in 2015, annual 9/11 ceremonies have been held to enthusiastic and growing crowds. The Memorial has become a regional and state asset. Our Memorial Team is constantly heartened by the comments we hear from visitors to the Memorial. Most are highly moved, some emotional about the experience and so many ask, “How did this small community create such a significant 9/11 Memorial?” That question is always an opening to tell our story of incredible community support during the 2015 construction of the Memorial and again when we built the Phase II addition in 2019. The Memorial provides a place for reflection and remembrance. Its purpose is to help those who were most affected by the attacks to heal — and those with no memory of the attacks to understand losses that will forever be incomprehensible. Visitors to the Memorial walk away with a sense of hope and inspiration. The original construction of the Memorial took place in 2015 and was dedicated on September of that year. The primary features of the Memorial were a bronze statue set of four figures representing
A crowd observes the 2019 annual ceremony, including the dedication of the new Phase II granite monuments. The four monuments, including two nearly 11-foot tall Twin Towers, honor all those lost on 9/11 by having their names engraved on the 10 faces of the monuments. In addition to the towers, the remaining monuments include one for Flight 93 in Pennsylvania and the other for Flight 77 at the Pentagon. Photo by Skip Mugass
all those lost on 9/11. An open position between two of the statues encourages visitors to stand in solidarity with those lost, by holding the hands of the statues. Also, a structural piece of steel weighing about 1,100 pounds is mounted on a concrete pedestal. It was originally part of one of the Twin Towers and it is believed to be from the 60th story level. The final feature of the original Memorial is a piece of limestone, also mounted on the pedestal, which was part of the facade of the Pentagon. It weighs an estimated 400 pounds. The attacks of September 11, 2001, changed our world forever, and they brought loss and grief on a scale only known in war. But the aftermath of the attacks also revealed stories of heroism and sacrifice that inspired us all. They brought us an even deeper appreciation for, and commitment to, our coun-
try’s founding freedoms. And they brought a powerful sense of unity not just to Americans, but also to people around the world. The Cashmere 9/11 Memorial stands as a powerful tribute to the victims of the attacks — and to the power of the human spirit. Its importance will grow with each passing year. The 9/11 Spirit of America Memorial Foundation Board looks forward to the 2021 ceremony, marking the 20th anniversary
September 2020 | The Good Life
of the September 11, 2001 tragic event. The 9/11 Memorial is located adjacent to the Cashmere Community Center, is free, and open year ‘round. Tom Green is chairperson of the 9/11 Spirit of America Memorial Foundation Board. He is a former Chelan County Commissioner, former general manager of Link Transit, and retired military veteran. Tom lives in Cashmere and is active in numerous community organizations.
We provide over 600 guidebook posts for human powered outdoor sports in and around the Wenatchee Valley.
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column a bird in the lens
Sage Thrasher — Their song goes on and on I
By Bruce McCammon
n the summer, Sage Thrashers visit the shrub-steppe communities of north central Washington. The Sage Thrasher is a robin-sized bird with a 12 to 13 inch wingspan. Their back is a dull gray and the breast and flanks are streaked. The yellow eye is a helpful field mark for identifiBruce McCammon cation as is is retired, colorthe relatively blind and enjoys short beak photographing the birds in north cenand two dull tral Washington. wingbars. These birds will run on the ground as they forage for insects. They favor grasshoppers, beetles and caterpillars. They also eat berries during winter months. Groups of Sage Thrashers may be seen in the winter as they feed on gooseberries, juniper berries or wild currants. When you go out birding, it is always a good practice to pull safely off the road and stop your
The Sage Thrasher: fairly dull colors, but with a song that seemingly never ends.
motor. Roll down your windows and sit quietly for five to ten minutes to listen for bird songs or calls. The Sage Thrasher song can last for an extended time — it seems to go on forever. Most birds will not have long bursts of songs so if you hear one that is going on and on and on, start scanning the tops of sagebrush or shrubs for a Sage
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Thrasher. They will also perch on fences or posts. Follow the song to the bird. My most memorable encounter with a Sage Thrasher occurred in the Beezley Hills north of Quincy. We spent several minutes watching a thrasher sitting on top of sagebrush, singing as only they can. We enjoyed several minutes of continuous warbling as the bird scanned the area. Then it took flight. Until then, I had never seen a Sage Thrasher fly more than a few feet. This one dropped into the channels between the sage and flew like an F-15 fighter jet. It came directly toward us as it swerved gracefully between sage plants. It passed directly in front of our vehicle and disappeared on a sinuous path through the dense sage. It was over in just a few seconds but created a last-
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ing impression. I’ll always think of the Sage Thrasher as a bird with a song that never ends and the bird that flies like a jet on a mission. As I write this, we are in a time of social isolation. A great way to stay distant from others is to hop in your vehicle and slowly drive the backroads of our wonderful shrub-steppe communities. You’ll find many visiting bird species within a short distance of the roads. Stop periodically and enjoy the quiet that will be interrupted by the sound of wind or birds singing. Scan the tops of the shrubs and sage for a bird with prominent streaking on its breast. Listen for the song that lasts longer than others. Once you find the bird, grab your camera and take its portrait. You’ll enjoy the memory every time you look at it in the future.
The
fire
this time
‘Be prepared plan’ softened panic, but still, time was wasted on non-essentials
A
By Diana Rigelman
t first there was just a pleasant hint of smoke. It smelled of wood, grass and nature as it wafted through windows. When I looked outside, I saw a small plume of smoke rising from a neighboring hill. I wondered if someone had called it in. Fire. A four-letter word that’s well respected this time of year. I could see charcoal color start to run across the grassy expanse. It reminded me of how a cigarette burns. As with each draw of a breath through a cigarette, red embers glowed, blackening the earth in a jagged pattern. Alarmingly, smoke and embers were heading in my direction. That’s when the phone beeped — announcing a Level 1 Evacuation Alert. The danger was real and unfolding quickly. Stay tuned. What to do now? Luckily, irrigation sprinklers were already on. As a precaution, I set out another hose and sprinkler to water down all that I could. I’ve never been in the line of a fire before. My nerves and imagination were kicking in. What to do next? Before I could answer my own question, there was another beep from the phone. Just 17 minutes after the first alert arrived, a Level 2 Alert was announced… the “get ready to leave soon” notice. So fast? I thought I’d have more time. My gut said, “It’s all going to be OK.” My mind said, “Get moving sister, you may only have minutes.” What do you take if you have only moments to prepare should fire find its way towards your door? Earlier in the year, I noticed a class about evacuation preparedness, taught by RN Lori
Fire creeps down the hillside, edging closer to homes.
Nitchals, through Pybus University. I had begun working on a fire evacuation plan, implementing several of Lori’s ideas. Should the time to run arrive, I was ahead of the game. I had the Important Papers File together. Thankfully in that Level 2 Evac moment, I didn’t have to dig for birth and wedding certificates, passports and other documents if — God forbid — this house wasn’t here when I returned. My designated suitcase was already half full with must-takes. I ran for my old address book and tossed it in, along with the computer and cords. Why hadn’t I packed toiletries? Where were the extra toothbrushes? Between trips to the car, I looked out the window to see how that ominous charcoal shadow was progressing. Helicopters were dumping buckets of water on the fire as an airplane dumped flame retardant. It seemed like a movie watching firefighters walking through the smoky haze. They worked the edge of the blaze putting themselves between me and the fire. Tense moments dragged on. I checked the phone again. No “get-out-
September 2020 | The Good Life
now” level 3 alert had been issued. Studying the hill from my vantage point, it looked like the fire had just changed its mind. A little breeze had it dancing off in another direction. I breathed a little deeper and said a prayer for those battling the smoke, heat and flames. Together they were saving my neighborhood. I’d like to say I remembered to grab a couple of photo albums, my grandmother’s bible, last year’s tax return and the latest family portrait off the wall. But in those moments it never occurred to me. I wasted time looking for a silly tube of toothpaste. Thankfully I didn’t have to leave my home. No structures were lost in the Sunset Fire of July 13. Thank you to all the fire fighting agencies that saved my neighborhood. The Be Prepared Plan softened my panic. I was mostly prepared for what one can never fully be prepared for. For now, I’m leaving that suitcase packed. Possibly until Thanksgiving arrives and summer fire season is good and over.
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MY WORLD // a personal essay
Raccoon wars Sure, they’re so cute, but pooping under the deck?
M
By Susan Sampson
y war with raccoons sounds like a tall tale that my Uncle Buck used to tell, so imagine I am telling you with a western twang in my voice. It started with a sewage smell when we used our deck that surrounds the south and west sides of our house. Our septic tank is pumped; I assumed we had negligent neighbors. But then we caught sight of plump, fuzzy raccoons moving underneath the deck. The space beneath the deck wasn’t large enough for me to crawl in to inspect, so I sprawled on the ground, shined a powerful flashlight under the deck, and used my binoculars. I was horrified to see a huge pile of poop studded with cherry seeds. My husband installed a critter cam, and in short order, we saw that raccoons were using the space under our deck. We did whatever any redblooded American couple would do — we checked online to see if the government would help. Chelan County and local animal control were clear — they do not deal with wildlife, especially raccoons. They referred us the State Department of Fish and Wildlife. We did not call. We could imagine a State SWAT team coming in to trap our visitors and to eliminate them with “extreme prejudice” or to relocate them at taxpayer expense. I don’t know about raccoons, but not all animals can be relocated.
“It’s hard out here for a scamp!”
