Our Valley 2017 by Rosebud Media

Our Valley April 30, 2017

TRAGEDIES & TRIUMPHS Exploring tales of locals who have risen to great heights or suffered devastating tragedies and rebounded

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ong before you experience pain, decay can be stealthily damaging your teeth.

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“Once I got the microscope, the difference in my ability to treat patients was like night and day,” he says. “It was like turning the lights on in a room rather than feeling around. I decided I had to use it for all assessments and treatments for our patients.” As the technology improves, Linstrom is constantly updating. He recently brought in new equipment that substantially increases the optics power and provides real-time imagery to allow patients to clearly view exactly what he sees through the microscope as he works. “The patients see what we see in real time and in very clear definition,” Linstrom says. “Sharing this perspective is important because what we see is transparent to the patient.” In addition to being able to witness their treatment on screen, patients have privacy at Exceptional Dentistry, which has individual exam rooms. The office cultivates a relaxing atmosphere for all. Linstom also praises his dental team. “We have the best staff in town,” he says. “I hear that from patients almost daily. We’ve been very selective and have an incredible group of employees working as a cohesive team.”

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Tragedies & Triumphs Inside Our Valley 2017 By DAVID SMIGELSKI Mail Tribune

rian Smith was dying. More than 20,000 feet up the slopes of Mount Everest, he was suffering from high altitude pulmonary edema — literally drowning as his lungs rebelled against his efforts to summit the world’s tallest mountain. No one would ever think less of him for heeding the advice of his guides and descending the mountain. There is no shame in trying and failing. The only real failure is never trying.

Brian Smith turned tragedy into triumph when he recovered from altitude sickness and then summited Mount Everest. [COURTESY phOTO]

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Smith returned to the base of the mountain, but he didn’t fly back to his home in Southern Oregon. He stayed focused. He rested. Let his body heal. And then he headed back up the mountain. It might be more accurate to say he “charged” back up. And on March 24, 2007, he stood on the pinnacle of the planet. Brian Smith is a living metaphor for all of us who will inevitably fall. And for some, an example of how to get back up. This issue of Our Valley is about people in the Rogue Valley who have stood back up when they could, and about a few who were taken too soon. It’s about some of the region’s greatest tragedies, including floods, fires and death. But it is also about people who have risen to great heights, sometimes triumphing over devastating adversity to do so — people such as Tiffany O’Donnell, who was principal of Shady Cove and Elk Trail schools in 2010 when a pickup truck smashed into her Suzuki motorcycle on Highway 62 near Trail. She suffered a gruesome list of injuries, and doctors thought if she survived, she might lose her right leg. Didn’t happen. Six surgeries later, she took her first step. After six months, she was back on her horse. In 2013, she was hired as principal of Oakridge Elementary in Oakridge. And last winter she did something that surprised even her: She went skiing at Willamette Pass Resort. “I can’t believe that I was able to ski,” she says. “If you just apply yourself, like it’s your most important job every day, it pays off.” Sometimes it’s not the person who gets hurt who has to look forward and apply themselves every day, it’s the people who are left behind — people like Sicily Morris and her three children. Sicily’s husband, Todd Morris, was a contract Forest Service worker who went missing during a snowstorm in the Kalmiopsis Wilderness in 2002. Searchand-rescue crews spent nearly three weeks looking for him before his body was found on Valentine’s Day. Sicily was 25, a mother of two and pregnant with Todd’s son, Logan. “We had all of these hopes and dreams,” Sicily Morris says. “Then all of a sudden, he was gone.” Sicily admits she was a wreck at the time, but she pulled herself together. She’s been a licensed addiction counselor since 2011,

Callahan’s Lodge was rebuilt after a 2006 fire and this year celebrated its 70th anniversary. [MaiL Tribune/fiLe phoTo]

and in 2016 she got her master’s degree from Montana State University. Her eldest daughter, Helena, graduated from Montana State last year. Daughter Lily is a sophomore in high school carrying a 4.5 grade point average. And Logan, now 14, is a typical teen with interests such as sports and cars. It’s a success story, but at its core, it’s a story of life. Because that’s what happens in life. People die. Families pull together. Survivors move forward. They rebuild. The Rogue Valley is full of examples of people rebuilding — and we mean that literally. Who knows more about rebuilding than Bob Russell, who lost his wife, Debbie, to cancer in 2015, and then, on Christmas Day of the same year, watched as the historic Butte Creek Mill they owned burned to the ground? The owners of Callahan’s Lodge up on Mount Ashland sure know about rebuilding after watching the local landmark reduced to ashes during Labor Day weekend in 2006. They helped celebrate the lodge’s 70th anniversary last month. An entire community in Ashland had to learn about rising from the ashes when fire swept through the Oak Knoll neighborhood in 2010, taking 11 houses. And communities throughout the valley have had to rebuild time and again after devastating floods in 1964, 1974, 1997 and other years.

This issue of Our Valley isn’t all about tragedies. Inside you’ll find stories of people who have achieved great things, such as Medford High School graduate Bill Bowerman, who went on to become the winningest track-and-field coach in history at the University of Oregon — and that was before he became co-founder of Nike. Marshall Holman is another Medford native who rose to the top of his world, eventually being inducted into the Professional Bowlers Association Hall of Fame. And Pear Blossom legend Max King is still kicking up his heels, adding to his long list of running achievements as he continues to leave runners in the dust all over the world. But greatness isn’t always measured by championship trophies and gold rings. Sometimes it’s tallied by the willingness to work hard, dream big, take care of your family and contribute to your community. That pretty much describes Guillermo Sanchez, who went to Habitat for Humanity when his sons needed a roof over their heads in 2010. Three years later, Sanchez went from being a restaurant cook to being a restaurant owner when he opened Memo’s Kitchen on Riverside Avenue in Medford. That’s how you make things happen. Reach Mail Tribune features editor David Smigelski at 541-776-8784 or dsmigelski@mailtribune.com.

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C o n t e n t s

Extreme skier Pep Fujas in Utah doing what he does. See page 84. [PhOTO By IAn COBlE]

Everest, conquered

11 homes lost

Brian Smith summited Mount Everest after almost dying from high altitude pulmonary edema.

A fast-moving fire consumed an entire neighborhood in just 45 minutes in Ashland in 2010, but the lessons learned — and being applied — may prevent similar tragedies in the future.

Political winners and losers

Living after loss

Out of the ashes

Still making gains

15 years after Todd Morris disappeared in the Kalmiopsis Wilderness, his widow, Sicily Morris, finds healing by helping others.

Efforts are still underway to rebuild the historic Butte Creek Mill in Eagle Point, a historical treasure lost to fire in 2015.

Seven years after a horrific motorcycle accident, former Shady Cove and Elk Trail schools Principal Tiffany O’Donnell is back at school.

A look at local politicians of note, including some who left us too soon, and one who didn’t leave soon enough.

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Our Valley editOr David Smigelski Mail tribune editOr Cathy Noah PhOtOgraPhers Jamie Lusch, Denise Baratta PrOductiOn suPerVisOr Bret Jackson cOntributing writers Vickie Aldous, Tammy Asnicar, Tony Boom, John Darling, Mark Freeman, Kris Henry, Sarah Lemon, Damian Mann, Nick Morgan, Ryan Pfeil, Greg Stiles, Teresa Thomas, Tim Trower

22 ‘No one’s invincible’ The mysterious death of local runner Todd Ragsdale has changed the way many trail runners approach their training.

46 First the house, then the kitchen The story of Guillermo Sanchez and his restaurant, Memo’s Kitchen, is a classic tale of the American Dream coming true. OU R VA L L EY

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Kim search drew national attention

The deluge

Witness to destruction

Stories of historic Rogue Valley floods reveal sharing and compassion.

Medford resident Dorothy Conner survived the sinking of the Lusitania.

Lost at sea

Buried, but alive

In the Biscuit fire’s wake

Jacksonville musician Bob Haworth recalls his near-death experience on the high seas.

Former Crater Lake park ranger Randy Benham led an avalanche rescue, founded a wildly successful company and then moved to the tropics.

The massive Biscuit fire darkened skies and choked Southern Oregon residents for months, but the halfmillion-acre conflagration ultimately benefited the forest, studies show.

The blast

Forged by fire

Thirteen people died and 125 were injured when a dynamite truck exploded in Roseburg in 1959.

The 1879 fire that tore through downtown Ashland changed the character of the town forever.

Architectural triumph with a checkered past

Legend of Dead Indian Memorial Road

Backcountry star

Still an icon

The story of why one of Oregon’s most beautiful roads has such a dark name.

Extreme skier Pep Fujas is known all over the world, but he started on the slopes of Mount Ashland.

After being leveled twice — once by dozers and once by fire — Callahan’s Siskiyou Lodge celebrated 70 years in March.

100

102

Healing journey

A hero to the end

A driving force

Paja Russell doesn’t hide from her self-inflicted scars, but uses them to help heal others.

Very few people — in fact, probably no one — ever saved more lives in Southern Oregon than Mercy Flights founder George E. Milligan.

Medford boy Bill Bowerman became one of the greatest names in the history of U.S. track and field.

People still talk about the harrowing ordeal of the four members of the Kim family who became lost in the mountains of Josephine County.

The Nunan House, a Jacksonville bed and breakfast, may finally have owners who can make the property prosper.

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58 Three gold stars of the Ashcraft family One family’s unimaginable sacrifice in service to their country is still remembered.

70 Architect of a dynasty Larry Binney was so good at coaching, they named a field after him.

80 Medford Meteor Marshall Holman took the bowling world by storm in 1970s and ‘80s, but his childhood friends weren’t surprised.

92 Max-imized Pear Blossom icon Max King overcomes setback, readies for a big 2017.

104 Forced removal The Rogue River Indian War led to the removal of most native people from Southern Oregon.

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Brian Smith celebrates his arrival at the summit of Mount Everest May 24, 2007. [COURTESY PHOTO]

E V E R E S T, CONQUERED Jacksonville native summited the tallest mountain in the world af ter almost dying from high altitude pulmonary edema By RYAN PFEIL | Mail Tribune BRIAN SMITH SAT IN DARKNESS GASPING FOR AIR, his lungs sounding like a bowl of milk-soaked Rice Krispies. In his tent on the slopes of Mount Everest, he felt like he was underwater, pressure and fluid strangling his airways. Pink froth spilled from his mouth. He passed out, his body quickly rousting him because of the lack of oxygen. The suffocating cycle continued: shudder awake, blood-tinted coughing fit, pass out, repeat.

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The symptoms pointed to high altitude pulmonary edema, spurred by the low oxygen and high pressure found at more than 20,000 feet elevation. “It’s one of those things they don’t totally understand,” Smith, 47, says from a chair in his Jacksonville home 10 years later. “Sometimes it’ll hit a world-class climber, and sometimes it will hit somebody going to Vail, Colorado, to go skiing.” The diagnosis would be more than enough for most people to abandon their quest to summit the world’s tallest mountain. But not Smith. He found a way to reach the top, and he lived to tell the tale.

Climbing Growing up, Crater Lake National Park was a second home for Smith. His father, Larry, was a park ranger, meaning summers were spent in the park. “We were free-range kids,” says Smith, a 1988 graduate of South Medford High School. “We went out in the morning and just had to be back by dark.” He explored the park’s valleys, waterfalls and hills. As he grew older, he would ride his bike around the rim and fish. In February 1988, Smith reached the

summit of his first mountain: Rainier. Then a senior at South Medford High School, he joined 25 other climbers, reaching the peak Feb. 4 while 50 mph winds punched and shoved him. “It was life-changing for sure,” Smith says. Other big-name summits followed: Baker, Shuksan, Glacier Peak, St. Helens, Shasta, Lassen, Garibaldi, Adams, Aconcagua in Argentina, Popocatépetl, Iztaccihuatl and Pico de Orizaba in Mexico, Kazbek in Georgia. An impressive resume, but Mount Everest, the biggest of them all, remained unconquered.

Nepal In 2006, then 37, Smith decided he was ready to climb Everest. “The time was right. I was in shape. I was (the) perfect age,” Smith says. He left for Nepal in late March 2007, shoehorning himself into a small, twinprop airplane for the final leg of his journey. Peaks on either side of him rose thousands of feet above the plane. “You’re flying through the valleys, and you’re just barely clearing ridges, you know, 100 feet over ridges,” Smith says. They landed at Lukla Airport with a hard

touchdown that brought a relieved cheer from passengers. Smith’s seven-man party began its ascent to Everest Base Camp, a gradual 10-day journey intended for acclimatization that took the group through small villages that dotted the hillsides. Trees faded completely, replaced by rock fields. They traveled from 9,000 feet to Base Camp, situated at 17,000 feet. “By the time you’re at 14,000 (feet), you’re at two-thirds oxygen,” Smith says. “So things like putting your boots on get more tiring. You’re huffing and puffing just walking around.” He soon developed a common ailment known as Khumbu Cough, which stems from the parched air. He joined the chorus of others whose hacks sounded throughout the camp. The dust, smoke, ever-present odor of yak dung, and diesel clouds from traveling buses made it worse. He sought assistance from doctors, but their prescribed medicine did nothing. A massage therapist said he could help. Smith received the massage in 20-degree weather with no shirt. Again, no change. “I was trying everything, but I could not kick this cough,” Smith says.

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“Most people are thinking — in the books I read — that it’s worst day of their life, and they’re totally exhausted, and they feel like they’re going to die, and one step in front of the other and all that. All I’m thinking is, ‘I’m going to the top of the world tonight.’”

In late April, Smith and his group left Base Camp behind.

Sick The journey wasn’t a straight shot. They began by ascending and descending, furthering their ascents as they continued to acclimatize to the ever-thinning air. Go up to 18,000 feet, come back down to Base Camp. Push up to Camp 1 at about 19,700 feet, come back down to Base Camp. Repeat. Smith felt strong in the beginning, but he couldn’t shake the cough. He gave no thought to descending, getting some rest, and trying again. Two in the group did leave, reducing their number to five. Smith continued to push. “There’s kind of that ego thing,” he says. “You want to stay with your team.” At Camp 3, Smith reached nearly 24,000 feet, the highest elevation he’d ever achieved. Aconcagua, at nearly 23,000 feet, was his previous record. Smith felt awful. The consistent coughing in the thin air left him exhausted. His guides recommended he descend to Camp 2. Back at Camp 2, he ate a bowl of stew, which he promptly vomited back up. He burrowed into his sleeping bag as the temperature dropped to 20 degrees below zero. Sleep eluded him as his body lurched with coughing fits. He spent more than an hour pulling on his boots and gloves, then exited his tent to look for help.

Dying At about 2 a.m. under a black sky freckled with stars, Smith crawled through the subfreezing air, too weak to stand. “I started yelling for help, but I couldn’t get any air out,” Smith says. His pleas came out in whispers. No one answered back, his gasps lost among the icy wind and rocks. Crawling from tent to

Brian Smith with gear he climbed Mt Everest with along with a photo and rock from the summit adventure. [Photo By Andy AtkinSon]

tent, he hunted for his guides. He eventually found one of them, the man poking his head out of his tent. “He was like, ‘Oh, Mr. Brian, you look very bad,’ “ Smith says. The guide went on a hunt for an oxygen bottle and mask while Smith waited. When the guides returned, they dragged him to his tent and stuffed him in his sleeping bag with some hot-water bottles. A respirator covered Smith’s face, and oxygen flowed through his lungs. Smith laid that way for a while, then he informed his team leader, Willie Benegas, who was still up at Camp 3, about his ailment. Willie said Smith needed to descend and that he would follow. Smith did, breathing bottled oxygen all the way back to Base Camp.

In a tent belonging to the Himalayan Rescue Association, doctors put Smith on free-flow oxygen and began nursing him back to health. His oxygen saturation was at 61 percent, his resting heart rate 133 beats per minute. “I was dying,” Smith says. “I was pretty close to death.” In the midst of recovery, a BBC film crew entered the tent. They told Smith they were filming a documentary called “Everest ER,” and asked whether they could film him. As treatment continued, everyone told Smith he was done, a ticking time bomb who needed to abandon the mountain before he exploded. You’re 37, they said, not 65. You can try this again. “I was thinking, ‘I’m 80-grand poorer,

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and I don’t know if I can come up with that money again,’ “ Smith says. “I’ve taken a year to train for it, and it’s super time-consuming, and I bought all this additional gear and traveled all the way here and everything. So I was getting kind of emotional, you know? Thinking, ‘Well, this might be over.’”

Descent With the assistance of a porter, Smith began the descent to the village of Namche Bazaar, at 11,200 feet. Gaunt, face sunken, and 15 pounds lighter, he checked into a hotel. “I decided I was just going to go hiking every day, see how I feel and eat as much as I could,” Smith says. He ran up a considerable food bill, showered, washed his clothes and spent the next week taking care of himself. Strength and vigor returned, and the sounds of wet static in his lungs faded. Everest still loomed above him, inviting him to try again. Smith fired off emails to Base Camp and Mountain Madness, the Seattle-based company he’d paid to go on the expedition. He said he wanted another shot. Reluctant but affirming responses came back. Smith hired two porters and rebooted his climb. Three days later, he was back at

Base Camp. Doctors there gave him a 50-50 chance of dying. “I said, ‘50-50? Those aren’t very good odds. Can you give me 51? Then the odds are in my favor,’ “ Smith says. The doctors revised their prediction to 51-49. Odds in his favor, Smith ascended to Camp 1, then returned. The round-trip journey took him eight hours. It had taken him about 10 hours before. He kept his mouth properly covered to keep moist air in, and he ate well. The BBC camera crew followed Smith to Camp 1 and gave him a camera to take to the summit.

Summit “Next stop, top of the world,” Smith said in the crew’s documentary. On his way up the mountain, Smith would climb for a bit, then take rests while the camera crew set up their shots, he says, employing the same method of ascending and descending for acclimatization. He reached Camp 2. Camp 3. He still felt good. Willie Benegas rejoined, as did Tendi, one of the Sherpas who had helped Smith get back down the mountain when illness first struck.

“I was invigorated, motivated,” Smith says. “Most people are thinking — in the books I read — that it’s worst day of their life, and they’re totally exhausted, and they feel like they’re going to die, and one step in front of the other and all that. All I’m thinking is, ‘I’m going to the top of the world tonight. I’m going to the top of the world tonight.’” In the early-morning hours of May 24, 2007, Smith achieved his dream. The night was moonless. Lightning stuttered through storm clouds thousands of feet below. Smith turned in a circle, cognizant of the 7 billion people on the planet and how, at that moment, he was higher than all of them. Smith stuffed some rocks from the 29,035-foot summit into his gear to give away as gifts and began his descent. “I am pumped,” a tired and grinning Smith told the BBC crew on the way down. “Yesterday, my 22-year dream came true, and I stood on top of the world at 2:45 in the morning.” Reach reporter Ryan Pfeil at 541-7764468 or rpfeil@mailtribune.com. Follow him at www.twitter.com/ryanpfeil.

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11 homes in 45 minutes

Smoke from the Oak Knoll fire obscures the sun. Right: a plane carries a water bucket over the flames. [Mail TRibune/file phOTOS]

A fast-moving fire consumed an entire neighborhood in one of the worst urban blazes in Oregon history By JOHN DARLING For the Mail Tribune

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or Marty Turner, the great Oak Knoll fire of Aug. 24, 2010, began when, sitting in the back room of her Ashland home, she thought she smelled popcorn — but that didn’t make sense on a hot afternoon — then the electricity cut off and, through her skylight, she saw flames gobbling up the rear of her house. “I grabbed my purse and my dogs, got in my car and didn’t look back. I drove to my minister’s house,” says Turner. “She took me in for the night, and for several days. I thought how 50 years as a professor, and my family life was completely gone. I went into shock.” The minister, a pastoral counselor, led her through some questions. “The first question was if I had a pencil. I looked in my purse and realized I not only didn’t have a pencil, I didn’t have ANY pencils.” Turner, of course, had no clothes, except the ones on her back. A few days later, she was sifting through the ashes of her house, one of 11 homes consumed, when a couple came by and asked if she needed anything. “I said, ‘Yes, I need everything.’” They took her to their storage unit and gave her a sofa, bed, tables, chairs, lamps, that went into her newly rented home in Talent. “Then I received a full set of new kitchenware. A woman drove down the street and said, ‘You look about my size,’ then gave me a load of clothing. The woman was taking it to Goodwill. “I was in shock. I went on autopilot. I rose to the occasion. The generosity of the Ashland community, including donations to my bank account, with goods and services to me. It overwhelmed me. So many things happened that were miraculous.” As emeritus professor in education at

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A firefighter battles flames during the Oak Knoll fire in Ashland Tuesday, Aug. 24, 2010.

Southern Oregon University, Turner had planned to teach some classes in her retirement, but instead she started volunteering — for the homeless, at Medford Gospel Mission, at the Ashland Emergency Food Bank and others. The giant conflagration, among the worst urban blazes in Oregon history, was started when a homeless man, John Thiry, tossed a cigarette into a field of dry grass. It quickly raged out of control and jumped the freeway, moving through the sere grass behind the houses, and as fire trucks from all over the valley and beyond arrived, it consumed 11 homes in 45 minutes. Not all stories ended as happily as Turner’s. Medford Fire-Rescue Battalion Chief Mark Burns, moving about the fire and planning strategies in heavy toxic smoke, suffered severe smoke inhalation and was permanently disabled. Within weeks, he had a tumor. Two years later, he was on oxygen full-time. Six years later, at age 62, he died. “Smoke is terrible for anyone,” says

Medford Battalion Chief Tom McGowan. “It has particulates and carbon monoxide that block oxygen from bonding to red blood cells. It damaged his lungs. It was something he couldn’t overcome.” The biggest impact the fire had for Medford Battalion Chief Rick Rohrbough “was losing one of my best friends of my career,” he says. “He was a natural-born leader. He started young. … People were drawn to him like a lightbulb. He had great command presence, a top-notch guy. It was a tremendous loss for us.” Rick Ogier was on vacation with his family at Lake of the Woods when he got a “screaming” phone call from a friend, telling him his house was going up. “We were camping, thank God,” he says. “If not, I would have been at home napping, and my wife and daughter would have been in the bedroom. I’d planted 25 cypress trees and later found out they were the secondmost flammable of all trees. Flames were 125 feet high and there were 25 fire trucks

and 150 firefighters. It was a fire storm. One shake roof just exploded.” Ogier, out in a boat, raced for shore and, with his family, decided simply not to go home. “You go through emotions that are hard to explain. It’s a numbing feeling,” he said. “I had several mental lapses over several days. I didn’t know who or where I was. When I got home and was walking toward my house, I just completely lost emotional control.” Ogier says he and his wife are not materialistic, “but those memories — the pictures of Grandma, the antique piano. You wonder if you have insurance. You wonder what to do with the children.” Ogier says contractors flew in from all over seeking rebuilding projects, and the place was rife with insurance adjusters, some helpful (as his was), some contesting personal property claims and ending up in court. “Someone tapped me on the back. It was this little old lady whose home burned down years before and she had written a

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“I was knocking on doors and yelling, ‘Get out! Get out!’ The fire was moving so quick. Everybody was in panic mode, but I wasn’t really scared, because there wasn’t time to be.”

book to help you through this process. She said, ‘Don’t do a buyout, but get them to pay for every item.’ You have to negotiate everything, with depreciation. They are liable for putting you up in a rental. They want you to wait two weeks, so you forget a lot of what you owned, so do that immediately. Meanwhile, you’re so overwhelmed about how to take care of your family.” Little stories are touching, like his daughter’s prized teddy bear, covered in mink fur taken from Grandma’s expensive mink coat. The family thought it was gone, but under a mattress in the corner, to everyone’s amazement, there was the bear. “All our bonds, titles, will, checks — we thought they were all evaporated, but we found them in a protected spot and just used the bonds, right now, to buy our daughter her first car. … You’ve got to take those moments and know there’s a greater power watching us and he’s not going to let things go over the top.” Dena Adame, on call with Ashland Fiber Network, pounded on the door where Christine Clark lived with Ashland police Officer Jason Daoust. Clark escaped and ran. Daoust quickly arrived from work, and, seeing his own home lost to flames, helped evacuate others. Adame, who had fire training in the Air Force, said at the time, “I was knocking on doors and yelling, ‘Get out! Get out!’ The fire was moving so quick. Everybody was in panic mode, but I wasn’t really scared, because there wasn’t time to be.” Motorcycle Officer Steve MacLennan and Officer Bon Stewart raced to the fire,

flushing residents, who didn’t understand the seriousness and proximity of the fire, into the streets. Some wanted to go back into burning houses to save a pet. Chris Chambers, Ashland Forestry Division chief who was the city’s forest resource specialist at the time, was among the first on scene. The fire was still on the west side of the freeway. “I saw the barn catch fire. The tinder was dry. There was a lot of chaos, with people running away. I heard on the radio there was a threat to houses. “We pulled up (on the east side of the freeway) and one house was burning with two houses obviously about to go,” Chambers recalls. “People needed to be evacuated. There was only one (fire) engine there. It was the third alarm by that time. I ran to the nearest house that wasn’t on fire. People were still inside, watching TV, with no idea the neighborhood was burning down. I said, ‘Grab your keys and wallet and leave right now.’ “I ran around to the side, and here was a wood fence connected to the house. It’s what I’ve said a hundred times, don’t do that. Wood shakes on the roof were creating big embers flying. I tried to grab a hose in front of one house and only put out one spot fire, but the Department of Forestry chopper came and dropped a bucket on the roof. That prevented it from going down the block. Eventually I walked back to see all the fire, and it was unbelievable. I tried to help out where I could. I was there for the news media till 5 in the morning. This was by far the most impactful fire in my career.”

From this, Chambers schooled homeowners never to plant juniper, arbor vitae or cyprus, all highly flammable. He tried to organize the community of “old Oak Knoll,” going from the fire area down to Highway 66. “We pursued them, but they never enrolled. They took out their flammable materials but didn’t get into an organized community,” he says. “People think it can only happen on hillsides, but it can happen anyplace in the community. It requires a fireresistant landscape and ban on shake roofs, for starters. This didn’t have to happen.” The fire caused a combined loss of $3 million. The homes have been rebuilt. Because Thiry did not start the fire intentionally, he was convicted of misdemeanors rather than arson. Margueritte Hickman, lead investigator for Ashland Fire & Rescue who also handled media relations at the scene, notes, “Terrible is right. Our investigation started that night, after dark, including all witnesses, processing the scene, the origins and causes. We found 50 to 60 spent (fire) messes, already lit. Thiry is still here in town, still homeless.” The fire led AFR to redevelop its wildfire hotline, which was overloaded during the fire, to handle more calls. And Ashland created its first Firewise communities in 2011 to help homeowners clear brush, tall grass and other fuels from around structures. Ashland has since became a leader in the state with 24 recognized Firewise neighborhoods within city limits. One of the main tools of the program is a free assessment provided by the fire adapted communities coordinator at Ashland Fire & Rescue. This one-hour, comprehensive assessment includes a walk around the house and property, where specific recommendations are provided for the landowner, such as how to create a defensible space, fire-resistant landscaping plants, and use of fire-resistant roofing and building materials. Reach Ashland freelance writer John Darling at jdarling@jeffnet.org.

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Political Winners & Losers By JOHN DARLING For the Mail Tribune

✩✩✩

olitics has been described as the restless sea, a realm of rises and falls, ups and downs, triumphs and tragedies. Following are short capsules of local politicians who have risen to great heights, or in some cases have suffered debilitating falls.

Nancy Peterson Rep. Nancy Peterson, D-Ashland, was co-owner with two other women of Bloomsbury Books, which is still going strong on the main drag of Ashland. Peterson was on the Ashland City Council before going to the Oregon House in 1984. She was a liberal legislator who focused on health, education and environmental issues and rose to House majority leader. Perhaps her most notable legislative moment came when vehicle inspection and maintenance for the Rogue Valley came before the House for a vote. Democrats considered it vital to improve air quality in the valley, but they had enough votes, so the caucus told her that her vote was not needed. However, she couldn’t bring herself to vote against air quality. When it came time, she punched the “yes” button. I&M was not popular with a majority of Rogue Valley voters, and she knew that. In the next election, she was defeated by Jerry Barnes, but she was back in the House after that term. She died of cancer in mid-life in 1997. Well liked, she had a hugely attended memorial at Southern Oregon University. CONTINUED ON PAGE 29

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‘No one’s invincible’

Todd Ragsdale, shown running the Crater Lake Marathon in 2008, was one of the most recognizable faces on the local running circuit. [ANDY ATKINSON / MAIL TRIBUNE]

The death of local ultrarunner Todd Ragsdale has changed the way many train By SARAH LEMON For the Mail Tribune

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ardly a week has gone by in the past year, says Nate Olsen, that local runners don’t lament the death of one of their own — and vow to prevent a recurrence. Safety in numbers is the school of thought among Southern Oregon Running Enthusiasts, a group that Olsen founded five years ago. Participation in SORE’s group runs has swelled, says Olsen, since the January 2016 death of local ultrarunner Todd Ragsdale. The 46-year-old Talent resident went missing on a solo traverse of trails in the Ashland watershed. “Todd was an amazing runner,” says Olsen, a Medford resident who has been running for eight years. “It just kind of proves that it can happen to anyone.” Authorities uncovered no evidence of foul play nor toxic substances in Ragsdale’s body after he was located Jan. 30, 2016, along the edge of Ashland Creek upstream from the Granite Street reservoir. After the Jackson County Sheriff’s Office announced Ragsdale had died of “undetermined natural causes,” friends and family faced never fully knowing the circumstances of his demise, which defied his physical fitness and familiarity with the terrain. “It really was a freak accident that didn’t need to happen,” says Chuck Whiteley, vice president of Southern Oregon Runners, which hosts distance races locally. “It gave me more respect for nature.” Wearing a thin jacket and running shorts, Ragsdale was nursing a hamstring injury when he embarked on a “light” run near Lithia Park. The father of four was reported missing approximately five hours after leaving home. Most people who knew Ragsdale, says Whiteley, assumed he decided to extend his time on the trail. “Todd was an adventurous person,” he says.

“After that happened, there was a big focus on runner safety. It opened a lot of people’s eyes — it’s dangerous to run alone.”

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A Fred Meyer employee who graduated from Phoenix High School, Ragsdale had a reputation in running circles for such funloving antics as crawling over finish lines and wearing costumes, including a Sasquatch, for distance runs. But he also enjoyed the local running community’s respect, not least for setting a Guinness World Record in 2010 by running 102 miles barefoot in 24 hours. His disappearance mobilized at least 100 volunteers from the local running community, in addition to searchers from eight counties, who combed the Ashland watershed for two and a half days. Ragsdale was running down Pete’s Punisher loop, according to his wife, Nancy, when for unknown reasons, he vomited. He then took a tdeer trail downhill toward the creek, where he lost consciousness, she told Runner’s World magazine. Ragsdale’s body was found in water roughly a foot deep. “After that happened, there was a big focus on runner safety,” says Whiteley. “It opened a lot of people’s eyes — it’s dangerous to run alone.”

Whiteley says he already had been running in groups, while Olsen says he knew runners who preferred solo workouts but started meeting up on local roads and trails since Ragsdale’s death. More posts to social media and other online networking around group runs have resulted in the past year, he says, adding that SORE announces all its events on Meetup.com. “I think we’ve even made a conscious effort to not run in certain dangerous areas,” he says, citing spots on the Bear Creek Greenway. “It’s not just up in the mountains.” Recognizing the risks of traffic and weather conditions, as well as the importance of reflective clothing, all are points that Olsen says he emphasizes before every group run. There’s no substitute, in the absence of cellphone service, for telling someone where you’re planning to go and when you plan to return. “No one’s invincible,” says Olsen. Reach freelance writer Sarah Lemon at thewholedish@gmail.com. [andy aTkinson / Mail Tribune]

As many as 100 volunteers participated in the search for lost runner Todd Ragsdale in January 2015. Top right: Ragsdale competed barefoot for the first time April 24, 2010, in the Bridge The Gap 10K run in Medford, garnering second place. He set a record the following June by running 102 miles barefoot in the 24-hour Relay For Life. [Mail Tribune / JaMie lusch] 24 • OU R VA L L E Y

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[CLaRk MaRTiN pHOTO]

LIVING AFTER LOSS 15 years after Todd Morris disappeared in the Kalmiopsis, his widow finds healing through helping others By NICK MORGAN Mail Tribune

Helena, Lily and Logan Morris are shown in November 2016. Right: Todd Morris and a friend in an undated photo.