The wild animal that has been most successful in moving into cities, beside the raccoon, is the coyote, but it cannot be relocated. My friend Rick Kieffer, a retired chief of police, had to look into that for his city, the City of Normandy Park. The issue arose when coyotes started confronting pets on leashes while their owners walked little Fifi or Muffy. But if a coyote is relocated, it is placed into an area already marked by another coyote, and its chances of survival are poor. We decided to look into self help. Now, a raccoon is just about the cutest animal you can imagine. It wears a black mask across its face, it has fluffy fur and a fluffy striped tail, it is smart, and it has exquisitely sensitive hands that it can use to open doors and bags of catfood. I’ve seen a mama raccoon holding back her babies like a human mother cautious about
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We try to get along with our natural neighbors, but I draw the line at anybody who might come inside or who might carry rabies... letting the babies rush the catfood dish. I’ve seen her so exhausted that she lay on top of the fence with her legs dangling on each side, just taking a nap. But there is no doubt that there is a wild and dangerous side to the raccoon. Raccoons live in trees and engage in horrible fights with snapping and growling for hours on end at night. My friend Jerilynn, her husband Rusty, and their dog were camping out once when raccoons raided their food supplies and their dog tried to fight. Jerilynn dived into the fray to save
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her dog and got badly clawed. Later she was standing in line at a bank when she heard somebody in line ahead of her ask a friend, “Did you hear about that couple that got ate up by the raccoons up at the lake?” We try to get along with our natural neighbors, but I draw the line at any creature who might come inside or who might carry rabies: bats, foxes, skunks, rats, mice, ants and raccoons. Our next step was to see what Google advised. Don’t feed them, it said. We don’t. We don’t keep pets so don’t have food sitting out. I have a compost pile for garden waste and vegetable matter from my kitchen, but raccoons don’t seem to like moldy green peppers any more than I do. Google advised trying repellent: Irish Spring soap, peppermint, and coyote urine. As it happened, I had two bars of Irish Spring soap in the bathroom cabinet, unused because my husband doesn’t like its odor. either.
Our Land, Our Water, Our Future
“Hey, human, how about a little food out here for nature’s creatures?”
We placed the soap near the raccoons’ portal. We turned on the critter-cam. The raccoons sauntered past the soap like it wasn’t even there. Trying peppermint was convenient. My garden includes bunches of mint: peppermint, spearmint, sweet mint, rank wild mint, horehound mint, catnip mint and chocolate mint. I wondered if mint wasn’t just an invitation to raccoons — it smells just like Girl Scout cookies. I pulled up an arm load of mint and placed it just where the raccoons crawled under the deck. The critter cam showed raccoons ignoring the mint. I went to the hardware store. “Do you sell coyote urine?” Well, of course they did. The clerk sent me to a shelf full of animal repellents for mice, rats, moles, rabbits, deer, and yes, raccoons. I read the label on the package of coyote urine. It was good for domestic cats, not for raccoons. I chose a black pepper compound
that was supposed to repel raccoons. We watched on the critter cam. The raccoons didn’t even stop to sniff, let alone sneeze, at the black pepper barrier. “We need the urine of a big, mean, aggressive animal,” my husband stated. A horse maybe? Our neighbors’ horses are pretty stinky, but I didn’t want our deck smelling like a horse. But he pointed to himself. Imagine now a man of a certain age who sometimes has difficulty when he needs to go. He had the foresight to turn off the security cameras so there would be no movie of his effort. He stood there a while. And a while. But then he succeeded. We check the security cameras the next day. The raccoons did not appear. After we checked to make sure nobody was hiding under the deck, we sealed it off with onequarter-inch galvanized mesh. We think we have won the raccoon wars. September 2020 | The Good Life
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Kicked!
The recovery Finding meaning as the healing begins By Susan Lagsdin (In the August issue, I described how on a perfect day for a horseback ride in the Methow, I was kicked by my horse while clearing a trail. After on-the-spot treatment for several injures by first aid professionals, I was flown down to Wenatchee in a medical evacuation helicopter. In this second part of my story, I navigate the route to recovery.)
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irst came the fixes, two long operations over 11 hours at Central Washington Hospital. Surgery on the right thigh’s two breaks yielded a titanium rod down the center of the femur and a metal plate to bolster it. Surgery on the right shoulder gave me an elaborate screwand-strap system to reconnect three scapula parts. Broken ribs? Cracked fibula? “They’ll heal on their own.” Torn left knee ligaments? “We’ll wait and see.” My memory of those five days was of long hallway ceilings en route to imaging facilities and operating rooms and being blissfully cocooned in bed with what I recall as profound — and as yet irretrievable — thoughts. With medication and state-ofthe-art comfort care I felt no pain and suffering at all. It was then that I firmed my resolve in two ways. First, I have always considered myself somewhat of a dilettante: passably creative, passably smart, an OK rider, an OK writer, a dabbler in history,
a teller of jokes, a sketcher, a Jeopardy quick-draw. Here, I thought, is my time to shine! A project I can do really well! I’ll put all my time and energy into regaining mobility. I will become an expert in learning to move again. And I realized that this time in my life needed to have meaning. If I didn’t come out of this with something useful for myself or others, then it was pointless, and I don’t do pointless with the universe. (Thank you to anyone who resisted the urge to say, “This must have been part of some greater plan…”) The accident was too bad, the trade-offs too large, the rehabilitation time too difficult, and I’m unlikely to regain my prior agility or strength for a year, so I’d better discover or create some value. Surgery and recovery in the hospital was a blur. Rehabilitation at Regency Wenatchee Rehabilitation and Nursing Center was a long, slow slog. Starting at what I’ll call Ground Zero, all busted up and no place to go but up, the small daily breakthroughs over the next seven weeks were too numerous to write about. I went from prone to walking, from staples and bandages to healed skin, from immobile to scooting around, each progression applauded by my caregivers. And, in the course of my first-time-ever experience with hospitalization, I gave up three long-held attitudes: modesty, vanity and elder-care stereo-
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Susan makes her first outing to greet and groom her horse Stella, who’s been furloughed from her accustomed trail rides for the summer. Photo by Mike Irwin
Several therapists have helped on the months-long rehabilitation project. Chuck Weir at Regency is assisting Susan with her left arm’s range of motion. Photo by Llesenia Mejia
types. Giving up modesty was humbling but never humiliating. For most of the time in recovery I was unable to walk or use my left shoulder and arm, but I frequently had to urinate. Excretion had become a vital issue and my mid-1950’s era modesty, from the first night at CWH, lasted about a minute.
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I was totally fine with external catheters, and later at Regency absorbent briefs — never called “diapers” — were managed by an ever-changing cast of cheerful caregivers. Wipe-ups at night often were done, for instance, by a bearded, linebacker-sized CNA (certified nursing assistant) with a soft voice and the efficiency of a NA-
Solo walks in her East Wenatchee neighborhood provide Susan a daily workout and complement several prescribed exercises from BioSports. Photo by Mike Irwin
SCAR crewman. Another helper was a well-read, tall, lanky Lakota Sioux with gray ponytail and tattoos. I was totally in need of their tender care, attention I didn’t recognize as an infant but learned to value immensely. For some, daily grooming is simple self-care, for some it’s the height of vanity. Hiking trips and sick days excepted, pre-accident I probably ranged within the norm. What I discovered in my seven weeks of confinement, with no visitors and an aversion to Zoom conferencing, was a refreshing lack of concern for my appearance. It. Just. Didn’t. Matter. A damp face cloth and a black plastic comb sufficed, my open-
backed hospital gown was tres chic for weeks, and the occasional glimpse in a bathroom mirror from wheelchair height showed me the same unadorned Susan others saw all day every day. It was OK. Still is. Granted, my bath aides did have some fun with a gift box of White Shoulders bath powder and a hair dryer toward the end of my stay. Eventually there was lipstick. OK, and toenail polish. But going 100 percent natural for all those weeks was affirming. For me, the term “nursing home” has always been fraught with negative stereotypes. But I thrived at Regency. Lively conversations with caregivers, plenty of books to read, ubiqui-
tous TV and my Kindle for movies and online Scrabble filled my days. I had a room with a view and nourishing meals, including memorable meatloaf and big crisp salads. Cards and calls were invaluable boosters. I luxuriated in not one but three naps a day. Granted, my positive report comes from being on an upswing (in therapy) rather than on a downglide (permanent residency). The long-term residents were presumably fighting other battles. But in the future I will look differently at people who have been invisible to me through my own ignorance or discomfort, at any white-haired woman dozing in a wheelchair or struggling to propel clumsy feet with a walker. She is me. Old Lives Matter. Because our building, and each hallway, was on strict COVID quarantine, I could only leave my 16 by 20-foot room in transit to the therapy gym. State restrictions meant complete isolation from loved ones or any other residents. Friends sympathized, “Oh, you must be so lonely and bored.” Quite the contrary. I was deeply engrossed in my ongoing self-improvement project and I relished every indulgent hour of that solitude. I was sent home from Regency after seven weeks when I was officially deemed able to bathe and dress myself and walk unassisted. The former went from extremely awkward to pretty easy in two days, the latter was thwarted by a surprisingly difficult disconnect — not just knowing but believing that my healed legs could bear weight. My husband, Mike Irwin, rearranged furniture in our two-story house to create a cozy downstairs studio apartment for the two of us and our big poodle, and a builder put vertical grab bars in the bathroom (don’t go past 50 without ’em). We’ll live there until I can easily negotiate the staircase to the second-floor office, TV room, deck with ham-
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... in the future I will look differently at people who have been invisible to me through my own ignorance or discomfort... mock, better mattress. It’s a good incentive to move on from the halting half-stepwith-help I use at this writing. The fractures of femur and shoulder were resolved by surgeons. Physical and occupational therapists got me upright and mobile. The third phase, my thriceweekly outpatient therapy at Biosports, is even more serious business; Lyle and Carmen (shoulder team) and Joe and Emily (hydrotherapy for legs) are my final professionals before I’m on my own, and they are tough. But I’ve never been tested with adversity of any kind, so I’m intrigued by the challenge of gaining full mobility and range of motion. I’m all in. 100 percent. Bring it on. Because I have plans. First small goals? Making my own ponytail (sounds simple; try it one-handed). I’d like to actually pull the weeds, not just point them out to Mike. I’d like to rise casually from a chair with no breathy “Umph!” I’d like to take the car to meet a friend, me in the driver’s seat. It gets better, but maybe not ’til Spring: I want to ramble with the dog at the river, scrambling down dicey side paths. When I hear music, I want to move freely to it, partner or no, dance floor or no. And most of all (after thinking it through every which way, juggling passion and caution, countering cons with pros) I want once again to saddle up my good mare and ride unafraid down a familiar trail.