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icily Morris’ story didn’t end after her husband disappeared outside Selma 15 years ago. Rather, her husband’s death in the Kalmiopsis Wilderness was a reluctant beginning. Morris was 25, a stay-at-home mom living in Centralia, Washington, when her husband, Todd, a Forest Service contract worker, got caught in an unexpected snowstorm in 2002. On Jan. 26, Todd went to retrieve a hatchet from a survey site in the Kalmiopsis Wilderness, where he had been camped out with her father counting flora. Though Morris remembers hoping for a miracle in the days when Todd first went missing, she had readied herself for closure by Valentine’s Day, which is when his body was found. Pregnant with her son, Logan, and knowing her husband of two years was gone, Morris knew only that her kids needed to see her smile. “We had all of these hopes and dreams,” Morris said. “Then all of a sudden, he was gone.” Today, Morris works as an addiction counselor in Billings, Montana, where she’s in a stable, long-term relationship. Though she’ll never be unaffected from what transpired a decade and a half ago, she now sees good in it — the dedication of searchand-rescue volunteers who strove to find her husband, the warmth from people in Southern Oregon and Washington who reached out during her time of grief, and for Todd’s family, who remain part of her life today. Only in the last year has she felt ready to go through photos and news clippings kept tucked away in her closet all these years. “A lot of it, I don’t even remember,” Morris said. “I was a wreck.” Morris said she was “pretty Type-A” in how she picked up the pieces. Within a year after Todd’s death, she was attending community college, initially hoping to become a teacher. She’d been a high school dropout with only a GED when she took her first classes at Centralia College. “I took it slow at first, because I was a mom first,” Morris said. There were detours on her path, according to Morris. Though she said she had a genuine desire to give back, she had to face the reality that her initial goal of being active with search and rescue wasn’t the right fit. “This is my capacity,” Morris said about counseling. OU R VA L L EY

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About this story In mid-January, as we were planning this issue of Our Valley, about tragedies that have struck our region and the triumphs that sometimes temper them, we received the following unsolicited letter from Sicily Morris. “This time of the year always brings me to reflect on the support of your community during 2002 when my husband, Todd Morris, went missing Jan. 26 and was found deceased Feb 14. “This was one of the most traumatic times in my life, and it was the support of your community that gave me hope and support during this difficult time. Now 15 years later, I can reflect on the changes over the course of the years and am proud to share that a tragic loss inspired strength and courage for me to grow and honor the life of Todd by becoming a therapist to help people in crisis, having my oldest daughter, Helena, 22, prepare to graduate college this year with a teaching degree, and the two younger children, Lily, 16, and Logan, 14, thriving while developing into fine individuals. “I am sending this information because I believe every story beginning with tragedy should have the opportunity to show how the lives of loved ones were impacted, especially when this event brought inspiration and humanity to those impacted. Thank you for your time.”

She’s been a licensed addiction counselor since 2011, and in 2016 she got her master’s degree from Montana State University in Billings. She’s completing her hours, the final steps toward becoming a licensed clinical professional counselor and allowing her to go into private practice specializing in dual-diagnosis addiction and mental health issues. As an addiction counselor, Morris’ story of grief isn’t one she typically shares with her clients. Her story does, however, give her added compassion, she says. In the all-women treatment groups she’s guided, Morris said she understands the deep pain that can drive people to unhealthy coping skills — be they drugs, alcohol, sex or gambling. A key motivator for Morris was knowing she was the only parent left, she said. She poured herself into her children, who have achieved academic success. “Someone’s got to take care of these kids,” Morris said. Her eldest daughter, Helena, Todd’s stepdaughter, graduated from Montana State University in 2016, becoming the first traditional college graduate in her family. Their daughter Lily is a sophomore in high school carrying a 4.5 grade point average with an interest in aerospace engineering. Their son, 14-year-old Logan, has typical teen interests such as sports and cars, though he hasn’t yet found his career goal. “I’ll support whatever he wants to do,” Morris said. In 2007, she moved the family to Montana, in part to attend MSU, but also because she “just needed a change.” As warm as the community in Centralia was,

Todd and Sicily Morris on a trip to Mount St. Helens in 1999.

there were too many reminders of Todd to heal. “It’s probably been one of the best decisions we ever made for us,” she said. In Montana she got her degree in human services, followed by a two-year degree in rehabilitation. While she worked on her master’s, she worked for five years at an addiction treatment facility. Her long-term boyfriend, Jason, has been a positive male role model for her family. Jason’s extended family and Todd’s family often come together. Morris has carried Todd’s ashes all these years in a closet, but Morris said her children are finally at the age where they can help “set him free.” She’s planning to scatter Todd’s ashes on his brother’s property in coastal North Carolina. “I just think it’s the best place for him,” Morris said. Reach reporter Nick Morgan at 541-7764471 or nmorgan@mailtribune.com. Follow him on Twitter at @MTCrimeBeat.

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✩ ✩ ✩ PoLitiCaL Winners & Losers Lenn Hannon Sen. Lenn Hannon started as a Democrat and later became a Republican. A native Southern Oregonian, Army veteran and graduate of Ashland High School and Southern Oregon University, Hannon entered politics in 1974, a time when the nation was fed up by Watergate. With no political background, Hannon, 29, defeated prestigious veteran Sen. Lynn Newbry, R-Talent, by 37 votes, earning the nickname of “landslide Lenn.” After six years, Hannon switched to the Republican Party. He joined the powerful Ways & Means Committee, which shaped the state’s huge budget. After becoming the second-longest-serving senator in Oregon history, 27 years, Hannon retired and was

appointed to the state parole board. In the Legislature, he brought home the bacon for SOU, which named its new library after him and his wife, Dixie. He died at 56 in 2010.

Carol Doty Jackson County residents can breathe easier due in no small part to Carol Doty. Doty wasn't a Jackson County commissioner for long — just over three years — but the influence she had can still be seen, felt and smelled all over the Rogue Valley. When Doty was elected in 1976, joining the first woman ever elected to the commission, Isabel Sickels, who was elected in 1974, Jackson County became the first county

commission in Oregon with a female majority. Doty, who was Head Start director when she was elected, helped establish the county's first air-quality committee with fellow commissioners Sickels and Tam Moore, she helped establish emissions testing for vehicles in the county, pushed to reduce woodstove smoke, worked with the wood products industry to reduce sawdust and carbon particulates, and worked with fruit growers to replace smudge pots with windmills. Even though people in the valley were getting sick from polluted air back then, many of those clean-air initiatives were unpopular with Jackson County voters. When Doty proved to be a staunch defender of state land-use laws, it proved too much for valley conservatives, who launched one unsuccessful recall campaign against Sickles and two against Doty before successfully getting her removed from office in 1979. Today Doty serves on the board of the Jackson County Library District. CONTINUED ON PAGE 34

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Out of the ashes Efforts still underway to rebuild the Eagle Point icon lost in 2015 By DAMIAM MANN Mail Tribune STORY ON PAGE 32

Bob Russell, owner of Butte Creek Mill, works to salvage antiques and historic artifacts from debris in the hours after the mill burned.

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n Christmas morning in 2015, the Butte Creek Mill burned to the ground, and with it 143 years of history in Eagle Point seemed to disappear. The loss of the building, built in 1872, has been a blow to this community, which saw many a traveler pass through town to see the historic, water-powered mill. “I think it lost its heartbeat,” said Mike Frey, owner of Paradux Media Group and a member of the Butte Creek Mill Foundation. “I think it lost a bit of its soul.” It was a double blow for owner and Eagle Point Mayor Bob Russell, who lost his wife, Debbie, to cancer earlier that year. The mill fire was deemed accidental, and amidst the ruins, Russell and community

supporters have rallied to rebuild a replica of the rustic, timber-frame building. Russell, 66, is planning to deed many of the rights to the property to the newly formed foundation, which will make it easier to secure grants for the rebuilding effort. Frey said a grassroots effort to rebuild the foundation is still very important. The more local support for the mill, the easier it will be to secure money from grants, he said. The six-member foundation board, which has its work cut out for it, has tasked itself with finding a way to get a grant writer on board, even if that means paying somebody, Frey said. “It’s important to me that we show, by

the Fourth of July, that stuff is being done, that progress is being made,” he said. Both U.S. Sen. Ron Wyden and Rep. Greg Walden also have pitched in, working to establish the nonprofit status for the foundation, Frey said. Without the mill in town, Frey said he’s noticed a decline in travelers stopping by as they head to Crater Lake and other regional destinations. Russell and his wife took possession of the mill on June 2, 2005, and they both worked diligently to make it a success, producing flours, grains and other products. Russell recalls six or seven months of CONTINUED ON PAGE 42

Butte Creek Mill owner Bob Russell and his daughter Kristen Russell hug as they survey the damage of the historic mill.

Eagle Point’s Butte Creek Mill was a historical treasure that drew people from throughout the region.

Antique toys, buttons, poker chips and other items in the rubble of the Butte Creek Mill fire.

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PAID ADVERTISEMENT

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✩ ✩ ✩ PoliticAl WinnerS & loSerS Alan Bates Sen. Alan Bates, D-Medford, a physician and Vietnam veteran, was elected to the Oregon House in 2000 and the Senate in 2004. With deep understanding of the immense complexities of health care, he became, along with fellow doctor and Democrat Gov. John Kitzhaber, a primary architect of the Oregon Health Plan. Bates was chairman of the State Health Services Commission before that and served on the Eagle Point School Board. At one point in the Senate chamber, he confronted a knife-wielding man and talked him out of brandishing the weapon before awestruck lawmakers, thus confirming his heroic nature on something beyond bills and committee meetings.

His sudden death of a heart attack at the age of 71, in August 2016, while on a fishing trip in the Cascades with his son, shocked the state. Gov. Kate Brown said of his passing, “Alan was a close friend, a statesman, and a doctor who was deeply committed to ensuring that every Oregonian had access to health care. He left an indelible impression on Oregon, and I will miss him forever.”

Sue Kupillas White City owes a debt of gratitude to former Jackson County Commissioner Sue Kupillas, who served 16 years on the commission, tying her with the late Jack Walker for the longest tenure on the board. She got into politics because of schools, helping turn around a foundering Eagle Point School District that actually closed its seven schools for eight weeks in 1976 after the failure of a District 9 tax levy, an embarrassment that made the New York Times. Kupillas served several terms on the

District 9 school board and became president of the Oregon School Boards Association, but when she was elected to the county commission, she turned her attention to cleaning up White City. White City schools were a mess, kids were going to school hungry, crime was rampant, and the area was an eyesore. The roads were so bad school buses wouldn't run and mail delivery stopped along some routes. Kupillas helped form the White City Community Improvement Association and the White City Urban Renewal Agency in 1990. During her tenure, the area's infrastructure was upgraded, residential blight was attacked, the industrial park was renovated, and when a community policing district was created, crime and vandalism dropped 10 percent within the first year. CONTINUED ON PAGE 41

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Southern Oregon Wine

Directory

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(1) Del Rio Vineyards 52 N River Rd Gold Hill, OR 541.855-2062 Open Daily 11-5 delriovineyards.com (2) Le Petit Tasting Room Ledger David Cellars 245 N. Front St. Central Point, OR 541.664.2218 Open Daily 12-5 ledgerdavid.com (3) DANCIN Vineyards 4477 South Stage Rd. Medford, OR 541.245.1133 Oct-Apr, Thurs-Sun 12-7 May-Sept, Thurs-Sun 12-8 dancinvineyards.com (4) RoxyAnn Winery 3283 Hillcrest Dr. Medford, OR 541.776.2315 Mon-Thurs, 12-7 Fri 11-9, Sat-Sun 11-7 RoxyAnn.com (5) StoneRiver Vineyards 2178 Pioneer Rd., Talent, OR Nov-Apr Sat & Sun 12-5 May-Oct Wed- Mon 12-6 541.535.4661 stonerivervineyard.com (6) Aurora Vines 2287 Pioneer Rd., Talent, OR 541.535.5287 May-Oct, Thurs-Sun 12- 5 Nov-March, Sat-Sun 1-5 or by appt. Auroravines.com (7) Pebblestone Cellars 1670 Pioneer Rd. Talent, OR Dec-Mar, Sat & Sun 12-5 Apr-Nov, Wed-Mon 12-5 541.512.1655 pebblestonecellars.wine

(8) Trium Wines 7112 Rapp Ln. Talent, OR 541.535.4015 April-Oct Thurs-Mon, 11-5:30 Triumwines.com (9) Paschal Winery 1122 Suncrest Rd. Talent, OR 541.535.7957 Jan-Apr, Closed Tuesdays Apr-Dec, Open Daily paschalwinery.com (10) Dana Campbell Vineyards 1320 N. Mountain Ave. Ashland, OR 541.482.3798 Open daily, 1-6 danacampbellvineyards.com (11) Grizzly Peak Winery 1600 E Nevada St. Ashland, OR 541.482.5700 Apr.-Oct., Thu.-Sun., 12-4 Nov.-Mar., Sat.-Sun., 12-4 grizzlypeakwinery.com (12) Belle Fiore Winery 100 Belle Fiore Ln. Ashland, OR 541.552.4900 Wed & Sun 12-8 Thurs-Sat 12-9 Seasonal hrs subject to change bellefiorewine.com (13) Irvine & Roberts Vineyards 1614 Emigrant Creek Rd., Ashland, OR 541.482.9383 Open Wed-Sun, 11-5 Seasonal hours subject to change. irvinevineyards.com

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Southern Oregon vintners were champs in many ways during the past year. Accolades and reviews kept the highlight reel rolling for local wineries. But just like sports franchises, there comes a time to move on to the next season. The early clues about where the Southern Oregon wine industry is headed arrived in the 2016 Oregon Harvest Report compiled by the Portland-based Oregon Wine Board. “There’s been a lot of awareness and press coverage saying: ‘Hey, Southern Oregon is making great wine,’” said Oregon Wine Board spokesperson Michelle Kaufmann. “And a lot of people are still responding, ‘Southern Oregon makes wine?’ ” The annual report is an accumulation of anecdotal reports from the vineyards, and there’s plenty of good news both here and in other parts of the state.

Jackson St.

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Southern Oregon

Wine Map

Jackson St. E Main

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✩ ✩ ✩ POLITICAL WINNERS & LOSERS Dennis Richardson

Lou Hannum

Lindsay Berryman

Oregon Secretary of State Dennis Richardson was a combat helicopter pilot in Vietnam. He got his law degree from Brigham Young University and with his wife, Cathy, raised nine children. He had a law practice and served on Central Point City Council before election to the Oregon House in 2002, serving six sessions, including membership and co-chairmanship on the budget-writing Joint Ways & Means Committee. He lost a race to Gov. John Kitzhaber in 2014, but in 2016, he was elected Secretary of State, one of the few Republicans to hold statewide office in Oregon in recent decades — and one of the very few ever from Southern Oregon.

Former Medford mayor Lou Hannum celebrated his 100th birthday in 2015, and was one of the few people to experience a living memorial of his colorful life. A half-year later, he passed. Hannum was an on-ship gunner in the bloody assaults on Iwo Jima and Okinawa in World War II. He served on the Medford Water Commission, City Council and as Medford mayor from 1982 to '86. He was a big supporter of libraries and cleaning up Medford’s once-toxic air.

The first, and only, female mayor of Medford, Lindsay Berryman joined the Medford City Council in the 1980s and went on to become a influential two-term mayor beginning in 1999. She was an advocate for downtown Medford and played a major role in launching the Medford Urban Renewal Agency and boosting the reconstruction of the Craterian Theater, helping to raise $5 million for that project. As mayor, she advocated for the rehabilitation of Bear Creek and was among the founders of the annual arts festival, Art in Bloom. Berryman was succeeded in the mayor's office office by Gary Wheeler, who continues to serve in that role. She is now semi-retired and still involved in community activities. CONTINUED ON PAGE 90

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trips to Oregon Health & Science University in Portland before his wife’s death. “We had great times,” he said. “We talked about everything and anything. And her departure was something we prepared for.” Even after the loss of the mill, Russell said he tries to lead life to the fullest. “If somebody came up to me and talked to me, I’d say I’m the luckiest person alive,” he said. “I’ve been blessed with good luck.” In fact, he’s currently building a mancave behind his house that will help fill the void of his previous man-cave in the mill, where he would entertain friends surrounded by a wealth of antiques that were later lost in the fire. At the same time, as president of the foundation board, Russell said he’s seen a lot of community support for the rebuilding of the mill, with some 1,900 donations so far. Russell said he’s committed to rebuilding the mill exactly as it was, so that people who walk into the new structure will be able to marvel that it looks like it was built in 1872. To accomplish that feat, Russell said he’s hopeful that he can get builders who are familiar with the same type of construction. “We’re negotiating with the Timber Framers Guild of America, and we’re extremely interested in getting their help by 2018,” Russell said. “If we can pin down the folks at Timber Framers, we will be in good shape. That should accelerate things quickly.” Russell said it will be more difficult to deal with a historic structure that used no nails or metal in its construction. Anything that might be added to provide additional structural strength would have to be hidden, he said. “Anything that’s done has to be done so you can’t see it,” he said. Donations can be sent to Rogue Valley Foundation for The Butte Creek Mill Rebuild, P.O. Box 1, Eagle Point, OR 97524. Reach reporter Damian Mann at 541-7764476 or dmann@mailtribune.com. Follow him on www.twitter.com/reporterdm.

Firefighters look over the scene of the burned-out historic Butte Creek Mill, which caught fire early Christmas morning in 2015. [Mail TriBune/File phoTo] 42 • OU R VA L L EY

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‘Still making gains’ Seven years after a horrific motorcycle accident, former Principal Tiffany O’Donnell is back at school By SARAH LEMON For the Mail Tribune

fter rehabilitating an ailing school, Principal Tiffany O’Donnell faced her own rehabilitation from a traumatic injury. Almost seven years later, she’s still improving on education and her own health. “I’m still recovering,” says the former Medford resident who was principal of Shady Cove and Elk Trail schools. “If you just apply yourself, like it’s your most important job every day, it pays off.” Defying the odds and physicians’ expectations, O’Donnell returned to work for Eagle Point School District less than a year after the Sept. 13, 2010, motorcycle crash that ruptured her bladder and nearly severed her right leg. O’Donnell credits rigorous physical therapy, horseback riding, yoga and meditation — along with community support — for her relatively rapid recovery. “It was very surprising and uplifting to find out how many people cared about me,” says O’Donnell, 51. Lifting up another “school in trouble,” O’Donnell was hired in 2013 as principal of Oakridge Elementary in Oakridge after a brief return as assistant principal of Eagle Point High School. O’Donnell’s efforts at Oakridge, she says, have helped to reduce discipline referrals by 60 percent this year alone. Like Shady Cove, which attained “model school” status the year after O’Donnell’s departure, Oakridge had been deemed a “focus school” for its high rate of poverty, rank in the bottom 15 percent and need for additional support. Challenges at Oakridge keep O’Donnell moving — literally. Carrying out her daily duties, the principal logs approximately 20,000 steps per day on her pedometer. With nearly each stride, O’Donnell concentrates on pointing her right foot outward. “I have to think how to walk every day.”

Because she limps too badly after running, O’Donnell abandoned that exercise since her accident in favor of caring for her horses and bucking hay. Yoga, she says, continuously recalibrates her balance. And although she limited herself to the beginner slope, O’Donnell maneuvered a pair of downhill skis to accompany her students for an entire day last winter at Willamette Pass Resort. “I can’t believe that I was able to ski,” she says. “Everybody was very worried that I was going to lose my leg.” Fractured above and below the knee, O’Donnell’s right leg was scraped almost bare of flesh by the license plate of a pickup truck that smashed into her Suzuki motorcycle on Highway 62 near Trail. The pickup’s driver, 68-year-old Caroline Whitacre, of Prospect, was cited for making an illegal U-turn. The impact ruptured O’Donnell’s bladder, crushed her pelvis and pulverized her right foot, which was compressed so completely around her bike’s brake pedal that it kept her from tumbling onto the asphalt. “I didn’t have scrapes and scratches, and my head was OK,” says O’Donnell. “They were able with screws and bolts to put everything back together.” Six surgeries over the course of three weeks at Oregon Health & Science University in Portland put O’Donnell back on the road to recovery. Recuperating from a hospital bed in her Medford living room, she took her first steps a few months after surgery. Six months after the accident, O’Donnell was astride her horse. “I liked being able to work hard at physical therapy,” she says. “I just always want to do my very best and work as hard as possible.” By April 2011, O’Donnell was working part-time from home. By August that year,

“(O’Donnell’s) determination to create a caring, safe atmosphere at school was evident. That determination and grit was drawn upon deeply when she was involved in her accident.”

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she was serving as part-time administrator for Upper Rogue Center for Educational Opportunities, Eagle Point School District's alternative school. But by the time doctors cleared O’Donnell to resume fulltime work in 2012, the district had closed Elk Trail and reduced the Shady Cove principal’s workload to part-time. “I still care very much about the people there,” says O’Donnell, adding that she stays in contact with many members of the staff and former students. “Her determination to create a caring, safe atmosphere at school was evident,” says David Sweem, science teacher at Shady Cove Middle School. “That determination and grit was drawn upon deeply when she was involved in her accident.” Although there were “difficult and dark” moments, when she felt like she lost everything, says O’Donnell, each day of her recovery “got a little bit better.” That outlook still defines O’Donnell, both personally and professionally. “Seven years later, (I’m) still making gains.” Reach freelance writer Sarah Lemon at thewholedish@gmail.com.

Tiffany O’Donnell, former principal of Shady Cove and Elk Trail schools, recovers with her dog, Luna, from a motorcycle accident that happened on her way from one school to the other. [MaiL TribunE / fiLE phOTO]

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[FILE PHOTO]

First the house, then the kitchen Memo’s Kitchen is a classic story of the American Dream coming true By SARAH LEMON For the Mail Tribune

nce Guillermo Sanchez had a home, he could welcome the community into his kitchen. Memo’s Kitchen is the product of Sanchez’s hard work, determination and conviction that a better life awaited in the United States. The Medford restaurant, opened in 2013, was possible once Sanchez was selected in 2010 to help build and, ultimately, own a home with assistance from Habitat for Humanity. “I was blessed by Habitat,” says Sanchez, 43. “Instead of thinking of buying the house … I was saving to have a business.” Overcrowded, substandard conditions at Sanchez’s former Medford rental residence qualified him for Habitat housing, funded during construction by Thrivent Financial, an institution with a nationwide Habitat partnership. Unable to afford a down payment for a home, Sanchez held two jobs as a cook in Southern Oregon restaurants to support his sons, now 15 and 16. The family logged 500 hours of sweat equity on Habitat’s 10 townhouses at North

Ross Lane and Sweet Road. Habitat holds the mortgage, and Sanchez makes monthly payments that the organization uses to build more houses, says Executive Director Denise James. “We don’t keep people in poverty,” says James, adding that Sanchez truly used Habitat as a “launching pad for further success.” A bank loan furnished the funds to open Memo’s in a former Old Farmhouse Restaurant at 603 S. Riverside Ave. And being “busy all the time” prepared Sanchez for the rigors of owning a small business. “You lose everything, or you make it,” he says. “Finally, after a few years, you start seeing your profit.” Memo’s profits from a menu that equally emphasizes Mexican and American fare, with a few of Sanchez’s fusion interpretations of dishes that bridge cultural divides. Eateries catering to both white and Hispanic customers were lacking locally before Memo’s, says Sanchez. “I have all the choices of American (food), and I have all of the traditional Mexican (dishes),” he says.

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Amid Memo’s beloved breakfast burritos, breakfast tacos and huevos rancheros are some lesser-known items, such as machaca con huevo, shredded, seasoned beef with eggs. Denver and Colorado omelets keep company with Memo’s chile verde omelet, stuffed with fresh spinach, cheese and crumbled bacon, and the omelet de chicharron studded with pork rinds. “I grew up eating chilaquiles,” says Sanchez of the sauce-smothered corn tortillas that, with eggs, he calls the most traditional Mexican breakfast. Memo’s also has a lunch version with chicken. Memo’s traditional diner fare includes ham and eggs, corned-beef hash, countryfried steak and eggs, biscuits and gravy, Belgian waffles, french toast and pancakes. Lunchtime juxtaposes all-American burgers and sandwiches with south-of-the-border burritos, tostadas and enchiladas. Memo’s clientele, says Sanchez, is almost evenly distributed between white and Hispanic diners. And culture doesn’t dictate customers’ tastes, he says, explaining that Mexican fare is just as likely to find favor with Anglos as hamburgers do with Latinos. Rising through the ranks of restaurant work, Sanchez managed White City’s Apple Cellar

after years of cooking, beginning with Medford’s erstwhile IHOP. Washing dishes offered him his first chance for employment in Southern Oregon after four months of scrounging soda cans for cash. Friends had encouraged him to come north from Los Angeles, where he sold ice cream on street corners. Emigrating at age 22 from Mexico to the United States, Sanchez left behind a life of construction work that his lack of formal education afforded. “There was not enough money to continue,” says Sanchez of schooling in Mexico City. Completing his high-school equivalency while opening Memo’s, Sanchez obtained U.S. citizenship earlier this year. Now, he says, he wants to help other immigrants succeed. “The only way you can do it, you have to be a citizen,” he says of advocating for people who have faced some of the same obstacles that he did. “There are some times you feel like you are falling down,” he says. “We have to not give up.”

[ANDY ATKINSON PHOTO]

Facing page: The Sanchezes, from left, Joshua, Jonathan, Guillermo and Caleb, are pictured just before they helped build the house they qualified for with Rogue Valley Habitat for Humanity’s Sweet Place Subdivision in Medford. Above: Guillermo Sanchez prepares breakfast on a Sunday morning at Memo’s Kitchen in Medford.

Reach freelance writer Sarah Lemon at thewholedish@gmail.com.

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Kim search drew national attention A devastating loss and a daring rescue in Josephine County captivated many By TONY BOOM For the Mail Tribune

n early December 2006, media attention across the nation was focused on southwestern Oregon as numerous agencies searched for a family of four that went missing in remote western Josephine County. James Kim lost his life when he hiked to get help for his family, but his wife, Kati, and daughters Sabine and Penelope were rescued after being spotted from the air. The spotter was not a part of the formal rescue operation but was searching using his own helicopter. “I read about them being lost. I saw where they were coming from and going to. I travel that route all the time. I just started to search that area,” recalled John Rachor, who lives part time in Agness. The Kims left Portland late the afternoon of Nov. 25 en route to Gold Beach. After dinner in Roseburg, they missed the turnoff on Highway 42. At Merlin they headed west on Bear Camp Road after seeing what appeared to be a straight route to Gold Beach on a map. Bear Camp is a sometimes narrow, twisting road popular in summer but susceptible to winter closures as it rises to 4,400 feet. The Kims apparently missed signs warning that snow could impact the road, then CONTINUED ON PAGE 50

Top: Kati Kim, right, talks to rescue personnel Monday, Dec. 4, 2006, after she and her two daughters, Sabine, 7 months, in yellow, and Penelope, 4, were rescued in the mountains about 35 miles west of Grants Pass. Her husband, James Kim, died while trying to hike out for help. Above, left: Kati Kim holds her daughter, seven-month old Sabine Kim, in the back of a helicopter after they and her other daughter, Penelope, 4, were rescued from Bear Camp Road, Monday, Dec. 4, 2006. Left: An undated photo provided by Oregon State Police shows James Kim and his daughters, Penelope, left, and Sabine.

[Grants Pass Daily Courier /Jim Krois]

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4/19/2017 2:19:34 PM

A rescuer carries Sabine Kim, 7 months, Monday, Dec. 4, 2006, in Merlin, to an ambulance after the infant, mother and sister were rescued after being stuck in snow on Bear Camp Road. [GRAntS PASS DAily CouRieR / JiM KRoiS]

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got off the main road after encountering snow and took a route that led downhill. Eventually they became stranded. Search efforts didn’t begin until Nov. 30 after they were reported missing. Original efforts focused on all of western Oregon, then southwestern Oregon. A review of cellphone records Dec. 2 helped narrow the search area to western Josephine County. On his third day in the area, Dec. 4, Rachor spotted footprints in snow where James had left the dirt. From there he followed the road and located Kati Kim about 10 minutes later. Another helicopter was able to land up the road 200 yards farther to rescue the Kims. “When I first saw them, she was waving an umbrella around in the road,” said Rachor. “I stayed right over her so she would realize I saw her.” Sgt. Shawn Richards is Jackson County Sheriff’s Office search-and-rescue coordinator, but he was with the Klamath Falls Sheriff’s Office in 2006 and participated in the search. Richards and volunteers came over with three vehicles on the second day of intensive searching before Bear Camp

Road was identified as a likely spot. Richards was searching in the Wolf Creek area initially, looking for clues and talking with local residents. Searching continued until James Kim’s body was located in a creek Dec. 6. “The volunteers and the staff felt absolutely devastated,” said Richards. “We are thankful anytime a search ends, but when it ends in one of our subjects being deceased, it is devastating to everyone. We all work extremely hard to avoid that outcome.” A report by the Oregon State Sheriffs’ Association on the search noted a lack of coordination among the multiple agencies and private efforts. The tragedy led to the formation of the California Oregon Regional Search and Rescue network and state legislation that spells out who is in charge in a search situation. Additional signage warning of winter dangers on Bear Camp Road was also installed. “One of the things that came out of it was (Oregon Revised Statute) 404. In Oregon now, if I take a case in Jackson County, I own that case until I prove it’s in someone else’s jurisdiction,” said Richards. “That was because of the ongoing (Kim search)

issues. No agency wanted to own it.” The OSSA report, requested by the Josephine County Sheriffs’ Office, found issues with communication, command and control structure, heavy media demands, use of different ground coordinate systems, use of volunteers, and lack of coordination for air assets. Rachor met Kati Kim a year later, and with Sara Rubrecht, search and rescue manager for Josephine County, went back with her to have a picnic at the spot where the vehicle was stranded. Kati remarked that she had never gotten to eat anything at that place. Rachor has had contact with Kati over the years and stays in touch on Facebook. Rachor was a Jackson County commissioner and has continued his volunteer search efforts from the air, although he now uses an airplane. In 2012, he found three mushroom hunters who became lost in the forest in Curry County, and he has been involved in numerous other searches. Tony Boom is an Ashland freelance writer. Reach him at tboomwriter@gmail.com.