Surfing on Lake Chelan?! Technology brings beach sport to wave-less inland lakes
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By Todd Strahm
magine flying above the water but still being connected to the water. Your mind is stimulated as it tries to comprehend the reality of it all. Your feet are firmly planted to a board, but the board is not on the water. However, you can still feel every movement of the water in your feet up through the rest of your body and then into your soul. Welcome to foil surfing. For those who do not know what foiling is, you’re not alone. Even though the concept has been around for over 100 years in boating called hydro foiling and recently for any type of surfing from ocean to kite, the mechanics are still mind-boggling. The design typically consists of a vertical shaft with a horizontal wing shaped like a stingray. At speed, the wing creates lift and once the board is out of the water, there is little resistance and sound as the foil slices below the surface and you on the board above the waves. I have always been drawn to the water — in particular crystal-clear bodies with blue and green hues. I often fantasized of the Pacific Ocean and I longed to play in the surf after first being introduced to it as a toddler. I grew up on a lake in Colorado and although I enjoyed the beauty and stillness of the brackish water, it didn’t affect me the same as the ocean. My buddies and I would take surf trips to San Diego during college spring breaks. Although fun, it was not enough. Once I graduated and secured a professional sales position, I took the first opportunity to move to the West Coast.
With an average battery life of 60 minutes on one charge, Todd Strahm can fly above the water to his heart’s content. Photos by Deborah Strahm
The corporate headquarters were in the Seattle area and before I knew it, I was living close enough to the Puget Sound to see marine life from our living room window. Our time in Western Washington came to an end soon after our second son was born. When my in-laws moved to Lake Chelan, we moved to the Wenatchee Valley to be close to family and to embrace this incredible part of the world of majestic mountains and enticing rivers and lakes. That was 20 years ago. As life moved on, I found myself enjoying the thrill of epic sports like biking, skiing and
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The image of me owning an electric foil surfboard occupied my thoughts for days. I could hardly think of anything else... Might this be my surfing culture in the Wenatchee Valley? when possible, surfing while traveling to ocean locations. Early May 2020 I came across a
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September 2020
video by Lift eFoils out of Puerto Rico. A surfer was carving above the beautiful Caribbean waters on a board with no waves, kite or boat. Mesmerizing music played as this iconic figure effortlessly flew over the translucent waters captured by the drone above. I was in awe as I thought that this could be me cruising over the blue waters of Lake Chelan. The image of me owning an electric foil surfboard occupied my thoughts for days. I could hardly think of anything else. Could this be the answer to my water desires? Might this be my surfing culture in the Wenatchee Valley?
Fast forward to today, I am living this dream as the North Central Washington Lift Affiliate conducting lessons and facilitating sales for the company that first introduced me to this fascinating activity. I absolutely love to get out on the water and excitement builds each time I get an opportunity to eFoil. Once the beautifully crafted carbon fiber board and foil is staged on the edge of water, I open the hatch and load the lithium-ion battery into the waterproof compartment. My index finger presses the stainless steel button and a cool neon blue light shines around it. The Lift eFoil powers up and I close the hatch. We are ready to ride. Although I have watched many instruction videos, I have adopted my own best practices. I find it easiest to float the board upside down in the water with the foil in the air until there is enough clearance. Then I turn the board over, climb on into a prone position and after a few strokes to ensure I am at a safe depth, I turn on the wireless Bluetooth hand remote and gently press the trigger. At first the board plows through the water at a 30-degree angle causing a small wake. While leaning forward, I give it more power and the propeller hums as the board planes on the surface. At this point the board becomes stable, which provides the confidence to hop up into a foot surf stance with my feet on
Lift eFoil surfboards are made from premium carbon that allows them to be light and strong but still flexible. The wings on the mask are interchangeable to offer riders various flying sensations from sharp turns to stable cruising. The compartment on top houses a powerful marine-grade lithium-ion battery. Shown here is the five-foot, six-inch Cruiser with a classic wing.
either side of the centerline. I’m now cruising across the water leaning side to side as the board turns back and forth. I’m not yet foiling but the feeling is incredible. The wind is in my face and the sound of the water slapping against the board suggests that I am moving around 15 mph. Once I am comfortable, I rock back on my right foot to engage the dynamics of the foil wing
well below the surface and then adjust my weight forward as the board rises into the air. The vibrations and sounds disappear as there is minimal resistance. I’m flying above the water looking for a rogue wave or the wake from the Lady of the Lake to carve on. In flat water it feels like skiing deep powder and the pure enjoyment of effortless turns is surreal. Besides the occasion-
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ally wipeout, the outing is fairly chill. Everyday I’m on the water is intoxicating — I’m still thinking about surfing vacations but no longer needing to leave the area to look for that perfect wave. To learn more about eFoils, contact Todd at (509) 670-2596 or toddstrahm@yahoo.com.
Everesting Mission In this challenge, cyclists ascend the same amount of elevation as one would by climbing Mount Everest from sea level — in one continuous go By Mark Shaffer “Nobody said it was easy. Oh, it’s such a shame for us to part. Nobody said it was easy. No one ever said it would be so hard. I’m going back to the start.”
T
he empty sound of Coldplay’s lyrics chirped from my phone into the night as I reached the top of Mission Ridge Road for the 16th time. The timing and appropriateness of words were serendipitous; I didn’t plan a playlist before starting my bike ride roughly 17 hours ago. Yet the lyrics captured how I felt so well that first I chuckled, then laughed, before letting out an exhausted sigh. Then I began my descent back down the hill, knowing that I had at least a couple hours of riding left to complete my goal. In 1924, George Mallory and Andrew Irving attempted to climb the world’s tallest peak, Mount Everest. Whether they summited or not is a matter of debate. The two were last seen roughly 800 vertical feet below the summit. Neither man survived their final summit push. Exactly 70 years later, the grandson of George Mallory, also named George Mallory, recorded the first cycling Everesting ride by biking eight continuous laps up and down Mount Donna Buang. During the course of his ride, the younger Mallory ascended the same amount of elevation as one would by climbing from sea level
By 7:05 a.m., I was already on my fifth lap, having climbed roughly 8,300 vertical feet. My energy level was high, and it had been a beautiful sunrise, so my spirits were soaring. to Everest, 29,029 vertical feet. The challenge of Everesting was born. Since Mallory’s accomplishment in 1994, roughly 9,200 cyclists from 96 different countries around the globe have duplicated his feat. The fastest recorded time to ride an Everest is currently 7 hours and 40 minutes, but most riders finish between 12 to 30 hours. My goal for the day would be just to climb that much while avoiding the three C’s (crashes, collisions or cardiac arrest). There are a few easy to follow rules for Everesting: Any hill anywhere in the world may count as an Everesting ride, as long as the rider climbs enough feet to equal the height of Mount Everest. Taking breaks is allowed, but the attempt ends if you go to sleep. Riders must focus on a single hill or mountain and descend the same way they rode up. This last one is to prevent “kinetic
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Dawn is starting to break in the East as Mark takes a breather.
gain,” which might assist with some of the climbing. In the early hours of July 5 at 3 a.m., I parked my car at the Squilchuck parking lot and began my first lap up the hill towards Mission Ridge. I have ridden this road dozens of times in daylight, but it felt cold and unfamiliar in the dark. Roughly two-thirds of the way up the hill, I saw several toppled sign posts lying in the road, all perpendicular to the flow of traffic. I didn’t know whether they were knocked down by wind or revelers the night before, but I stopped at each one to move it safely out of the road. After reaching the end of the pavement at Mission Ridge, I pulled a granola bar out of my pocket to celebrate my first ascent of roughly 1,670 feet and what felt like the official start to my first attempt at an Everesting ride. My plan was to ride 17-anda-half trips from my car to the end of the pavement at Mission Ridge. I would drink one bottle of water each ride up the hill
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and snack on one bar of choice on my ride back down. When I arrived at my car, I would swap out my bar and bottle, pee in the bushes and then head back up the hill. Each cycle would take me between 50 and 70 minutes, and after three cycles I would stop for a longer 20-minute break to eat a sandwich or honey tortilla and re-evaluate my clothing. I would avoid playing music on my phone and try to focus on the gorgeous scenery around me. I did have a couple of playlists downloaded, but I would use those as a last resort. I would stay in contact with my wife via texts to let her know how I was progressing. At roughly 6 a.m., the first car of the day joined me on the road. It was nice to have company on the hill, even if our interaction was brief. By 7:05 a.m., I was already on my fifth lap, having climbed roughly 8,300 vertical feet. My energy level was high, and it had been a beautiful sunrise, so my spirits were soaring. Later that morn-
I took a few seconds in the moonlight to collect myself and retain focus...