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THE DELUGE

Stories of Rogue Valley floods reveal sharing and compassion

By JOHN DARLING For the Mail Tribune

STORY ON PAGE 54

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Ashland Creek roars through the Plaza during the 1997 New Year’s Day flood in Ashland. [MAil TribuNe/file PhoTo]

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hen local residents recall major floods that have hit Southern Oregon over the past halfcentury, they tell tales of tragedies, certainly — but also of triumphs born from people helping each other in their darkest hour. The most notable floods here in modern history occurred in 1964, 1974 and 1997. The Christmas flood of 1964 was considered a 100-year flood, meaning a 1 percent chance of happening any given year, but some call it a 1,000-year flood. It followed the typical pattern — a big freeze, then a big snow, then a Pineapple Express storm with a heavy, warm rain. It took 17 lives in Oregon, caused hundreds of millions of dollars in damage, destroyed all or part of 20 towns and went on for three weeks. Ray Rippey remembers, “In 1964, I stood near the Shady Cove bridge shortly after a logjam took it down. They built a singlelane wooden bridge just downstream. I remember how spooky it was when we would drive over it. My grandmother’s neighbor had built his house on a little hill. His house had become an island, and he used his riverboat to get to it. It was exciting and the scariest thing I ever saw. We were standing literally a few feet from the edge. … Then all of a sudden a house came down the river. Hundreds of logs and debris would float by. I may have been 9, but it was seared into my memory forever. I will always have the utmost respect for the Mighty Rogue.” Commenting on a Facebook flood thread, Patrick Clafin, who lived through the ‘64, ‘74 and ‘97 floods, notes, “My dad took the family to Dodge Bridge (Eagle Point) after the flood of ‘64 took it out. We saw a house going down the Rogue. In ‘74, I was working with the Talent Rural Fire Department. I drove a big tanker with 8,000 gallons of water. We’d pump water into the Ashland water system, because they were afraid it would collapse with no water in it after they lost the reservoir. It was pretty crazy. We drove 24 hours a day. The owner of the Log Cabin Tavern on the Ashland Plaza ran a rope across the street and tied it to a lamp post. He said, ‘We never close,’ and offered nickel beer. In ‘97, the family was caught in Ashland, so we hit the freeway and were the last car they let into Talent.” “In ‘74, I lived across the street from Lithia Park,” says Brook Hodapp, founder of Nimbus, an art and clothing store on the Plaza, “and the creek was a big, smooth river that got raging as it hit the confines

Bear Creek washes over the Main Street bridge in Medford in early February 1890.

of the Plaza. For three nights, I lay in bed and could hear giant boulders being rolled down this river. It was amazing to me, the power it had. Friends on Tolman Creek had a big, 24-inch tree going through their living room, and it was filled with sand to the ceiling. The bandshell in the park caved in and was leveled. It took out tons of trees and radically changed the park’s look and feel.” Former Ashland City Administrator Brian Almquist notes a huge rain fell on 19 inches of snow in 1974, turning hills to mush. “It’s something you can’t plan for,” he says. “Culverts were too small, and our facilities were inadequate. You need to know who to call. I called Jim Lininger (Construction), and he sent a crew with backhoes, dump trucks. They helped us get back to normal. It’s nice to know people who will help. All basements downtown were flooded to the rafters. The volunteers were great, 300 of them helping clean up the park. Some merchants were angry and said we should have warned them in advance. In ‘97, I could see it coming, so at 11:30 at night I went down and told the bars to vacate as soon as possible … and they said, ‘Eh, we’ll keep our eyes on it.’ It was worse than ‘74.” In 1974, Darla Claire was living by the Ashland golf course and a tiny creek turned into a raging river. Neighbors with a tractor saved the bridge. “I’ll never forget all the large debris, trees, fencing, car tires thrashing down the river so close to our house,” Claire says. “The noise was incredible. We had to yell to hear each other. Our shed started to shake, and away it went, along with the ground it

was sitting on. My brother and I jumped back just in time.” The New Year’s Day flood of ‘97 came roaring in just minutes before corkpopping time at midnight. Advancing technology, teamwork and drills helped cities prepare. Hard-hit Ashland had no water, so it brought in large semi trucks with showers inside, and porta-potties were planted all over town. FEMA set up tables for emergency loans. “Such a mess with all the mud in Plaza stores,” says Jane Groveman Sterling. “Two weeks without water, but disaster always brings communities together.” “I filled garbage cans with water at gas stations so we’d at least be able to flush the toilet,” says Deborah Weiss Mokma. “We rented a room at a motel so we could bathe — and shared that with others in need. ... People rallied so beautifully, we made new friends, never felt alone and have great stories to tell.” “I was horrified by the water damage and stories,” says Jane Hodapp Maynard. “It was a very difficult time, but I learned a lot from it, compassion being on top of the list.” “I kayaked Bear Creek,” recalls Gary Schrodt. “No eddy-outs at all, major tree jams and barbed wire, lawn chairs in trees. Eventual bailout through massive invasive blackberry jungle. Lost a paddle. Long hike with kayak in wet suit and a hitch-ride back. Damn, sure glad I did it, grateful to be alive.” “The ’97 flood shattered the context ... by going, ‘Here’s something inescapable.’ That flood remains the only time in my life I’ve seen people come together because

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“The noise was incredible. We had to yell to hear each other. Our shed started to shake, and away it went, along with the ground it was sitting on. My brother and I jumped back just in time.”

The Lithia Park Bandshell under water in the 1974 flood. [Southern oregon hiStorical Society #5428]

they must,” says Mateo Geoly. Carol Ann Garner notes, “I remember crying as I watched the destruction of downtown and thought they could never get it back together, but they did an awesome job and, in Lithia Park, worked with what Mother Nature left them.” Medford historian Sue Waldron has researched the flood of 1890, which cut off transportation routes. “It isolated the

valley,” she says. “There was no in or out for almost a month. A big snowstorm came on Dec. 24, 1889, and it snowed for 30 days. There was up to 7 feet in the mountains and 39 inches in Jacksonville, as measured by Peter Britt.” Some 150 train passengers were stranded in Ashland, unable to get over the Siskiyou Pass, Waldron says. All bridges on Bear Creek were swept away between Medford

and Ashland. Jackson Creek flooded Jacksonville, and there were many mudslides. “People did the best they could and worked with supplies they had. The newspapers ran out of newsprint, but called for wallpaper, poster paper, any paper — and kept valley folk up on the flood news. There was no note in the papers of anyone going hungry. Most had food. It may not be what they wanted. Ashland people brought food to hotels (for stranded people). Housewives and farmers brought in canned food and stored apples. People, especially in Ashland, shared a lot. Communities back then were better about sharing.” John Darling is a freelance writer living in Ashland. Email him at jdarling@jeffnet.org.

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Witness to destruction Medford resident Dorothy Conner survived the sinking of the Lusitania By JOHN DARLING For the Mail Tribune

he family of wealthy socialite Dorothy Conner made its fortune in the roofing business in Indiana, enabling her to graduate from prestigious Wellesley College and leaving her with the desire to do what she could for the war effort. So she got certified in first-aid and joined the effort of her older sister Julia and Julia’s husband, Lord Harold Reckitt, an English Quaker who wouldn’t fight in war, but who wanted to start a hospital in France instead, says Medford historian Sue Waldron. The hospital was called Johnstone-Reckitt Military Hospital. To get to Europe, Dorothy Conner, 25, and her brother-in-law Dr. Howard Fisher, who planned to help with the hospital, bought passage on the RMS Lusitania, which, thanks to a German torpedo, would rest on the bottom of the Atlantic before the week was out. Dorothy had come to Medford in 1913 with her mother, Katharine, following her brother, Boudinot, who’d invested in the booming fruit industry here. The Conners bought 55 acres of rural land north of Jacksonville and built a fine house on it, which they called “Sundown Hill.” Dorothy mixed with the upper crust of the Rogue Valley, acted in “Society Vaudeville” with noted golfer Chandler Egan and, according to the Encyclopedia Titanica, wrote friskily to a college friend, “I haven’t even taught Sunday school. I have no occupation, but I am very, very busy.” Her mother helped her pack for the voyage, lending her trunks. Dorothy, perhaps a bit prophetically, commented she was “afraid something might happen to them.”

Dorothy Conner dances with H. Chandler Egan in this photo from December 1914. [SoutHErn orEgon HiStoriCal SoCiEty #18076]

On May 1, 1915, Dorothy mailed her mother a postcard from the still-docked ship in New York harbor, complaining of the chilly weather and the delay, which resulted from taking on new passengers from ships afraid of sailing to Britain. The newspapers had printed a warning from the German government reminding that a state of war existed with Great Britain and ships of that nation or its allies were “liable to destruction,” so passengers traveling in the war zone around Britain “do so at their own risk.” “The Lusitania is now being held up and there is a report that the captain has lost his

nerve, but I think we will get off all right,” Dorothy penned home. Later, Dorothy wrote in her diary, “I’d never seen a more uneventful or stupid voyage.” The Encyclopedia notes that shipboard friend Margaret Mackworth recalled the submarine threat had been discussed, and Dorothy commented, “I can’t help hoping that we get some sort of thrill going up the channel.” Talk like this, especially the “thrill” remark, won Dorothy a reputation in history as a flippant, rich debutante, but Waldron, in her long research, says that’s a misconception, and that Dorothy later

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denied saying she wished for a thrill. One point in Dorothy’s favor, says Waldron, is that when her father was disabled with a stroke, she, a young girl, took care of him until his death, thus igniting her interest in caring for wounded soldiers. How tiny details get remembered in big tragedies is one of history’s mysteries, but it’s been passed down that Dorothy, in the final hours of that great ship, “when she dressed for lunch, chose a fawn-colored tweed suit with matching boots. She accessorized with her sapphire and pearl pins, and a treasured ring; an owl carved of gold, with diamond eyes,” notes the Encyclopedia Titanica. Dorothy got her wish for some excitement when a German U-boat fired a torpedo that ripped open the starboard side of the huge liner, sinking it in 18 minutes, with loss of 1,198 of 1,959 souls, leaving only 761 survivors. “Dorothy and Howard were at lunch when the torpedo hit, and they went to the boat deck,” according to The Lusitania Resource. There they saw lifeboats spill as the crew struggled to lower them, so they decided to jump into the water instead of getting in a lifeboat. Lucky for her, Dorothy remembered to grab a life jacket before she jumped.

“The Lusitania is now being held up and there is a report that the captain has lost his nerve, but I think we will get off all right,” Dorothy penned home.

“She went unconscious, was tangled in ropes and wires. A couple passengers pulled her out. She was in a lifeboat six hours,” says Waldron. Dorothy was finally rescued and taken to Queenstown, in Ireland. “She got reprimanded for requesting a private room in a hotel. She had bruises and scrapes and a bad gash on her leg. Her brother-inlaw in London was a doctor and took care of her. By July, she was off to organize that hospital in France.” As it turned out, Howard also was rescued and survived to reach France. Also supporting the picture of Dorothy as a compassionate worker for good was her service at the front, helping create and run canteens, setting up in bombed-out French homes and treating the shell-shocked troops, says Waldron. “The canteens were bombed sometimes.

She would cook, clean, make coffee, sew on buttons, roll cigarettes and locate films for them to watch,” Waldron says. The Reckitts’ hospital was set up south of Paris and specialized in leg and hip injuries and brought the latest X-ray technology, says Waldron. One might think Dorothy would be turned off to ships after the Lusitania sinking, but she traveled extensively, finding her husband, Officer Greene Williams Dugger, on one ship. They married and had two children. Dorothy died in 1967. As for the Lusitania, its sinking was greeted by the world as an appalling act of savagery against innocent civilians — and the tragedy helped leverage the United States into the war. Britain denied Germany’s allegations that the ship was a war transport carrying arms to Britain. However, in 1983, when salvors set out to bring up historic and valuable parts of the ship, Britain finally had to step forward and caution them that the ship indeed carried 173 tons of ammunition — including 4 million bullets — so be careful. John Darling is a freelance writer living in Ashland. Email him at jdarling@jeffnet.org.

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Three gold stars of the Ashcraft family Ashland family lost their three sons in a nine-month span serving in WWII By JOHN DARLING For the Mail Tribune

f the 16 million Americans who served in World War II, 2.5 percent were killed, so there would be only a slim chance that three brothers would be lost from one family — yet it happened to the Ashcraft family of Ashland, one of several such tragedies that led to the Sole Survivor Act of 1948. Former Ashland High School history teacher Norman Ashcraft and his wife, Ethel, lost all three of their sons in a ninemonth period of World War II, two in flying mishaps and the last — a sole survivor of the family — at the costly and failed second battle of Monte Cassino in Italy. The parents at some point could have petitioned the Army to send their remaining sons (or last son) home, but this did not happen. The process did work for the Borgstrom family after they lost four sons in 1944-45. They successfully petitioned to have their fifth son pulled from the service and a sixth son exempted from the draft. However, the worst case — and the one inspiring the new law — was the death of the five Sullivan brothers in the sinking of one ship at Guadalcanal in 1942. The parents of the Ashcraft warriors honored them with a polished granite

tombstone at Mountain View Cemetery, across from Fire Station No. 2 on Ashland Street, which depicts a four-engine bomber and a cross that says, simply, “In Memory of the Ashcraft Brothers.” Engraved are the names of the sons who doubtless made their parents proud during that three-and-a-half year period of the global war — Navy Lt. J.G. Dean Bruner Ashcraft, who died June 5, 1943; Navy Lt. Kent Norman Ashcraft, who died Dec. 27, 1943; and the last son, Army Staff Sgt. Leland James Ashcraft, who died Feb. 29, 1944. One can only imagine the pain of losing one son to war, let alone all three in a short span. Ethel would wear the three stars of a Gold Star Mother for the rest of her life. Soon after the war, the parents moved to Canyonville, but requested their own burial next to the memorial stone of their sons. Dean, the youngest, was the first to perish. He’d attended Southern Oregon College of Education and was a senior at Oregon State College, says local historian Lynne Hasselman, who studied the family extensively and wrote a series called “We Regret to Inform You,” published in the Ashland Daily Tidings. “The ideal candidate for Naval Flight

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Preparatory School, Dean attacked his grueling coursework with customary diligence and enthusiasm — mathematics and physics, physical training, military skills, naval customs and etiquette, flight simulation work and flight testing,” she wrote. “Passing with high marks, he received his gold aviator’s wings and finished his training with 200 flight hours on front-line Navy aircraft. Dean was chosen as a flight instructor at the Naval Air Station in Pensacola, Florida.” Dean and his passenger were killed in an aircraft accident off Miami Beach. His brother, Lt. Kent N. Ashcraft, accompanied his younger brother’s body to Ashland for burial. The minister at his memorial said, “Dean’s jovial disposition was a dominant characteristic. With malice toward none and with divine faith, he held high hopes for himself and for all of humanity.” Middle brother Kent, a graduate of Ashland High School, was married, living with his wife, Beulah, and brother Leland in Ashland. He did pilot training at SOCE and graduated as a Naval aviator in August 1941. Flying a PBY seaplane patrol, he and his crew of five disappeared on a flight from the Gilbert Islands to Baker Island, both in the South Pacific. He was never found. Oldest son Leland worked at the Ice & Storage Co. in Ashland, and then was a forestry student at Oregon State College. He went in the Army, rising to staff sergeant in an infantry division and seeing combat in the Allied invasion of North Africa and Italy. He was wounded in the gritty invasion of Italy, but healed and was sent to the front again, where his unit tried to take the German bastion of Monte Cassino, an ancient monastery south of Rome. It was, writes Hasselman, “a dry and dusty mountain with remains of bodies, blackened trees and dead pack mules. The Germans were determined to hold it at all costs. Every

A memorial in the Mountain View Cemetery on Ashland Street tells of three brothers who died during World War II. The memorial states that Kent Ashcraft died late in 1944, but was reported missing a year earlier while on a plane flight during a rescue mission in the Pacific, according to articles in the Mail Tribune archives. [MAIL TRIBUNE/FILE PHOTO]

foot of the way was heavily mined, and men died waiting for transport over the circuitous trails to aid stations. It was here on its rocky, rubble strewn hillside in the shadow of the once majestic Abbey of Monte Cassino where Leland died Feb. 29, 1944.” Out of these tragedies came some good. The Sole Survivor Law, passed by Congress and signed by President Truman — but too late for the Ashcraft family — said if a service member had a sibling killed in action, he or she could be discharged or protected from the draft. It became law in 1948.

“Dean’s jovial disposition was a dominant characteristic. With malice toward none and with divine faith, he held high hopes for himself and for all of humanity.”

John Darling is a freelance writer living in Ashland. Email him at jdarling@jeffnet.org.

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The Coast Guard prepares to rescue Bob Haworth and crew after they lost their mast and sails in a storm, ran out of diesel fuel, andthe boat’s engine and electrical systems failed. [CourTesy PHoTo/BoB HaworTH]

Lost at sea Jacksonville musician Bob Haworth recalls near-death experience on a sailing trip By JOHN DARLING For the Mail Tribune

hen you speak of triumph and tragedy, Jacksonville musician Bob Haworth has known both. In his younger years, Haworth was a member of the famed Brothers Four and Kingston Trio, where he saw some of his greatest triumphs. But at age 68, he fought what could've ended in his greatest tragedy: a battle for his life at sea. Haworth came to Medford with his family in 1959, when his father took over as the city's Parks & Recreation director. He went to Hedrick Junior High and Medford Senior High School, picking up a knack for music, something he nursed at University of California, Los Angeles. He was groundskeeper at the first Britt Festival, where he struck up a friendship with Medford on-air personality and talent manager Jim Bailey of KSHA. Bailey formed and managed music groups for Chrysler, each named after car models. Haworth started his career as one of the New Yorkers and soon was cutting records, he says, and fighting off teeny-bopper groupies. In 1969, he joined the Brothers Four, famous for their

folk hits “Green Leaves of Summer” and “Greenleaf.” In the mid-'80s, he joined the legendary Kingston Trio, traveling to gigs all over the world. He retired in 2005. “Folk was a great genre, very different from all the others, because it told a story,” he says, adding that he liked to tell audiences the historical background of each one. “They started in old England, where they were the newspapers of the time.” A Kingston Trio favorite, "Tom Dooley," comes from an actual lover’s triangle in the Civil War South, resulting in the stabbing death of a young beauty by her spurned lover — and his hanging. It’s a story that still rivets audiences, he notes. His latest composition humorously bemoans his own near-death experience crewing on a friend’s sailboat as they tried to make it from Hawaii to Los Angeles after a big storm broke the mast. Further threatening their survival was a failing engine, with no fuel or electrical power. “All we had was a satellite phone. We called our families and the Coast Guard, but we were 1,100 miles away from California, halfway across the ocean, and they said it

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Bob Haworth, a former member of the Kingston Trio, plays his guitar and sings a song at his home in Jacksonville. Haworth survived a harrowing ordeal at sea when he was 68 years old. [Mail Tribune / JaMie lusch]

Haworth entertains the crew during their fateful voyage. [PhoTo courTesy of bob haworTh]

was too far. They got a Chinese freighter to find us.” The 640-foot ship stopped dead in the water, so their little ketch slammed into the rear several times, damaging the hull. The tanker lowered a fuel line, but that and other debris clogged the sailboat’s propeller — and the seasick and barfing Haworth had to dive in the frigid water several times to unclog it, all the while trying to breathe through a garden hose. “One thing it did in a big way was reinforce my belief in prayer," he says. "I was on my knees praying for our engine to start, and it did. That was real. The whole church was praying for us, too. We puttered along for a few days until we got within a couple hundred miles of L.A. Then the Coast Guard came out and towed us gingerly at 6 knots because our boat was so damaged.” When he finally stepped on land in Los Angeles, he called his wife, Mary, in Jacksonville, where they live. It was their 25th wedding anniversary. “She didn’t seem worried at all, but it was a great anniversary present.” John Darling is a freelance writer living in Ashland. Email him at jdarling@jeffnet.org.