Mark at home with his dog, Tana. Being home was a relief after 17 and a half trips up and down the Mission Ridge road.
Mark doing the Seattle to Portland ride a couple of years back, when he did the 205 miles in one day.
ing I would sight several deer, a family of turkeys, and a creature that I believe was a fox. By 11:30 a.m., I had completed nine laps and climbed more
than 15,000 vertical feet. The temperature was starting to rise but remained pleasant. I decided to take an extended 30-minute break to celebrate being past my halfway point. After eating what was probably too much food, I started back up the hill. As I pedaled past landmarks that I had earlier decided to name (Fox Rock, Pond Bend, 9 Mile), the steepness seemed to have increased significantly since earlier in the day. I found myself shifting lower and going slower. When I finally reached the top of the hill, I checked my watch. This had been the slowest lap yet. As the afternoon rolled into early evening, I noticed many of the cars that had joined me on the hill were now leaving. I started to consider calling it quits and heading home. Every lap ended back at my car, and the temptation to load up my bike and return home for some food other than a peanut butter sandwich grew stronger. The Sirens’ call of my rattling car keys sang to me, but each time I zipped them back up in my bike pouch and headed back up the hill. By 7 p.m. my stomach was
starting to resent the monotonous array of carbohydrates that I was throwing at it. I didn’t want to even look at another sandwich, let alone eat one, and the caffeine from the morning had worn off. I was officially reaching a low. My turning point occurred after receiving a wonderfully supportive text from my wife around 7:20 p.m. Her supportive words replenished my dwindling determination and convinced me to stick to my original mission. As I crossed the pavement at the top of the hill for the 14th time, a driver offered encouragement through his open window. I spoke with him briefly and thanked him for his kind words. As I made the now familiar descent and choked down another granola bar, I felt a new sense of determination. The next couple of laps progressed slowly but steadily. By 8:45 p.m. I was on my 16th lap. By this time I had been awake for 19 hours and had been riding for 18 of them. It was time to release my secret weapon: ’90s alternative music played at a low volume from my phone. I was nearly alone on the hill, but I had the anti-establishment lyrics of
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frustrated youth from the 1990s to keep me company. Much like an angry child that refuses to touch their dinner, my stomach had long ago refused to accept another peanut butter and jelly sandwich. My legs were weak and my knee was swollen, but my goal was within sight. As I topped out for the 17th lap around 11:15 p.m., the parking lot was empty. I had now climbed roughly 28,000 feet of elevation since my ride started more than 20 hours ago. This would be my last full lap up to Mission Peak. My only witness for my final ascent was the full moon, which had only moments ago risen from behind the mountains to take her place in the spectator booth. I took a few seconds in the moonlight to collect myself and retain focus, then coasted back down the hill. Back at my car with just half a lap left to ride, I decided to skip the water bottle and granola bar swap and instead turned and pedaled directly up the hill. After reaching my designated halfway point, I turned one last time and wearily rolled down the hill. Through my exhaustion and nausea, I was able to let out a half hearted “WOOHOO” as I coasted through the darkness back to my car. As I packed up my car at 11:50 p.m. I felt a satisfying combination of exhaustion and accomplishment. I double-checked my elevation gain for the day to be sure that it exceeded 29,029 feet. I managed one blurry selfie in front of my bike and then headed home to get a small bite to eat. I wasn’t sure what my victory meal would consist of, but I was pretty sure that it wasn’t going to be another sandwich.
With tool under arm, this legendary beast is on a mission.
SASQUATCH! Fact or fiction — hummm... you decide story and photos BY BRAD BRISBINE
M
y friend Gordy, a biologist, has turned his attention from freshwater dolphins to grizzly bears. He hopes to observe them in the North Cascades. Knowing that I’ve backpacked the Cascades for nearly 50 years, he asked me and my brother Jim, a seasoned North Cascades climber, if we’d seen any. My experience with bears is limited to a charging, roaring, slashing black bear at our campsite — not that unusual. Jim reported having seen many black bears of varying color, but said that encountering a grizzly bear in the Washington Cascades is about as likely as spotting Sasquatch.
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Sasquatch, yeti, bigfoot, abominable snowman, whatever you want to call it, there have been reported sightings from around the globe. Professional biologists typically don’t believe in their existence, due to lack of hard evidence. This piqued my interest, and I realized that I had been on the fence. It would take convincing evidence to get me off that fence. Since childhood I’ve carried the memory of a grainy photographic image of a lanky, furry ape-like creature, stealthily on the move, glancing at a perceived threat; presumably man. With my modern-day, sharp-lensed camera, if I saw Sasquatch, I should be able to bring back an image that would
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stand up to scientific scrutiny. So, in July I enlisted my nephew Josh Brisbine (safety in numbers), and we prowled around the Cascades looking for the elusive, legendary beast. I figured that hiking trails frequented by man and bear is not where we would find Sasquatch. It made sense that we needed to venture off the beaten path. Although thousands of miles of trails traverse our forests, they actually occupy much less than one percent of forest acreage, explaining why sightings are so rare. They find ample sustenance in the deep forest, but still need water, so we followed a remote ancient-forest stream, hoping for a sighting.
September 2020
Using this technique paid off; I had the rare opportunity to see one in its own wild habitat (we’re the visitor). Across the stream, perhaps only 60 feet away, there was all the evidence needed. Glancing my way, I’m quite certain that we made eye contact momentarily. Strangely, this was not a scary encounter for either of us — it wasn’t until later that my nerves became jumpy. I also observed what adds to the explanation of infrequent sightings. This beast, friend or foe, possessed some chameleon-like ability, appearing green in vegetation, but changing to gray when passing through a boulder field. Then it occurred to me why most sightings report brown fur —they were mimicking tree bark in dense forest. Satisfied that I had captured three distinct still photos, I switched my camera to movie mode, wanting to add to the evidence. Tragically, when I went to play it back for Josh who had been up ahead and missed the encounter, I hit the wrong button and the movie was erased. However, the still images have not been altered in any way using postprocessing software, so I’m confident that they will hold up to scrutiny from the scientific community, validating my findings. Another reason my photos will stand out from past images, is that they may be first to show Sasquatch holding a tool. In my photo you can clearly see a silvered-snag carried under his left arm. When I described this to Josh, he explained that being an intelligent primate, Sasquatch could use the wood to whack a rabbit for dinner, or maybe use it for constructing shelter. When I steel my nerves, I’m going back to the sighting location and look for further evidence; say footprints or hair stuck to twigs or tree bark. No GPS tracking, but I did precisely identify the location by walking 50 paces in each of five equal-spaced directions, taking a close-up photograph of the feature there. These landmarks should get me zeroed-in on the exact spot, for future evidence-gathering. As you can see for yourself: Sasquatch: mystery solved.
Ancient-forest cascading stream, above The Sighting.
Above and at left: features found within 50 paces of sighting, for positive location, enabling future evidence-gathering. Vertical stump — Devils club at old-growth stump. White flowers growing up tree — Canadian dogwood Tree bark — Bark with possible primate fur. Pink flowers — Rainforest offering.
Brad Brisbine is a life-long Wenatchee resident, architect and landscape painter. He lives with his wife Jill and dote on their three cats and horse, Kona. September 2020 | The Good Life
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Dinner at a distance Weighing the guidelines when hosting friends to a BBQ during the pandemic
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By Jamie Howell
m a hugger. Or at least I was before the virus hit. I close in on our dinner guests as they come around outside to the backyard, eager to demonstrate my happiness at seeing them, at seeing anyone in person. Up come the protective elbows. Ah, right! We’re in a PANDEMIC, you clod! Somehow, I’ve managed to forget the rules in that tiny slice of day between the last news story I encountered and their arrival. Sheepishly, I bump elbows. Such a lucky joint, I think, this elbow of ours, somehow able to rise above all the science and contagion. Internally, I recommit to the idea that there will be no more touching of anybody for the rest of the evening. We are flirting with disaster as it is, having people over for dinner. But, frankly, for me it’s now risen to the level of essential. Back when it all started, half a year ago, I actually found the sudden disappearance of social obligations a relief, a chance for my anti-social side to breathe a little as we sheltered in place. But like a sad baby lab chimp relegated to extracting love from a wire-frame mama, I need something more now. And dinner is the way to do it. See, if I’m cooking for you, it means you’re important to me. I realize it can be construed as a shortcoming that I’m more comfortable coating a filet mignon in cracked peppercorns and gorgonzola butter than telling you I love you, but at least it’s tasty. As I point out the seeded crackers each with a dollop of herbed Chèvre, a thin disk of Persian cucumber and a few grains of finishing salt that I’ve set out for an appetizer, I take some comfort in knowing that, technically, we’re all on legal ground. Our county is currently locked in reopening limbo at the made-up level of 1.5. Sift through the state proclamations online and then hyperlink to the chart of county-by-
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Outdoor dinner guests are allowed under current regulations, but just how careful must we be as the coronavirus swirls?
county modifications and eventually you will get to this: “GATHERINGS: Allowed outdoors only, with 5 or fewer people outside your household per week.” Outside, beautiful summer evening — check. Us plus them add up to four — check. And since it’s a Sunday, I make a quick executive decision to officially start my “week” today, so we’re all good. But those aren’t the only regulations to navigate. The next step is to gauge the caution level of your guests, the internal, personal rules by which we individually choose to abide. We already know hugging is out, but what about masks? And how strict are we going
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You don’t want your invited guest backing away from you like a hissing cat... to be on the six-foot rule? You don’t want your invited guest backing away from you like a hissing cat as you attempt to pour the Malbec, now do you? Our wives settle into deck chairs placed farther apart than normal as we men triangulate around the grill. I’m not being careful enough. I can sense it. My friend’s eyes track the action as I press a finger into a chicken breast roulade
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They cluster at one end of an eightfoot deck table, we at the other. It feels a little Downton Abbey. wrapped around sun-dried tomato, zucchini, smoked scamorza cheese and basil, testing it for doneness. I feel compelled to detail my recent care in handwashing, to offer assurances that I’m clean. But I don’t really know, do I? I was out at the farmer’s market and the grocery stores gathering my supplies. But I don’t know where besides the soil those farmers have been putting their hands, or who might have fondled the scamorza before I decided to buy it. And I haven’t been tested. Now the real opportunities for transmission have begun. Who touched the wine bottle last? Let’s open a second one (honestly, that’s just a good idea anyway). It’s hard not to get handsy with the grilled corn as I try to slather on a scallion-lime
butter. These plates aren’t going to move themselves to the table, either. They cluster at one end of an eight-foot deck table, we at the other. It feels a little Downton Abbey. The topic of the virus comes up as we eat. How can it not? We talk about how to strike a reasonable balance between this hovering fear and living our lives, all while striving not to inadvertently cause the deaths of our fellow citizens. Somebody floats the comforting thought that maybe the heat of the grill is enough to kill any lurking microorganisms. Maybe.* Or maybe we’ve just lucked out and this happens to be the day the virus has up and disappeared, as our president has predicted.** We arrive at a risk assessment approach. If we are taking reasonable daily precautions while maintaining an awareness of the localized spread of the disease, well then, we can play the odds from there. We try to put the topic to bed and toss a few bags of Cornhole to work off the East 62nd Street Lemon Cake and that calorieladen scoop of lemon ice cream.
But like the virus itself, the topic seems to pop up at every turn — kids not off at college, work not happening, friends and family unseen. Pick up your own Cornhole bag, will you? I’m not touching that. At last we wave our goodbyes from afar under a night sky filled with virus-free stars. My wife sets to wiping down all the “knobs and bobs” with sanitizing wipes while I toss ashes and pack up the grill area. Even now, when no one can be sure if it’s just a hug or a mutual death pact, there is sustenance in a shared meal that feels necessary, that has the power to help us get through this and, with a little care and while the weather holds, can be conducted safely. Now, I’ve just got to figure out what to do come winter. THE ASTERISKS *Per the Centers for Disease Control, COVID-19 is inactivated at temperatures beginning at 133-149 degrees Fahrenheit. Also, the World Health Organization currently maintains there is no evidence that COVID-19 can be caught from food or food packaging. ** It wasn’t.
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The remote community of
Stehekin ‘A way through’ for some; a way away for others Story by Linda Reid Photos by Ken Reid “Stehekin” is a Native American word which means, “the way through.” Lake Chelan, the Stehekin Valley and Cascade Pass were used as a trade route between Eastern and Western Washington tribes for many generations before Alexander Ross (of “Ross Lake” fame), the first Euro-American, “came through” to the Stehekin Valley. He represented the Pacific Fur Company and was assigned the task of establishing a trade route in 1814 (even though one had existed for perhaps hundreds of years). I am writing about Stehekin as a kind of sequel to the story I wrote in the August issue of The Good Life about a daytrip my husband and I took from Chelan to Stehekin on the Lady Cat. After our day of exploring the Stehekin Valley and the time we spent with our new friend and Stehekin year-round resident, Krissa Jester (customer experience and public relations director for the Lake Chelan Boat Co.), we became obsessed with learning more about the history, culture and people of this remote community. I am indebted to Krissa for providing much of the information about the Courtney family, who are in their fourth generation of living and working in the Stehekin Valley. The questions that I kept pondering were: Who and why would people be motivated to settle and live in such an isolated place? When and how
The questions that I kept pondering were: Who and why would people be motivated to settle and live in such an isolated place? did Stehekin become what it is today? What entices 90-plus people to live there year-round? How does someone make a living when they are more or less disconnected from the rest of the modern world? What attributes are most important in a person’s character if they are to successfully make Stehekin their home? The Stehekin Guidebook 2020, a free publication we picked up in Stehekin, has been published every year since 1987, and it was a great place to begin to answer my questions. As I read through the introduction, I began to visualize a parade of interesting, motivated people making their way to, or through the Stehekin Valley. After the original indigenous people, surveyors from the railroad and the U.S. Army came through charting possible routes over the Cascades. They were followed by trappers, selling their furs to companies such as Ross’s Pacific Fur Company. Behind them in the parade came miners and prospectors in the 1850s looking for gold, silver, lead and copper ore, and other precious minerals. Some of them staked claims and were success-
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The Stehekin River flowing into Lake Chelan, the Lake’s headwaters.
ful. Some failed to make a profit, and a few made their fortunes. Stehekin became the central hub between the mining claims and the town of Chelan. Early adventurous tourists began to discover the area when innkeepers welcomed them to come stay at places like the elegant Field Hotel. Finally, there came the homesteaders. Prospector William Buzzard sold land to Harry Buckner who planted a commercial apple orchard that proved successful in the 1920s, ’30s and beyond. This orchard is now an historic landmark. There is a charming trail we took that leads from the main road (near Rainbow Falls) and
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follows the original hand-dug irrigation canal that provides water to the orchard. The trail rambles through the forest with small bridges crossing back and forth, until you arrive at the orchard itself. If you can walk a mile (without elevation gain) you would enjoy this unique, picturesque walk. Other people settled in the Valley as the 20th Century progressed. Ray Courtney grew up in Stehekin and decided to stay there. He purchased 20 acres of land in the 1940s and lead packing treks into the mountains. Some of this land includes the present-day Stehekin Valley Ranch, which was started by his son Cliff Courtney in 1983
The Courtney cabin where Ray and Esther raised five sons.
The dining room at Stehekin Valley Ranch.
The historic Buckner Orchard, planted 100 years ago.
as a full-service base camp for these expeditions. Ray and his wife Esther raised five sons in a
tiny cabin, but when Esther was pregnant with their sixth child (a daughter this time) she in-
sisted on larger living quarters, so they built a lovely log home. Esther served as the cook on many treks into the high country (known as “Hike It and Like It” trips) where visitors explored the North Cascades. Today Ray and Esther’s sons, their wives, some of their grandchildren, and even some of their great-grandchildren, provide the business backbone of the Stehekin community. Cliff and Kerry Courtney are the proprietors of the Stehekin Valley Ranch; Cragg and Roberta Courtney own the Stehekin Pastry Company, Stehekin Outfitters, and an excavation busi-
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ness; Reed Courtney took over the Mountain Barge Company from his father, Tom Courtney, and is one of the owners of the Lake Chelan Boat Co.; Mark Courtney provides carpentry services throughout the valley; Jim Courtney works along with his nephew Reed on the Lake Chelan Boat Company and Barge Service; and the Stehekin Ferry is run by grandsons Logan and Colter Courtney. What a legacy the Courtney family has built in this Valley. Going back to 1921 for a moment, a one-room schoolhouse was built for grades one through
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The majestic North Cascades, as seen from Buckner Orchard.
Stehekin }}} Continued from previous page eight to serve the resident families. After 68 years, a new building was planned on a different site. It was completed in 1988. Ron Scutt was the Stehekin teacher for 40 years until his retirement. Liz Courtney (wife of Tom Courtney) now carries on where he left off, providing a unique environmental education that emphasizes physical and artistic activities along with academics for students in grades K-8. Both the Old Schoolhouse and the new one are on the main road. That brings me to the questions that interest me the most: How do people make a living here? Obviously, the Courtney family helps with many employment opportunities. Quite a number of the residents work for the National Park Service (at least part-time). The hospitality industry thrives, especially late spring through early fall. Artisan arts and crafts that are created locally are a source of income for the artists who call Stehekin their home. The why is less straightforward and has to do with what character traits are most impor-
tant for the year-round residents to possess. Living here requires the ability to plan ahead for provisions, manage without an on-site auto mechanic, doctor, dentist, or plumber. Residents must be self-sufficient and less dependent on technology than most of the rest of us, and they seem to crave the freedom that comes from that self-sufficiency. It calls for people with a desire for less chaos in their lives and more peace and solitude. The people who make their home here are willing to trade convenience and connectedness for a simpler, quieter life with fewer 21st Century stresses. The reward they receive for living in this out-of-the-way place is the daily inspiration of being in a place that has 2.5 million acres of federally protected wilderness as their backyard. These determined inhabitants do not see Stehekin as “a way through” but as a destination for a quality life. Linda and Ken make their home in East Wenatchee where Linda writes about travel in NCW and beyond, and Ken documents it through his photos.