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WIKIMEDIA COMMONS

BURIED, BUT ALIVE Former Crater Lake park ranger Randy Benham recalls avalanche rescue By VICKIE ALDOUS Mail Tribune

andy Benham was cross-country skiing around the rim of Crater Lake on a search-and-rescue mission when he saw an avalanche hurtling toward him and his three companions. “All of a sudden I looked up and the whole side of the mountain came loose and came down on us,” recalled Benham, who was living near Grants Pass and working as a back-country park ranger when the avalanche struck Jan. 21, 2002. As he was swept downhill, Benham tried to body surf and stay near the surface of the snow, then grabbed hold of a tree. “My life flashed before my eyes. I thought it was over,” he said. When the snow stopped moving about 10 seconds after the avalanche broke loose, Benham was partially buried. Benham’s search partner, volunteer ski patrol member Bill Bloom, was nowhere to be seen. The pair had begun their day searching for two Portland skiers who were two days overdue on a cross-country ski trip around Crater Lake. Along the way, they had come across two Klamath Falls skiers visiting the park and formed a group of four to travel along East Rim Drive. Like Benham, visiting skier Richard Ward was only partially buried and was

able to get out of the snow. “One guy was right below me,” Benham said of Ward. “He sat up gasping for air.” Ward’s friend Kris Fisher, also visiting from Klamath Falls, was buried upside down with only the ski tips poking out. He was covered in 6 feet of snow for about 10 minutes before Benham and Ward were able to extricate him. “He was completely buried. We were able to dig him out. He was purple. He started breathing again,” Benham said. Benham and Bloom were both equipped with avalanche beacons, but Benham was unable to pick up a signal from his missing partner. Precious minutes were ticking away as Benham probed the snow at the bottom of the slide area, finding nothing. Meanwhile, Bloom was up near the road, immobilized under 6 feet of snow, with only a small pocket of air he had made by putting his hands in front of his face as he was buried alive. Hyperventilating and with his heart pounding, Bloom struggled to slow his breathing and conserve oxygen. He could hear Benham’s voice on his Park Service radio, but didn’t know the other three had been swept downhill off the road — out of range of his avalanche beacon. As the oxygen supply in his air

pocket dwindled and carbon dioxide built up, Bloom began to drift in and out of consciousness. Benham knew Bloom’s chances of survival had been slashed in half after 30 minutes went by. “I’d been a ranger for years. We train all the time for avalanches and probing,” Benham said. “When it happened, I went into automatic rescue mode. I was looking for Bill at the bottom at first. Then I fell to my knees. It had been 30 minutes. I started crying. I thought, ‘I’m going to lose a good friend, and I’m going to a funeral next week.’” With the Klamath Falls visitors expecting him to take charge and give directions, Benham regrouped and continued his search. “By now I thought I was looking for a body,” he said. As they worked their way up the hill, probing, Benham picked up Bloom’s avalanche beacon halfway up the slope. As he moved over Bloom’s location in the snow, he poked Bloom’s elbow — jarring him back to consciousness. The probe came down again, this time into Bloom’s gloved hand. He grabbed it, vowing to hang on until his rescuers got

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“When it happened, I went into automatic rescue mode. I was looking for Bill at the bottom at first. Then I fell to my knees. It had been 30 minutes. I started crying. I thought, ‘I’m going to lose a good friend, and I’m going to a funeral next week.’”

him out of the snow. The trio on the surface dug through the snow and rescued him — 40 minutes after he was buried. Bloom was hypoxic from lack of oxygen and hypothermic from the cold, but Benham fed him hot liquids and put him in a sleeping bag. Warmed, Bloom was able to ski out with the others, then drove himself to a Klamath Falls hospital, where he stayed overnight. The overdue Portland cross-country skiers were later found, uninjured, by other searchers. The Portland couple also had been caught in an avalanche, but were buried only waist deep. Their progress through the park had been slowed by new snowfall. Later that year, Benham was given the U.S. Department of the Interior’s Exemplary Act Award — the most prestigious recognition that can be given by the National Park Service for heroism. Ranger Benham’s timely, accurate and professional response undoubtedly saved the lives of both Bloom and Fisher, the National Park Service said. Despite receiving the award, Benham said the avalanche experience made him reconsider his career. In addition to working winters at Crater Lake National Park, he worked summers as a Grand Teton National Park ranger in Wyoming.

Although the Grand Teton rangers were able to rescue many hikers and climbers, they also had to respond to gruesome deaths. “In some summers, we would have half a dozen fatalities. They were not pretty, because people would fall 1,000 feet,” Benham said. While working as a ranger, Benham also had been running a business that designed and sold rescue equipment and clothing. He incorporated fire-resistant fabric into the clothing. After the avalanche, he focused more on his business. With soldiers suffering horrific burns from explosions in wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, the United States military came calling. Benham signed a contract to provide fire-resistant combat garments in 2008 and his business took off. In 2009, the business had 65 employees and was making $100 million per year. A San Francisco Bay area company bought it out. “I retired in 2009. I was 49 years old,” Benham said. “I was getting bored.” After watching an episode of the escapist show “House Hunters International,” he moved to Honduras on the Caribbean side of the country in 2012. Benham learned advanced diving skills and now runs a dive shop. Benham said it was the avalanche that eventually led him to fulfill his dream of living in the Caribbean. “It was a wake-up call, because I realized I wasn’t invincible,” he said. “I was highly trained. But you can have all the training in the world and still get buried in an avalanche.”

Randy Benham, shown at the top at Crater Lake National Park, has traded in mountain rescues for tropical dives. He now runs a dive shop in Honduras. [CouRtesy PHotos]

Reach reporter Vickie Aldous at 541-776-4486 or by email at valdous@mailtribune.com.

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Top Gun Former golf pro wisely navigated the danger zone By TAMMY ASCNICAR For the Mail Tribune

“H

uman beings are not designed to kill,” says Jim Wise. But, in war, it’s kill, or be killed. “You do what you were trained to do.” Jim Wise reflects on both his life and his 40-year career as the head golf pro at Rogue Valley Country Club with satisfaction, pride and gratitude. The Vietnam War occasionally appears in his rear-view mirror. “There are a few memories that come up now and then,” admits Wise, a longtime Medford resident who flew 266 combat missions for the U.S. Navy in two tours of duty, including the last "kill" of the war. He is awed that he survived. On Jan. 12, 1973, Lt. James A. Wise was the radar intercept officer for pilot Lt. Victor T. Kovaleski when they shot down a Vietnamese People’s Air Force MiG-17 over the Gulf of Tonkin, about 55 miles southeast of Haiphong. Wise and Kovaleski scored the 167th and last MiG “kill” of the war. The North Vietnamese pilot, Lt. Luu Kim Ngo, ejected just before his plane exploded into a huge fireball and careened into the water. His body was later found in the gulf. He would be the last VPAF pilot killed by the Americans. It was the final air victory for the U.S. Navy. U.S. air operations in Southeast Asia were grounded two weeks later when delegations from the United States, North Vietnam and South Vietnam, and the Viet Cong signed a peace treaty Jan. 27, 1973, in Paris. Wise and Kovaleski each earned a Silver Star, and the “final kill” was logged in the annals of the Vietnam War. “In all humility, we were just doing our jobs,” Wise recalls of that day more than

Longtime head professional Jim Wise kneels next to a plaque dedicated to him at Rogue Valley Country Club. [MaiL TRibune/JaMie LuSCH]

44 years ago. “We were in the right place at the right time.” A 1964 graduate of Medford Senior High School, he volunteered for the military in 1968 after completing studies at Southern Oregon State College (now SOU) and Oregon State University. He graduated Sept. 28, 1968, from Aviation Officer Candidate School in Pensacola, Florida. After additional schooling in Georgia and California, and “Top Gun” training at Miramar Naval Base in Southern California, he was sent to the South China Sea. He served two stints aboard the U.S.S. Midway — March to November 1971 and April 1972 to March 1973. Wise’s job was to navigate F-4 Phantom II fighter jets through the danger zone. The pilot-RIO relationship — based on a mutual no-questions-asked trust — saved each of their lives “any number of times,” Wise says. When the radar intercept officer dispatches a shift in position or a break in formation due to “threats from behind” or catches a glint of enemy aircraft sidling up too close, “it’s better to do and ask questions later.” Attached to the VF-161 squadron assigned to the Midway, the F-4 section — the lead plane and a wing — fended off surface-to-air missiles and engaged in aerial combat with Russian-made MiG-17s for months during the Linebacker I and II campaigns.

“North Vietnam was a heavily defended country,” recalls Wise. And the MiG-17s “could bore holes in the sky.” The aircraft could maintain 8G turns and attain a maximum speed of 715 mph. It could climb to 30,000 feet in three minutes; the initial ascent was 14,000 feet per minute. One moment of complacency could prove fatal. The F-4s, however, had earned a reputation as “MiG killers.” The Phantom was a large fighter with a top speed of more than Mach 2.2. The aircraft served as the principal air superiority fighter for both the Navy and Air Force. Launched from the deck of the Midway, the jet could reach 180 mph in two seconds. “It was a carnival ride,” says Wise. The final air combat was a cat-andmouse chase at first; it took four passes for the controller to get hooked on the MiG. And it would take two sidewinder heat-seeking missiles to halt the enemy’s pursuit. The first strike knocked off a section of the left tail; the second ignited the plane. Triumph is bittersweet when it comes face-to-face with tragic reality. “You know you did what you had to do, but you know you shot somebody down,” he says. “It’s an emotional thing to kill another human being. You deal with it.” Wise did “deal.” “I was blessed with a C.O. (commanding

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Wise on the putting green at the Rogue Valley Country Club. [PHOTO/ANDY ATKINSON]

officer) who made the job bearable.” In addition to his flight duties in the cockpit, Wise scheduled daily flight operations. An awesome responsibility for “a 26-year-old kid,” he admits. “But it was just a matter of common sense, logic and graphs.” Wise notes that 58,000 Americans never made it home from Vietnam. Two of his buddies almost didn’t. Fellow radar intercept officer Lt. John “Jack” Ensch and pilot Lt. Cmdr. Ronald E. McKeown were forced to eject under enemy fire in a dogfight over Nam Dinh Aug. 25, 1972. McKeown was killed. Ensch was captured and spent eight months as a prisoner of war in Hanoi before he was sent home. Two days after he and Wise scored their landmark victory, Kovaleski was downed by North Vietnamese enemy aircraft in the

Gulf of Tonkin. He and his radar intercept officer, Ensign D.H. Plautz, bailed out of their crippled fighter and were rescued by Navy helicopters. They were the last Americans shot down by the North Vietnamese. “I watched men die,” says Wise. “I watched them be buried at sea. I still tear up every time I hear ‘Taps.’ Yes, there are lots of memories." "The camaraderie developed in combat is unique to itself," he continues. “You can’t explain the bond you form with someone with whom who’ve shared a life-and-death situation. It was quite an experience.” Wise’s last cruise was in March 1973. Although he loved flying and considered re-upping, he had a family waiting for him at home in Medford It was those family ties that kept him anchored all those months at sea. A newlywed when he shipped out, he wrote his bride a letter every day; three letters every two days. And once every 40 to 50 days, he spent $10 a minute on a telephone call home. Still married to Vickie 48 years later, he remarks that it is a considerable feat “considering the divorce rate in the U.S. Navy is about 40 percent.” “But in our entire squadron, we are all with our original spouse,” he adds. It was Wise’s then almost 2-year-old daughter, Paula, who convinced him it was time to end his aviation career. “She didn’t recognize me … she didn’t know who I was,” he says. “That really tugs at your heart.” Like many returning Vietnam soldiers, his homecoming was met with disdain. He remembers being spit on by “a hippie in San Francisco.” It wasn’t until 19 years ago — some 25 years after his military career — that he

received a “thank you for your service.” “And that was from a neighbor who called out over the backyard fence,” he says. Wise intended to go back to school and become a physical therapist. However, one day after playing a round of golf at RVCC and a round of “beers and B.S.,” he received an intriguing job proposition. “I had played golf all my life there,” he says. “I had never considered becoming the golf pro.” He accepted the offer and was the head golf pro for 40 years. His “baby” was the annual Southern Oregon Golf Championship Tournament. He says that although it required coordinating 416 golfers and working 14-, 15-, 16-hour days over eight days, he “loved it.” “And the event has become the biggest match play tournament in the state,” he adds. Retired since 2012, Wise says he is enjoying the time with his family that now also includes two sons, seven grandchildren and two great-grandchildren. He now has the time to play the game he loves. “I play more golf now than I ever did during my career,” he says. In honor of the first and last Vietnam-era air-to-air combat victories, a restored F-4 Phantom at the San Diego Aircraft Carrier Museum is emblazoned with Squadron 21 and 161’s colors, and the splitter plate bears the names of the eight pilots and RIOs who scored MiG kills. Wise reflects on the historical significance as merely the result of “doing a good job and doing it right.” “I marvel at the fact that I did it.” Reach Grants Pass freelance writer Tammy Asnicar at tammyasnicar@q.com.