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fun stuff what to do around here for the next month We want to know of fun and interesting local events. Send info to: donna@ncwgoodlife.com
Due to the coronavirus, the order for social distancing and other measures in effect to prevent the spread of the virus, very few items are confirmed for the calendar. We hope to be back soon with lots of fun stuff to do around the area. Please check events for cancellation. Leavenworth Community Farmers Market, Thursdays, 4 – 8 p.m. Local eggs, meats, cheeses and bread, fruits, prepared foods, local crafts and more. Alpine Lakes Elementary School. Info: leavenworthfarmersmarket.org. Village Art in the Park, Thursday, Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays 9 a.m. – 6 p.m. Outdoor village art show sponsored by local non-profit organization provides
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scholarships for art education using a venue that supports amateur and professional artists. Downtown Leavenworth. Cost: free. Info: villageartinthepark.org. Chelan Evening Farmers Market, Thursdays, 4 – 7 p.m. Over 20 vendors, many certified organic will sell tomatoes, peppers, herbs, plums, peaches, cherries, apples, lavender and other flowers, gooseberries, currants and wool. Riverwalk Park. Wenatchee Valley Farmers Market, Saturdays, 8 a.m. – 1 p.m. Plant starts, early produce, cut flowers, baked goods and more. West parking lot of Pybus Public Market. Cost: free. Quincy Farmers Market, Saturdays, 9 – 1. Quincy Valley Museum grounds. Music Under the Stars Dinner Show, 9/4, 5 – 9 p.m. Special dinner menu, including wood-fired pizza, wine and dessert. Live music featuring BroHamM. Siren Song Winery, Chelan. Reserve: sirensongwines.com.
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WHAT TO DO
We want to know of fun and interesting local events. Send info to: donna@ncwgoodlife.com
PET tales
Tells us a story about your pet. Submit pet & owner pictures to: editor@ncwgoodlife.com
Sleeping lady bird walk, 9/5, 19, 8 -9:30 a.m. Enjoy morning bird walks with leader Heather Murphy, a local wildlife biologist, nature journalist and artist. Meet at the gazebo in the organic garden at Sleeping Lady. Bring your binoculars for a full hour and a half walk. Cost: free. Info: sleepinglady.com or 548-6344. U-Pick flowers, 9/7, 14, 21, 28, 8:30 -10:30 a.m. Walk the flower farm and pick your own creation to bring home to enjoy. Choose from an array of colors and flower varieties. Bring your clippers, mask and vase/bucket. RSVP: chelanvalleyfarms.com. Music Under the Stars Dinner Show, 9/5, 5 – 9 p.m. Special dinner menu, including wood-fired pizza, wine and dessert. Live music featuring Kevin Jones Band. Siren Song Winery, Chelan. Reserve: sirensongwines.com. Bike 2 Thrive, 9/12, 9 a.m. – 2 p.m. Individuals and families are invited to bike or walk on the Apple Capitol Recreation Loop Trail. Register as an individual or as a team, get pledges and join us for a day of fun. Honor social distancing and bring a mask. Start at Walla Walla Point Park. Cost: $5 family or $25. Birding Monitoring at Mountain Home Preserve, 9/24, 7 :30– 11 a.m. Would you like to spend a weekday morning hiking, viewing wildlife, wildflowers and snow-capped mountains, while being part of a small team collecting bird species data? Learn more about becoming a CDLT citizen scientist volunteer by contacting Susan Ballinger at susan@cdlantrust.org or 667-9708. Wellness Place Gala Auction (Virtual), 9/26, 6:30 p.m. Join auctioneer Cody Hodge and Wellness Place Executive Director Julie Lindholm for a live-streaming evening of fun. A live online auction with items and experiences, along with messages from our cancer warriors. Bid on silent online auction items, opening Saturday, 9/19 and bid a whole week. Registration to bid is free. Info: cancersupportncw.org or 888-9933.
Wrenna Davidson: Kitten fosterer.
for adoption through WVHS this month. — Wrenna Davidson
Here’s an update on Wood-
stock. (See the story, “Fostering Kittens” in the August issue.) Miss Woodstock is sitting pretty these days after overcoming the ravages of ringworm. Woodstock was part of a litter of seven kittens rescued in May by Animal Control and brought to the Wenatchee Valley Humane Society. I brought this litter of hungry, dirty, four-week-old kittens home to foster for three weeks, until they were strong enough to move into the shelter’s ringworm treatment unit. Woodstock was shrunken and near-death on arrival, but she responded to care and it was clear that she was a fighter. Treatment at the shelter proved too stressful for her, though, and once again she came into foster care neardeath. Being able to administer subcutaneous fluids and provide care around the clock saved
Woodstock, and illustrates the value foster care brings to the shelter. Today, Miss Woodstock is a healthy, vibrant, active kitten who will soon be looking for a forever home to share with her sister, Sally. The Peanuts Comic litter also includes Charlie, Snoopy, Linus, Rerun, and Schroeder. All of these sweet kittens have undergone many weeks of ringworm treatment and will be available
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A rear outdoor alcove was designed for spending evenings swimming under the lights and sitting by the fireplace. Photos by Sky’s Edge
Industrial Craftsman With a salute to the family’s racing passion
Veteran Wenatchee Valley builder Mike
Roberts likes to be known for his custom touches and ability to think a little differently style-wise when it comes to his homes. So, perhaps it’s no surprise that when it came to building his own home in East Wenatchee, he took advantage of a pieshaped lot to create a spacious and comfortable rambler with character and curb
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The Industrial Craftsman Mike Roberts home glows in the early evening. | The Good Life
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The living room’s ceiling accent is a trayed ceiling with X beams. Large bookshelves flank the fireplace of natural stone from Canada.
Design elements in the black cabinetry-dominated kitchen include matte black steering wheel and R 125 engine modified for kart racing.
appeal. Oh, and he has included race cars, motorcycles and motors
as decor pieces — including parking a race car in his office, paying homage to the impact
the Roberts family has had on the racing world in the Pacific Northwest.
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Mike’s father, Joe, instilled the racing addiction in the family, with his desire to win, his desire to go fast and his desire to be the best. Joe is in the Hall of Fame at Wenatchee Valley Super Oval and between both Mike and Joe, they have held numerous championships and track records. Mike started racing motocross at age 4. He continued racing with shifter karts and then oval track asphalt racing. “He has traveled all over the PNW and surrounding areas, setting track records at almost every track he raced at, along with winning countless numbers of races and championships,” said Mac, who is Mike’s daughter and works for him on project management and design. Mac is following the family racing tradition as she has started racing Legend Cars. She had planned to head to Legend Nationals in Las Vegas this October but COVID-19
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The master bath includes separated bathroom vanities. The walk-through shower has a dual zone shower head plus a shower head from ceiling.
Industrial Craftsman }}} Continued from previous page
An abundance of natural light floods the entry way, decorated with surfboards from Huntington Beach, California, and Mike’s race helmets.
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pushed that plan to next year. When it comes to building, “Mike wants people to walk into a house and see things that no one else has done. Being unique and thinking out of the box is his niche,” said Mac, who is also a licensed real estate agent in the Valley with Premier One Properties. The home, in the gated community of The Braeburn Reserve in East Wenatchee, can be described as Industrial Craftsman. Contained in the 2,300 square feet are four bedrooms, three baths, an office and oversized three-car garage. Special features include outdoor entertaining with pool and string lighting. Inside, dark colors are ac-
“Mike’s next venture is already underway with a new neighborhood community development — Swift Springs — in cented with browns Wenatchee and metal details. where he Ceilings also have will be distinctive accents, a bringing in feature Mike considnew styles ers part of his style. to the valThe house, comley,” said plete in the spring of Mac. this year, will now be He plans one of nine featured 69 homes homes in the first ever with InSangster Motors and A Beast Pavement Open Wheeled Sprint Car takes a prominent place in the office, along with Joe Roberts’ and dustrial BNCW Virtual Tour of Mike Roberts’ framed driving suits and a wall of custom guitars. Craftsman/ Homes and RemodelModern designs at the top of ing Expo slated for Nov 9 - 15. Springwater Street and the For more information, log onto corner of Woodward Avenue, BuildingNCW.org. butting up next to the east Mike laid out the home on the side of the canal. v-shaped lot — pointing east
“...for this home he has decided to plant roots for a little longer than normal.”
and tucked in the corner of the neighborhood — to allow for a backyard facing away from the afternoon sun, and to get sunrises over Badger Mountain. “Mike’s vision was an eastfacing backyard entertaining space — and to be set back from the street,” said Mac. “Typically,” she added, “Mike’s personal homes are sold prior to listing due to the desires of the buyers wanting his home. “He has had numerous inquiries to purchase his current home. Interested parties will drive up to the house and call him immediately to buy it. However, for this home he has decided to plant roots for a little longer than normal.” Mike has been building in the valley for 20 years. His father, Joe, built in the valley for 20 years prior to Mike taking over the company. Joe now runs the excavation equipment for the business. Including Mac, Roberts Construction is a three generation, family-ran company.
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The Roberts, a racing family: Mike, Mac and Joe.
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4968 Contractors Drive East Wenatchee, WA 98802 RESIDENTIAL • COMMERCIAL • INDUSTRIAL • AGRICULTURAL September 2020 | The Good Life
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>>
column THE TRAVELing DOCTOR
Do unto others Many of you, I suspect like
me, have been shocked or at least surprised by the racial divisiveness that has become more apparent in our country. I decided to share some of my thoughts and experiences with race in my lifetime. I was quite isolated from these issues growing up in the ’40s and ’50s in Sioux Falls, SD, which I suspect was one of the whitest states in our country. There were Native Americans, but they were primarily on reservations west of the Missouri River that divided the state in half. These native people were basically out of sight and out of mind to most of us. My high school was the largest one in the state with about 2,000 students, which included only one Black person. I now regret not getting to know him more than I did. When I went to college at the University of Nebraska, there were few Black or Brown students. It seemed to me the few blacks were basketball players, and we had little contact with them. In fact it wasn’t until 1947, when the Nebraska student council voted to have the University pull out of the Big 6 conference unless they eliminated the color line for all athletes that changes started. In 1951 Charles Bryant walked on to become the first four-year letterman of color in Nebraska football. I also remember clearly seeing Prentice Gautt, who was Black and the first Black to play football on scholarship at the University of Oklahoma in 1956, his and my freshman year. He was a trailblazer in many ways. After an Oklahoma game in Tulsa on their way home, the team stopped at a diner to eat. The owner told Prentice he
would have to eat alone in the basement because of his color. Prentice left and went back to the bus. As he got on the bus the entire team had followed him and said if he couldn’t eat, then none of them would eat. Pentice went on to star at Oklahoma and later in the NFL for seven years. After that, he returned to college at the University of Missouri and graduated with a PhD in Psychology. When I entered medical school as a freshman at Northwestern University in Chicago, our class had 128 students, which included seven females, three Asians and one Black. The current medical school class there now has 159 students chosen form 6,878 applicants and includes 83 female. Of this class, there are 66 whites, 58 Asian, 22 Hispanics and 13 African Americans. Lynn and I married as soon as she graduated from college at the University of Nebraska and I was starting my junior year in med school. We rented an apartment in south Chicago, which was not only 50-50 percent integrated but was also half the price of apartments in north Chicago. Lynn fortunately was hired by the American Medical Association to be a graphic designer. Every morning she took a bus at 6:30 to head north to work. She was often the only white person boarding the bus. The rest were Black females heading north to service jobs cleaning houses, apartments and offices. I headed either to the medical school or to one of it’s affiliated hospitals. I spent a lot of time at Cook County Hospital, a public hospital built in 1912, which at its peak had 4,500 beds and 100,000 admissions annually and was one of the largest hospi-
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jim brown, m.d.
tals in the world. When I was there, nearly all the patients were poor, low income and predominantly Black. As a junior in medical school, two of us would be assigned to night duty in a ward with about 40 patients. We admitted the new patients and tried to figure out what they had wrong and what to do about it. We were truly green novices. Fortunately, we had an intern above us who had received his or her MD degree, and if he or she was stumped, a resident physician could be called. In our eyes that person had to know everything by then. I will never forget the day a nurse gave me a card from one of the patients who had just been discharged. It was a note to me thanking me for my care and enclosed in it was a $5 bill. This brought tears to my eyes knowing how little these patients had. He had left before I could thank him, but I still have that card as a reminder of why I went into medicine. Chicago is very hot in the summer. One August day, I got home early and since we were about four blocks from Lake Michigan I just had to go to the lake to swim to cool off. When I got there, there were hundreds of people sunning and swimming, all were Black. I was undoubtedly the whitest human they had ever seen. No one said a thing to me, and I was grateful for that. I had a glimpse of what it might be for them when our roles were reversed. I remember vividly my thoughts when I was on a surgical rotation, and we were operating on a Black patient. What struck me as we were cutting through the skin was the extremely microscopic layer of melanocytes that produce the
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melanin to color our skin, which was the only thing anatomically different from that patient and myself. The melanin produced is there to protect the skin from the dangers of the sun, obviously more important for people originating in hot, sunny areas like Africa. One microscopic layer — it is hard to understand how this layer of cells is the root of much of our racism. Other than that layer, anatomically we are one and the same. Having spent time in Mexico annually for over 20 years, or doing medical work in Guatemala, as well as in a Cambodian refugee camp on the Thailand border, I have become more and more aware of what we have in common rather than what separates us. We all have the same hopes, dreams, and desires. The “One” that I follow said, “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.” I think we are all on this journey together. Rather than shame those who seem different from us, we should seek solidarity with each other. The better we know each other, the more alike we realize we are. The more we understand each other, the more we will look at each other with eyes of compassion, which can lead to love, and we can help relieve the sufferings of our fellow human beings. Jim Brown, M.D., is a retired gastroenterologist who has practiced for 38 years in the Wenatchee area. He is a former CEO of the Wenatchee Valley Medical Center.
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column moving up to the good life
june darling
How you ‘see’ affects how you think Big philosophical questions
whiz around in my brain — what is true, what is fair? You might be wondering what prompts this deep state of pondering. You might be assuming it is being provoked by the pandemic, politics, economics, or protests, but no. More surely it is caused by hanging out this summer with our grandkids. Having to mediate, arbitrate, lay down the law, defend my rulings, have caused me to seriously think about different perspectives. “Eli just hit me in the eye.” I am indignant as I notice the pain on Sophia’s face. I rush outside to mete out justice to the little rascal. Luckily, I asked a few questions first. “Eli, did you hit Sophia?” “Yes.” “Why?” “She was messing with me.” “Messing with you how?” “She dumped sand and water on my head.” Tight-lipped and narrow-eyed, I look back at Sophia who seems to be searching for a counter response. That is when I realize the truth… is not so simple. That is when I come to terms with the nuances of crime and punishment. My initial reaction — to send Eli to his room, no longer seems appropriate. For some time now, like 45plus years — since I have been married to my husband, John — I have understood that people can see things differently and can literally see different things. This situation can lead to all sorts of confusion, even downright ungenerous assumptions. Sometimes our different ways
Understanding that we have different ways of seeing the world — embracing the complexity, helps me be a better grandparent... of seeing the world provokes hostile ways of being with each other. One of my most vivid stories happened early in our relationship. We happened to be in Chicago and were taking a walk around Lake Michigan. I noticed a young couple walking by holding hands. They passed us twice. It made me smile. The way they looked so adoringly at each other, I imagined they might be on their honeymoon. Later when we got back to our hotel, we discussed our walk, I mentioned the lovers. John looked puzzled. He had not seen them. The romantic in me was crushed and started making up rather villainous stories about this man I had married not so long ago. After a pause, John said, “I must have been looking at the ship when they passed.” You know where this is going. “What ship?” I asked. John was shocked, “June,” he said. “A ship is a big thing, a very big thing! There was a very big ship docked there.” (I have decided that it is better that I do not know exactly what he was thinking about me at that moment.) Why we pay attention differently continues to be studied by
researchers in cognition. All sorts of things affect our perspective, how we pay attention, and what we pay attention to — our past experiences, our interests, our values, our biases, our personalities, our roles and positions in life, even our moods. In a perfect world, these differences could lead us into delightful encounters and collaborations. More often it erupts into conflict about what’s true, what’s right, and what’s fair. When my children were small and “got into it” in a big way, we had a conflict protocol. They each sat in a chair and told their own side of the story. Then after listening to each other’s side, they switched places and told the story from their brother’s point of view. This exercise worked well mostly because they hated having to listen to their brother’s perspective. Afterwards, we discussed what outcomes or consequences seemed fair. It could be a loooong process. I doubt I would be telling you anything new if I mention how difficult it is to have kids and adults, who see things differently, agree on what is fair. And this leads us back to the Sophia and Eli’s situation. She, Sophia, “messed with him,” that is, she poured water and sand on Eli. Therefore, it seemed only fair to Eli that he was justified in hitting her in the eye. To Sophia, being hit in the eye was extreme and seriously harmful whereas a little sand and water on the head, is all good fun. What I have learned as this summer comes to an end? Life, truth, fairness. It’s com-
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plicated. That may seem like a pathetically paltry punchline. However, it could save us all a lot of anguish and usher in a lot of wisdom if we took that concept to heart. How do I put this messiness into practice? “Slow down, be patient, be curious, ask, listen, don’t make assumptions, look for and acknowledge the different points of view,” I internally whisper to prepare myself for dealing wisely with my grandchildren. “Remember the research, the tools, your ‘aha’ moments.” Understanding that we have different ways of seeing the world — embracing the complexity, helps me be a better grandparent and … could be quite handy out in the big world of pandemics and politics too. How might you move up to the good life by learning to deal wisely with the complexity of different perspectives? June Darling, Ph.D. can be contacted at drjunedarling1@gmail.com; website: www.summitgroupresources. com. Her bio and many of her books can be found at amazon.com/author/ junedarling.
What Are You Laughing At? We’re looking for fresh, true stories from local people that’ll bring a chuckle to our readers.
Limit yourself to 500 to 1,000 words and send to: editor@ncwgoodlife.com
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column those were the days
rod molzahn
Dr. J.I. Pogue – Renaissance Man In January of 1888, Dr. Joseph
Pogue ordered apple tree whips from the Atlantic Nursery in Iowa. They were shipped by train to Spokane then loaded on wagons for the trip across the Big Bend to Wilbur. They crossed the Columbia on the Condon Ferry then followed the right bank of the Columbia to the Okanogan River where they ferried the Okanogan then up to Pogue Flat and delivered to the Pogue ranch. When they arrived they were frozen solid. Dr. Pogue buried the starts in a trench dug into unfrozen ground where a haystack had just been removed. During the next months they slowly thawed out and, as spring was beginning, they were planted. Every tree survived to mark the beginning of what became the 60-acre Pogue Orchard. Dr. J.I. Pogue was an innovator and problem solver. In May of 1888 he, his brother and two neighbors completed a 3.5-mile ditch and flume system to bring water from Salmon Creek to their ranches on Pogue Flat. The ditch was described as a visionary project that most people believed could not be done. The ditch turned Pogue Flat, the largest kame terrace in Okanogan County, “from a barren waste into a Garden of Eden.” Two years earlier Dr. Pogue loaded belongings, 11 head of horses, two dogs and a cat onto an emigrant rail car in Iowa for a two-week trip to Tacoma. It was the spring of 1886 and the doctor had given up his medical practice in Iowa to go west and become a farmer. It didn’t take long for Dr. Pogue to conclude that the coast was not a place for stock-raising.