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In the Biscuit fire’s wake

A firefighter keeps a lookout for spot fires on Chrome Ridge while crews burn out lines on the northeast end of the Biscuit fire in 2002. [MAil TRiBune/file phoTo]

Half-million-acre conflagration ultimately benefited the forest, studies show

By TONY BOOM | For the Mail Tribune

helly Hoffer could hear popping noises coming through the phone as she talked with a Biscuit fire lookout in summer 2002. The sounds were coming from snags in an old burn area that were exploding as flames from what became a half-millionacre conflagration roared through the area. Hoffer, now wildlands fire supervisor for the Oregon Department of Forestry in Grants Pass, was interagency center

manager during the Biscuit fire, working out of the Merlin airport. The fire began July 13 and wasn’t declared out until Dec. 31. Lightning strikes set off five fires there and merged into what became Oregon’s second-largest fire at that time, behind the 1865 Silverton fire. Fires burning elsewhere kept down the initial response, and weather conditions forced the blazes together. Hot-shot crews, smokejumpers and large helicopters

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Jacksonville

through the doors, emotionally through the doors, emotionally exhausted owners often in tow. exhausted owners often in tow. “Those pets and families build “Those pets and families build real special bond,” Schropp says. a reala special bond,” Schropp says. “When successful, sad “When we’rewe’re not not successful, it’sit’s sad for everybody.” for everybody.” Sometimes prognosis looks Sometimes the the prognosis looks grim yet doctors still prevail. One grim yet doctors still prevail. One canine patient, for instance, recently canine patient, for instance, recently in with anemia and several camecame in with anemia and several other symptoms consistent with other symptoms consistent with cancer or another severe immune cancer or another severe immune disease. But after a few tests, veteridisease. But after a few tests, veterinarians discovered the animal had narians discovered animal hada Rocky Mountainthe spotted fever, Rocky Mountain spotted fever, a the tick-borne infection that affects tick-borne infection that affects theit, immune system. Doctors treated immune system. Doctors treated it, and the dog got well. and theWith dogmany got well. pet-related afflictions, With many pet-related afflictions, a diagnosis can be difficult to come a diagnosis can the be difficult to come by, because animal can’t comby, because the animal can’t com- or municate pain beyond whimpers municate beyonddoctors whimpers anger.pain Sometimes, don’toreven anger. Sometimes, doctors don’t even get that. get that. “We as humans have to make these “We as humans have to make these decisions for the animals,” says Kenn decisions for the animals,” says Altine, executive director for Kenn the Altine, executive director for the Southern Oregon Humane Society. Southern Oregon “Animals sufferHumane through aSociety. lot really sort ofsuffer quietly.” “Animals through a lot really danger, which pet doctors sort of One quietly.” expect will which increase later this year, One danger, pet doctors expect will increase later this year,

marijuana toxicity. toxicity. Symptoms isismarijuana Symptoms include tremors, inability to include tremors, inability tostand stand and nausea. Cases have increased and nausea. Cases have increased graduallyover over the the past gradually past 10 10years, years,and and Schroppanticipates anticipates it Schropp it will willworsen worsen withOregon Oregon pot pot legalization legalization mere with mere months away. months away. “Wesee seeitit fairly fairly commonly. “We commonly.It’s It’snot not pretty,” Schropp says. pretty,” Schropp says. When professionals can’t help the When professionals can’t help the dog, cat or other beloved pet, it’s a dog, cat or other beloved pet, it’s a difficult pill to swallow. Workers at difficult pill to swallow. Workers at the facility, from receptionists and the facility, from receptionists and veterinarians to those who clean the veterinarians to those who clean the cages, get attached to animals they’re cages, get attached to animals they’re put in positions to help, Schropp put in When positions Schropp says. theyto arehelp, unable to bring says. When they are unable toeverybring about a happy result, it affects about a happy result, it affects body. It takes a lasting toll, too. everybody. It takes a lasting too. Schropp says there is toll, a high Schropp of says there is a high incidence people leaving the vetincidence of people leaving veterinary field, and many sufferthe from erinary field, and many suffer from depression. depression. “Professional burnout in the veteri“Professional burnout in theright veterinary field is a very big problem nary field a very big not problem now,” she is says. “That’s part ofright now,” says. traditionally “That’s not part of whatshe we learn in veteriwhat learn traditionally in veterinarywe school. nary school. “When you lose and (the animals) don’t do well, it’s aand bigger loss in a lot “When you lose (the animals) of ways.” don’t do well, it’s a bigger loss in a lot Veterinarians can sometimes get of ways.” Veterinarians can sometimes get

“We asas humans have “We humans have toto make these decimake these decisions forfor thethe ani-anisions mals. Animals suffer mals. Animals suffer through a lot really through a lot really sort of quietly.” sort of quietly.”

OREGON

— Kenn Altine, executive director, — Kenn Altine, executive director, Southern Oregon Humane Society Southern Oregon Humane Society

The historic town that never gets old!

lucky, however. A rabbit being held at however. rabbit in being at anlucky, area shelter was A brought withheld a an area shelter was brought in with a rattlesnake bite. Lacking anti-venom rattlesnake bite. Lacking anti-venom at that time, facility officials put it on at that time, facility put it on pain medication and IV officials fluids, and medication and IV fluids, thepain rabbit survived. Successful casesand the rabbit Successful like that keepsurvived. Schropp around, ever-cases like that keep Schropp around, ready to try and give quality of life everready to try give quality of life back to pets on and the brink. backme, to pets onallthe “For this is thebrink. fun things of “For me, this is all the Schropp fun things of the profession in one place,” the“It’s profession in onewhen place,” Schropp says. very satisfying it goes says. “It’s very satisfying when it goes well.” well.” Reach reporter Ryan Pfeil at 541776-4468 or rpfeil@mailtribune. Reach reporter Ryan Pfeil at 541com. Follow him at www.twitter.com/ 776-4468 or rpfeil@mailtribune. ryanpfeil. com. Follow him at www.twitter.com/ ryanpfeil.

Our Valley

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weren’t assigned in the early days because of low potential loss values, said Hoffer. “The first few days, crews were just busting their butts. The attitude was, 'We are going to get these.' They worked hard, long hours,” said Hoffer. “Then managers said, ‘This is just not safe. We are not catching them,’ so they brought in an interagency fire team.” Eventually there were three teams of managers, firefighters and support personnel — one in the Illinois Valley, one in Gold Beach and one in Brookings. More than 7,000 personnel worked on the fire. The Biscuit fire destroyed four residences and 10 other structures, put 15,000 Illinois Valley residents on evacuation notice, and cost $155 million to fight. No deaths were reported. “This was an extraordinarily large fire. It covered a tremendous amount of variability around the landscape,” said Tom Sensenig, a retired Forest Service ecologist. "It burned from coastal areas with over 80 inches of precipitation annually to the eastern perimeter with 20 inches." The fire included all 180,000 acres in the Kalmiopsis Wilderness Area. The burn there was most like the natural fire regimen, said Sensenig. Elsewhere on Forest Service and Bureau of Land Management land, the fire was sometimes in areas that had been logged. Douglas fir was the predominant species, covering about 70 percent of the fire area, while hardwoods comprised about 25 percent. “Given the climate at the time, the same landscape could burn quite differently in July versus September. It’s hard to say what is natural,” said Sensenig. A lot of back burning was done to halt the fire on its eastern perimeter so it wouldn’t reach inhabited areas, Sensenig noted. Almost all areas burned to some degree, he said. The U.S. Forest Service had 75 plots in areas outside the wilderness that it had been tracking prior to the fire. Plots were monitored for vegetation, tree species, soil characteristics, ground cover and other ecological features. In 2012, two crews went back in to view effects 10 years after the burn. The studies, which took two seasons, found the majority of the fire was of mixed to low severity, said Sensenig. Hardwood stands had the lowest amount of severe burns. About 40 percent of the conifers showed low to moderate damage, while about 30 percent of Douglas fir burned at a high intensity.

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Top: Lee Webb, retired biologist for the Rogue River-Siskiyou National Forest, walks through a stand of dead trees on the Babyfoot Lake Trail in 2012. Above: A wall of flames rises from backburn operations during the Biscuit fire in August 2002. [MAIL TRIBUNE/FILE PHOTOS]

“We did see abundant regeneration everywhere," said Sensenig. One- to 2-year-old seedlings were prevalent, but it isn’t certain whether they died off after that time or became established. The next survey in 2022 will answer that question. LIDAR and aerial images of the Kalmiopsis showed severe burns in 65 percent of the area, but that was to be expected as the type of cycle for landscape in a more natural state, said Sensenig. Forest Service botanical surveys to determine whether invasive plant species had sprung up in the Kalmiopsis showed few invasive species along accessible trails in 2008 and 2012, reported forest botanist

Clint Emerson. Surveys along the Illinois River in 2011 and last year found Scotch broom, meadow knapweed and false brome were prevalent, but those were established before the fire. Rare plant species found in the 1930s and later were still found after the blaze, he said. “Generally speaking, it was very much beneficial for the forest. I can say ecologically it was within the bounds of its natural cycle, but someone else might say, 'Oh, that’s the worst thing I have seen,’ ” said Sensenig. “It was a beneficial fire in many ways.” Tony Boom is an Ashland freelance writer. Reach him at tboomwriter@gmail.com.

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Larry Binney in front of Larry Binney Field at North Medford High School. [PHoto By ANdy AtkiNSoN]

Architect of a dynasty Larry Binney was so good at coaching, they named a field after him By GREG STILES Mail Tribune

hen they name a ballpark in your honor, you must be doing something right. The third season after taking the reins of a fledgling Medford High School softball program, Larry Binney led the Black Tornado to its first state championship in 1984. His teams went on to win three more state crowns before he retired — a second time — as North Medford’s softball coach in 2002. In 2008, the North Medford softball park was christened Larry Binney Field. Like most successful coaches, Binney molded talent and pulled the right in-game levers. More important, he developed a network of age-group teams staffed by a legion of volunteer coaches that produced varsity-ready talent each spring. There was little to suggest after two years that the new program would soon take its place among perennial powers. The late Ben Fagone, a retired postal worker, mayor and 5 percent owner of the local minor league baseball team, initiated the program in 1980. It may come as a surprise to people watching the flood of year-round Amateur

Softball Association games at U.S. Cellular Park, but until 1982, there was no such thing in the Rogue Valley. “We didn’t have an ASA program, none at all,” Binney says. “I realized the Eugene and Portland area schools were all playing 50 to 60 games a summer; that’s another two seasons of game experience. In order to compete with the Churchills and Putnams, I knew we had to play summer ball.” Crater and Medford fielded ASA teams that next summer, and Fagone coached an eclectic team, forming a three-team league. “We played each other a whole lot that summer,” Binney says. The first championship team was led by sophomores and freshmen in 1982, and they worked in season and out. Coaches and players alike were dedicated and motivated, says outfielder Linda Partsafas Guches. “They would literally have to kick us out of the gym at 10 at night, because we wanted them to pitch and throw to us as long as we could go,” she recalls. “He was great at fundamentals, whether you were a freshman or

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senior, you were doing the same thing every day. He held the girls accountable for their actions. You played with class on the field, you represented your school and were pillars in the community.” When the 1984 season rolled around, Medford had a seasoned squad with nine juniors and a lineup that featured senior sluggers Angie Jacobs and Carrie Larson Becker. It was a particularly wet spring. “We had four games in Redding in preseason and then weren’t able to play for a couple of weeks,” Binney recalls. “Then we played 20 games in 26 days. It was ridiculous because we had so many games stacked up on us.” Nonetheless, Medford entered the postseason with one loss. In the first round, the Black Tornado ousted North Eugene, 9-1. The rain persisted into June. The quarterfinal matchup with Rex Putnam of Milwaukie turned into an adventure before the teams took the field. The game was scheduled to be played at Putnam, but it was too wet, and the contest was shifted to Roseburg. “Then it started raining in Roseburg,” Binney says. “It was before cellphones, so once you got on the road, that was it. We drove up and we had to come back to Medford.” Three days after the game was scheduled, the teams met in Hood River — one of the few dry places in the state. Medford’s Angie Jacobs scored from first on an error in the top of the ninth for a 2-1 win. In the bottom of the eighth, the Tornado cut down the potential winning run when Lisa Christensen tried to stretch a double into a triple. “(Left fielder) Heidi Mangold made a perfect throw to (shortstop) Nicole Cherry and Cherry made a perfect throw to Lisa Cronin, who tagged the girl out at third,”

he says. “It was a big-time play.” The long drive back to Medford didn’t faze the team, although Binney wasn’t sure how he managed to get the team van home. The next day, Medford spanked Madison of Portland, 10-0, in the semifinals. But the championship game, scheduled for June 9, didn’t get played until June 11. Central Catholic pitcher Kristin Jacobs owned Oregon softball that spring, chalking up six no-hitters and regularly striking out 10 or more batters. The ace in the hole the Tornado had that afternoon at Irv Lind Stadium was pitching coach Duke Anderson, who served up heater after heater in practice and batting practice. Still, Kris Anderson, Nicole Milne and Angie Jacobs were all retired on strikes in the first inning. “That was Angie’s first strikeout of the season,” Binney says. “I vividly remember her hustling back, taking off her helmet, and putting on her (catching) gear. It could’ve been a deal where she didn’t handle it well, but she did.” The Tornado broke through in the fourth with a run, added three in the sixth, and put it away with two more in the top of the seventh. By game’s end, both Jacobs and Larson had swatted home runs. Junior Tressa Arnsberg surrendered one hit in earning the win. In his post-game meeting with his team in the outfield, Binney pulled a silver runner-up medal from the 1964 state baseball championship, when Klamath Union came up short. “It had been sitting around the house, and I thought maybe I’d have a chance to use this in some way,” Binney recalls. As he pulled the medal out of his pocket, he told his players: “It turned to gold today.” When you played for Binney, Guches

says, “you expected to win.” After the North/South split in 1986, Binney retooled and his teams won backto-back championships in 1997 and 1998. “Some people would say, ‘Hey, let’s make it to playoffs,’ “ he says. “But the ultimate goal in high school ball is to be state champion, and that was always our goal.” Prior to 1982, all the region’s softball teams were in one district, regardless of size. The superintendent’s office figured it was time to have a teacher running a varsity program. Medford High Principal Bob Williams had coached Binney when he played American Legion baseball for the Klamath Falls Falcons and recommended him for the job. Binney taught at Jefferson School, had coached Little League and Ashland’s American Legion squad in 1968 and 1969, but hadn’t pursued a head coaching position. Medford School District had dropped its elementary athletic program the year before, turning to intramurals. It was an unpopular move in many quarters. When Assistant Superintendent Rick Slaven approached Binney about the softball job, he hinted it was his if he helped out with intramurals. Binney initially declined. “I saw him a day or two later, and he said, ‘Don’t worry about (the intramurals), we want you to coach softball,’” Binney recalls. He wound up coaching intramural soccer and basketball, during the fall and winter. The spring, however, set the table for what was to come. Reach reporter Greg Stiles at 541-7764463 or by email at gstiles@mailtribune. com. Follow him on Twitter at www.twitter.com/GregMTBusiness, on Facebook at www.facebook.com/greg.stiles.31.

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13 people died and 125 were injured the day a dynamite truck exploded in Roseburg By TAMMY ASNICAR For the Mail Tribune STORY ON PAGE 74

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n Aug. 7, 1959, at about midnight, a few hours after a delivery truck loaded with six-and-a-half tons of dynamite and ammonium nitrate drove into downtown Roseburg, a small fire erupted. By 1:14 a.m., the city center had been leveled by an explosion heard around the world. Bruce Bryden, a Medford resident, spent his childhood in Roseburg. He was 16 years old when what locals call “the blast” jolted him out of bed. He was sound asleep on the bottom bunk; his brother asleep on the top. “I don’t remember jumping out of bed,” he recalls. “But there I was out of bed and hollering. Everything shook for threequarters of a minute to a minute.” Looking out their bedroom window, he saw several charred sticks about a foot long scattered and smoldering in the front yard. He and his brother climbed into the family pickup with their father to find out what had happened.

“I don’t remember jumping out of bed,” he recalls. “But there I was out of bed and hollering. Everything shook for three-quarters of a minute to a minute.”

They could see the glow of a fire raging on the other side of town. As they neared downtown, about a half-mile from their home, they saw shattered glass several inches thick strewn all over the streets. The Brydens parked at the Umpqua Hotel, a few blocks away from what Roseburg Mayor Harlow Jacklin later dubbed “ground zero,” and walked in as close as they dared go. Bryden remembers chaos as rescue workers rushed to the scene. Some people were blown through windows, others ran in panic, and some wandered past in a state of shock, bloodstains polka-dotting their faces, arms, legs and clothes. He recalls seeing a jeweler attempt to pick out pieces of jewelry tossed among the shards of glass. “We surveyed the mess and went back home,” Bryden says. The Brydens had witnessed only a glimmer of the aftermath of what has been called “one of the worst disasters in the history of small-town America.” The next day, the town “was jammed with the curious and the press,” says Bryden. When the firestorm was finally controlled, 13 people were dead and 125 injured. The first-responders who rushed to fight the original blaze were among the casualties of the explosion.