TOP: The Pogue family at their home. BOTTOM: From left, Dr. Joseph Pogue, daughters Grace and Leta, and wife Marion.
He headed off with John Campbell driving cattle to the Okanogan Valley, a place Campbell spoke highly of. Once there the doctor was impressed, especially with the potential for bringing water to the terrace Campbell showed him. Pogue returned to Iowa for his wife, Marion, and their daughters and sent his brother, John, to the Okanogan to lo-
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cate claims on the kame terrace for the brothers and for their mother. John Pogue staked out the claims in the spring of 1887. In November, Dr. Pogue and the family arrived. Though he had given up his practice, Pogue quickly realized that he was the only doctor in the central part of Okanogan County, a distinction he held until 1905. H.C. Richardson had taken
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September 2020
a squatter’s claim on the terrace in 1886 and begun work on an irrigation ditch from Salmon Creek. Dr. Pogue convinced Richardson to make some design changes in the ditch then the Pogue brothers along with a new settler, Victor Ruffenach, joined the efforts. Irrigation water began flowing May 12, 1888 just in time for Dr. Pogue’s freshly planted, thawed out trees. Dr. Pogue’s first task after the family arrived was a house. With the help of his brother, who had already hauled logs, the family soon moved into a tworoom cabin. The next year the doctor brought lumber from a Conconully mill to add a parlor to the cabin. The hard winter of 1889/90 turned the parlor into a lifesaving stable for the family milk cow. When the winter struck, Dr. Pogue’s 150 well-bred Hambletonian horses had no shelter. As horses died, Dr. Pogue salted their meat and fed it to still living animals. He also fed them his own concoction of boiled potatoes, bran and flour. A third of the horses survived the winter, a good result compared to other farmers who lost entire herds of livestock. By 1894 the Pogue Orchard
was bearing fruit and the doctor was looking for a faster way to handle the wooden apple boxes that were industry standard in orchards across Washington’s fruit growing regions. He invented a lidding and stamping press to speed up the operation. “As each box emerged from a sorting and packing line, it was placed in Dr. Pogue’s press whereupon an operator, with the least number of movements, could position a lid, attach it with eight nails and stamp the size and grade of the fruit on the lid.” It quickly became the most popular lidding machine in use in the state. That same year, Joseph and Marion Pogue were instrumental in organizing the first church service in the area when Dr. Pogue met a young Canadian reverend at Conconully and convinced him to hold a service in the town of Clover, just west of Alma. Sixty people gathered for the service. The Pogues were late. They were still out drumming up a congregation. Dr. Pogue was always a believer in community service, a backer of agriculture, (he introduced a new variety of Yellow Dent corn from Illinois that yielded 100 bushels an acre) and a strong supporter of schools. His first involvement in politics came in 1892 when he was elected to serve as a county commissioner. In 1903 he was elected Okanogan County representative to the state legislature where, in support of cattle ranchers, he proposed anti-sheep measures including a prohibition of sheep herding within two miles of any dwelling. Though the bills had support they did not survive the legislative process. He had better luck in 1905 when he became a senator. Pogue was “the father of the fish screen bill.” The successful legislation attacked a problem that is still being addressed. Pogue’s bill required irrigation ditches,
including his own on Pogue Flat, to be screened to prevent the great loss of fish happening in unscreened ditches. That same year, a group of citizens in the town of Alma in the valley below the south end of Pogue Flat determined to honor Dr. Pogue for his many contributions to the town and community. They changed the town’s name from Alma to Pogue. Dr. Pogue was pleased, but not for long. Another group of citizens strongly objected and forced a vote on the question. The result dropped both the names Alma and Pogue and named the town Okanogan. Dr. Pogue was not pleased. In response he encouraged his friend, Ben Ross, a surveyor with a homestead several miles north of the town of many names, to plat a new town below the north end of Pogue Flat. It would compete with Okanogan for population and economic development. Ben Ross liked the idea and the town of Omak was born. The fruit from the Pogue Orchard had always been popular with local people, but with his crop increasing he needed to expand his market. In June of 1913 he loaded a railcar of Ben Davis apples onto the steamboat Okanogan. In Wenatchee they boarded a Great Northern train bound for Seattle. The exporting of Okanogan Valley fruit grew quickly after the Great Northern line from Wenatchee to Oroville was complete. In 1914, 20 carloads left the Okanogan. The next year the number rose to 200 carloads. Dr. Pogue’s vision for the valley had become reality. Historian, actor and teacher Rod Molzahn can be reached at shake. speak@nwi.net. His third history CD, Legends & Legacies Vol. III - Stories of Wenatchee and North Central Washington, is now available at the Wenatchee Valley Museum and Cultural Center and at other locations throughout the area. September 2020 | The Good Life
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Unexpected $$$ By Darlene Matule
As a writer, I have to admit
some of my best ideas come from surprising sources. Like my husband… My Facebook likes include pretty shoes, Norwegian travel ideas, and Blue Bloods tidbits. Steve gets posts from Florida Crazies. In mid-February, I made a casual comment, “Can’t believe I got our IRS refund already.” “Great,” he answered. “When are they delivering that brightred BMW you’ve been wanting?” “This year’s check didn’t have enough zeros,” I whined. “Better check again. I just read about a guy in Florida who got a refund of $198,000 when he was expecting $1,980.00. He cashed it right away — no problem.” “How long did it take them to catch him after they figured the mistake?” I asked. “Well...” “Steve, don’t you remember what happened when my mother got her big check?” We spent an entire afternoon remembering. It was spring 1959. Our daughter, Michele, had just turned two — we’d moved into a brand new 1,535-square-foot brick house. My phone rang. “Darlene, you have to come over! Right now!” my mother
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yelled. “Mother,” I said, “You live a mile and a half away. I just put Michele down for her nap. You know I don’t have a car. I’ll have to wait until Steve gets home from work. Where’s Daddy?” “Why, he’s right here. But we’re scared to leave the house. You have to come!” What did she expect me to do? Wake Michele up? Push a crying, squirming baby in the piece of junk they called a stroller (no safety features in 1959) up the street? For heaven’s sake, they had an almost new Buick parked in their driveway. “Well, you can either drive here,” I said. “Or wait until after five.” Ten minutes later, I looked out my kitchen window. Saw my mother run up our sidewalk, onto my porch, and, without knocking, rush into my dining room, and throw her suitcasesized handbag into the middle of the table. “Look!” she shouted. “Look at what? Your junk? Come on, Mother, sit down and tell me what this is all about.” I wanted to ask, “Is there a bomb in there or what?” But knew my mother wouldn’t recognize sarcasm if it hit her in the face. She unzipped the black monstrosity she called a purse and
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dumped everything out. Used Kleenexes. A bill from Washington Water Power. A bottle of Miracle Grow for African violets. Etc., etc., etc. By the time Daddy joined us — he was walking at a normal pace — she was waving what looked like a check back and forth as if she were waving a flag on the Fourth of July. “See this?” she demanded. I looked. Saw a check from Lincoln Savings and Loan. Made out to Marie and Odin Barnes. In the amount of $26,048.99. That got my attention. Questions popped out of my mother’s mouth as if it were Pandora’s Box. “Should we hurry over to the Old National Bank? Get it cashed before they change their mind? “If I get it cashed, should it be in $100 bills? Fifties? “Do I need to hide the cash? In a coffee can in a hole in the backyard?” She paused. “No, I’ll just stash it in the freezer. Under a flank steak.” I rolled my eyes. “Now, Marie…” Daddy said. My mother ignored my father. “Maybe we should get a new car. New furniture. Move closer to Darlene.” “Maybe we should put it in a savings account,” Daddy said.
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“STOP!” I interjected. “I can’t imagine why they sent this to you. You got the money for the apartment you sold six Darlene Matule is months ago. a local writer living in Wenatchee. Nobody owes you anything. “For heaven’s sake. It’s $10,000 more than we just paid for this brand new, three-bedroom, twobathroom house. “We’re going downtown. There’s something fishy about this.” The V.P. at Lincoln Savings and Loan thanked us profusely. “So sorry. This check was an automated accounting error. I apologize. These new-fangled gadgets are giving us fits. We knew the check was generated. No idea it got mailed.” The bank was very nice. They sent my mother home with not just one, but two Gifts of the Month — an aqua plastic portable radio and a 3X 12 DIAL-AMATIC adding machine. Years later, when my mother was in her 80s, when shopping at the mall, she found a pair of earrings. Earrings that cost $299. I gasped. “Mother, you can’t afford them!” “Well,” she huffed, “I would have…” I waited for what I knew was coming. I’d heard this complaint a hundred times. “But you don’t care. You made me give that big check back.” I rolled my eyes. One more time. Got a good story to tell? email: editor@ncwgoodlife.com
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