The night before, George Rutherford, the driver of the dynamite truck, had parked in front of the three-story Dent-Gerretsen Contractors Supply building, where a security guard was supposed to be on duty. He had checked his load, locked the truck doors, and left for a room at the Umpqua Hotel. His employer, Pacific Powder Company of Tenino, Washington, had been worried about nighttime theft and had told Rutherford not to leave the truck overnight at the explosive-storage depot outside Roseburg, as was customary. At about midnight, a fire of unknown origin broke out in the Dent-Gerretsen building. The sign on the truck warning of explosives did not catch the notice of the firemen and police on the scene until it was too late. A little after 1 a.m., Rutherford was awakened by the sirens and flames and rushed toward his truck. The truck’s load exploded when he was a half-block away, blowing him back and knocking him unconscious. The detonation broke windows up to seven miles away and was reportedly heard as far away as Eugene, more than 50 miles distant. The explosion sent a ball of flame and a mushroom cloud of smoke more than 2,000 feet into the air. A Roseburg policeman

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described the explosion as looking like “an A-bomb”; a pilot flying over the vicinity at the time actually thought there was a Soviet attack. Among the dead were a fireman, policeman and residents of a nearby apartment building, including a family of five who Bryden says lived in an apartment above a downtown bike shop. Several passersby and onlookers were also either killed or injured. Mercy Flights’ “Iron Annie” delivered urgently needed pints of blood, medical supplies and equipment, and quickly evacuated the critically injured. The force of the blast was so strong, “a truck axle landed in someone’s front yard, about a half-mile away,” recalls Bryden. One report speculates it was the axle from Rutherford’s truck. Bryden says the property owners left it in their yard for a number of years as a souvenir and allowed folks to come by to photograph the artifact. The axle is on display in the Douglas County Museum. The blast, which left a crater 20 feet deep and more than 50 feet in diameter, leveled eight blocks of Roseburg’s commercial core. For two weeks, more than 100 Oregon National Guard troops patrolled the blast area so the coroner and other investigators could recover human remains and inspect structural damage. Buildings within a 30-block radius were so severely damaged they were later demolished. When the dust settled, damage to the city was estimated at $10 million to $12 million. “Fortunately, it was night … and in an industrial area with only a few residences,” says Bryden. One of the buildings demolished was the junior high school, he says. The in-fill

Boxes and other debris are scattered outside a coffee shop after the blast. [COURTESY PHOTOS/THE CITY OF ROSEBURG]

development in the blast area was primarily commercial, he remembers. “Nothing was the same as before,” says Bryden, who graduated from Roseburg High School in 1961. “We even lost our ball field.” Prior to the 1959 disaster, Roseburg was “a relatively quiet lumber town … not growing very fast,” recalls Bryden. The reconstruction of downtown created a surge in new jobs, realignment of streets and urban renewal. “It worked out pretty well for the city,” he says. “But it was a real tragedy.” According to an Oregonian reporter who was on the scene, civil-defense authorities from “throughout the country” took special interest in Roseburg’s efforts following the explosion, noting the small-scale similarity to a nuclear attack. In addition, like many small American cities at the time, Roseburg had no

disaster-response plan. The blast caused Roseburg and other communities to prepare such plans. Although a lawsuit brought to light Pacific Powder’s poor safety record, neither the company nor Rutherford was found liable. However, Pacific Powder did eventually award $1.2 million in damages to the victims. The explosion brought national attention that resulted in stricter transportation safety regulations and Interstate Commerce Commission enforcement. One vivid memory Bryden has of “ground zero” is the smell. “The smell lingered for a long time,” he says. “It was an aroma I had never smelled before, and have not smelled anytime after. I imagine it’s what war smells like.” Reach Grants Pass freelance writer Tammy Asnicar at tammyasnicar@q.com.

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Forged by fire 1879 fire changed the character of downtown Ashland By VICKIE ALDOUS Mail Tribune

t the beginning of 1879, buildings on Ashland’s downtown Plaza looked much different than they do today. Buildings packed onto the Plaza were made of wood, with flat-topped business facades or gabled roofs that made them look more like houses. “Basically Ashland, like most of the towns in Southern Oregon, had predominantly wood one-story and occasionally two-story buildings. We have lots of wood in Oregon,” says Ashland-based historic preservation consultant George Kramer. “There was a row of structures on the Plaza. The buildings were built cheek by jowl.” In March of that year, disaster struck. A fire that started in a blacksmith shop on the Plaza quickly spread to other

structures, destroying most of the wood buildings there. “The only fire department was a bunch of guys with buckets who came running from all directions and tried to fight the fire. One building would catch fire, and then it would spread,” Kramer says. When the fire was finally extinguished, town leaders wondered what to do. By 1879, Ashland was becoming more prosperous and was less of a tenuous pioneer settlement. The city passed a new ordinance requiring construction with fireproof materials in the area. “The city said, ‘From now on, everyone’s got to build in brick. Enough of this other stuff,’ “ Kramer says. New buildings began to go up equipped with fire shutters — large metal doors that

could be closed over windows to contain fires, he says. “The fire was the beginning of a modern city version of Ashland. It was a frontier town before,” Kramer says. A building owned by the International Order of Odd Fellows with other owners was among those left in ashes. As it pondered rebuilding plans, the IOOF and its partners originally thought about constructing a onestory brick building, but eventually decided on a two-story building, according to a 1977 nomination form to put the building on the National Register of Historic Places. Construction on the new IOOF building began the same year as the fire and wrapped up in 1880. “A fine building, Oddfellows hall has been constructed at a cost of $6000; The

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This photo, circa 1878, shows the wooden buildings along the Ashland Plaza. [SouThern oregon hiSToricAl SocieTy PhoTo]

records having been burned, it is impossible to give any portion of the lodge’s history,” early resident A.L. Walling wrote. At the top of the building, the fraternal club put the letters IOOF. “When they built the IOOF building, they fully expected it to have a centennial,” Kramer says. “There’s a reason why the IOOF put their name and the date up at the top. They were proud of who they were and what they had built. They thought their grandkids would be looking at it someday.” Kramer says the beauty and high-quality construction of the buildings built more than a century ago on the Plaza still draw people to the area today. While the 1879 fire was a disaster for the early townsfolk, such fires were common for new Western towns built with wood, he says.

Grants Pass had a similar sweeping fire later, and like Ashland, insisted on brick construction thereafter. The move to brick created a local shortage, and brick had to be brought in from Portland, Kramer says. Articles would appear in the Grants Pass newspaper about the first stories of buildings going up. Work would halt, then resume again when new shipments of brick came in, he says. “The Ashland Plaza fire was certainly inevitable and extremely typical,” Kramer says. “If a merchant today has a perfectly serviceable building, they don’t tear it down and rebuild unless they’re forced to. The fire made Ashland improve itself.” Reach reporter Vickie Aldous at 541-776-4486 or by email at valdous@mailtribune.com. OU R VA L L EY

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Architectural triumph with a checkered history Jacksonville bed and breakfast may finally have owners who can make the property prosper By TERESA THOMAS Mail Tribune

he historic Nunan House with its columned veranda, pretentious Queen Ann-style embellishments and prospect of charming Jacksonville has caught the eye of many wives over the years, but only a few have been able to persuade their husbands to purchase the estate. Jeremiah Nunan was the first man to gift his bride the 4,088-square-foot mansion. Nunan, a successful businessman and entrepreneur, selected the house — Design No. 143 — from a catalog called “The Cottage Souvenir” and reportedly had the material shipped from Knoxville, Tennessee, in 14 boxcars. The house was designed by architect George Franklin Barber of Knoxville, built by local contractor H.F. Wood and was projected to cost between $6,000 and $7,000, according to the Historic American Buildings Survey. Born in 1844 in Ireland, Nunan moved to Jacksonville in the 1860s during the gold rush and opened a harness and saddle shop with his friend, Henry Judge, and later a mercantile. There are conflicting reports of how Nunan met his wife, Delia O’Grady. Delia’s sister Anne O’Grady married Judge, and some say Nunan met Delia through her sister. Others say the O’Grady sisters were mail-order brides and the two men flipped a coin to determine who got which sister, according to information gathered from the

Southern Oregon Historical Society. Nevertheless, Nunan married Delia in 1872, and the couple had seven children — two died in infancy. They had been married 20 years when Nunan purchased the grand house for his wife. On Dec. 2, 1892, the Jacksonville Democratic Times reported that the Nunan family had moved into their elegant, new residence in Jacksonville. “It is by far the handsomest edifice in southern Oregon,” the newspaper article read. Sadly, however, the house was the setting of much heartache for Nunan, who quit it after living there for two decades. In June 1895, his son Edward, 20, was riding through town when the “cynch of the saddle loosed and the saddle turned.” He was trampled by the horse, suffered a concussion and “lived only a short time,” according to the Democratic Times. Three years later, the newspaper reported that Nunan’s youngest daughter, Ella Rose, 20, died in San Francisco of food poisoning or, specifically, “the effects of eating ice cream that had stood in tin too long.” On May 20, 1916, news of Nunan’s own death was published under the headline “Another Pioneer Gone.” Nunan, who had since retired to Oakland, California, committed suicide at age 77 at the home of his eldest son, Charles John, in Jacksonville.

Over the years, many speculated that Nunan’s “temporary insanity caused by ill health,” as described by the Democratic Times, was actually caused by lead poisoning from the lead water storage tank and lead pipes in the house, but no proof was ever found. The home, at 635 Oregon St., had several owners between 1912 and the 1980s, when it caught the eye of Connie Seus. Bob and Connie Seus lived in California but had a farm in the Applegate. “Once my wife discovered the Nunan House was for sale, every time we went through Jacksonville she’d want to stop by it and would just sit there and look at it,” says Bob Seus, a retired industrial supplier. In 1988, Bob caved to Connie’s not-sosubtle hints and purchased the house for $500,000. From about 1990 to 1994, the Seuses offered historical tours of the 3.19acre property, and Connie ran a Christmas store in the carriage house. In 1994, the Seuses moved into the house and, over the years, transformed the estate into a place for their grandchildren, adding a 20-by-40-foot swimming pool, paving the road so the kids could ride their gocarts and remodeling the first floor of the carriage house into a play room with jukeboxes, pinball machines, a pool table and soda bar. “We are totally oriented toward our grandchildren,” says Bob, who has five

Jacksonville’s landmark Nunan House, shown here in 2006, was ordered as a Christmas gift for Delia Nunan. [Mail TribuNe/file pHoTo]

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children and 29 grandchildren. “During the summertime, there were kids there every day. It was like a beehive. “It was home,” he says. Bob built a six-car garage and shop for his tools, and Connie updated the kitchen, replacing the old refrigerator and reproduction stove with new appliances. Connie especially enjoyed decorating the place for the holidays. There would be six or seven Christmas trees, and she would prepare a holiday feast for 50 or more people, which was typical for most Seus meals, Bob recalls. “Everyone says my wife should have married Santa Claus,” he jokes. But one day, unexpectedly, Connie decided to sell the house. Molly McPherson, a Whidbey Island, Washington, lawyer, was visiting the area with her husband, Derek, and fell instantly in love with the place, according to Mail Tribune archives. The couple couldn’t afford the house at the time, but Derek promised Molly he’d buy her the house one day. In 2006, the house was put on the market, and Derek went out and purchased $100 worth of lottery tickets, including the

$7.4 million winning ticket. Soon after, they purchased the Nunan House from the Seuses for nearly $2.5 million. The couple continued to live in Washington but hired Dana Keller to manage the bed and breakfast and coordinate special events, and her husband, Tim Keller, a chef, ran the restaurant, aptly named The Carriage House. “Derek and Molly bought it on a whim, and I don’t think they fully realized the amount of work and finances it would take to make it a success,” says Dana Keller. In 2011, the McPhersons sold the property back to the Seuses, who held the mortgage on the place, for about $1.77 million. (Connie Seus died later that year.) The house sat empty, except for a caretaker, until 2015, when Bob sold the property for about $1.25 million to local hoteliers Doug and Becky Neuman and their partners in the venture, Mark and Sid DeBoer. Initially, Doug Neuman intended to develop the property, but after touring the mansion, Becky persuaded him to add it to their hospitality portfolio, says Don Anway, general manager of the Neuman Hotel Group.

The Neumans plan to offer wine tours and tastings from the estate, which is ideally situated at the entrance to the Applegate wine country. They also are working to get approval to build six to eight outbuildings with additional guest suites. It would be set up similar to the Lithia Springs Resort in Ashland, Anway says. "I’m so excited to concept the whole estate starting with the beautiful house,” says Becky Neuman. “The architecture is stunning, and it has been beautifully maintained.” Becky Neuman intends to decorate the house in a chic Victorian style with gold accents, reminiscent of the town’s goldmining history. She purchased 100 photos from the Southern Oregon Historical Society, including early photos of the house and Jacksonville, as well as portraits of the Nunan family, to display in the house. “I’m so happy the Neumans have purchased this, because they have the resources, desire and finances to make that beautiful property a great success,” Dana Keller says. Reach reporter Teresa Thomas at tthomas@mailtribune.com.

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Medford Meteor Marshall Holman took the bowling world by storm in 1970s and ’80s Marshall Holman at Lava Lanes in Medford. [MaiL Tribune/

By KRIS HENRY Mail Tribune

hree 12-year-old boys routinely climbed on their bicycles and made their way down to Medford Lanes, never once considering that one of them would one day be enshrined into the Professional Bowlers Association Hall of Fame. Bowling was more about fun for the trio back in the mid-1960s, and that activity filled most of their days and nights outside the Babe Ruth baseball season in Medford. “It was just me and my buddies going down bowling,” says Marshall Holman. “It had nothing to do with trying to get ready for a career, it had everything to do with just doing something that was fun. Then it turned into a career.” And what a career it has been for Holman, who went on to secure 22 PBA Tour titles and more than $1.7 million in earnings over a fiery run that allowed him to rank ninth on the 2009 list of the 50 Greatest Players in PBA history. Holman was inducted into the PBA Hall

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of Fame in 1990 and Oregon Sports Hall of Fame in 2001 among a host of honors following his flamboyant career on the lanes. “I feel fortunate that I found bowling, because bowling was where I was supposed to be,” says Holman, who was born in San Francisco but moved to Medford at age 4 and still calls it home 58 years later. Holman cut his teeth in the sport at 12 after watching bowling on television and asking his father, Phil Holman, to take him bowling. While the father didn’t really have any interest in bowling, the son more than made up for it with his own enthusiasm, even if the results weren’t immediately present. “We went down to Medford Lanes and bowled a game, and I didn’t show any kind of promise at all,” recalls Holman, who serves these days as director of sales and marketing for Diamondback Vineyards. “My first game was a 71. Not 171, but a 71.” With good friends Andy Magerle and

Steve Rennick also into the sport, the trio became regulars at Medford Lanes whenever they could. They would play in junior leagues in the mornings and return at night to watch the adults in action, which proved pivotal for Holman as he developed his style. “I kind of learned how to bowl the same way you learn how to walk, by watching role models,” says Holman, singling out local amateur standout Jerome Lee. “I was very fortunate that a series of right place, right time and watching the right people led me to becoming a good player.” Bowling provided a perfect outlet for Holman’s competitive drive. At 5-foot-9 and 140 pounds, Holman knew he was never going to compete in football or basketball, and he just didn’t have the same penchant for baseball as his friends. Constant time spent in the bowling lanes and trips to compete in Eugene, Portland and Seattle finally helped hone Holman’s

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skills and left him with the notion that he could possibly make a few dollars in the sport. He began with the idea to become a competitive bowler at age 17 — much to his father’s chagrin — and caught a break in 1974 when he received a short-term sponsorship from local businessman Phil Fields to compete on the national tour. “I certainly didn’t start my career with any great expectations at all,” says Holman, admitting he didn’t have a fallback plan if bowling didn’t pan out. “I would sort of look to my right and look to my left and see all these star players and think, well, at one point they started out exactly where I am, so maybe I could do well.” He won his first PBA title at the Fresno Open in 1975 and then became the youngest winner in the Tournament of Champions when he won the 1976 event at age 21. “To me, that was what was so neat about Marshall,” says Rennick. “When he came out on tour it was like, bang, here he is. He really did kind of take the world by storm. He got in there with the men and he just continued to kick everybody’s butt. They all knew who Marshall was.” Holman says all the stars aligned for him back then. “Most everyone who went out on tour back in my day, and I suppose even today, you have to kind of learn how the professional game is bowled and get used to the different ways the lane is prepared,” he says. “When I went on tour, it was as if the people preparing the lanes were doing them just for me and they were saying, ‘OK, Marshall, have fun.’ I didn’t have to adjust my game to fit the tour conditions, the tour conditions fit my game so that gave me more confidence.” Holman was the epitome of a power bowler in his career, throwing a strong ball with a lot of heavy roll after his quick burst

“People either really, really liked me or really did not. That was all right, too, I didn’t mind being the villain. I think a sport needs a villain, but as the years progressed, I became more of a fan favorite, which is far more enjoyable.”

to the line. He was also unapologetic about wearing his heart on his sleeve, and the emotions that often surfaced went against the grain back in those days compared to the more composed stars like Earl Anthony and Mark Roth. “It was probably the most authentic thing that I’ve ever done, because there was nothing scripted about the way I would react,” says Holman, who drew plenty of public ire for his antics in the early stages of his career. “Everyone knew that I was going to have some kind of reaction to many of my deliveries, but nobody, including me, knew what that reaction was going to be. That’s what made it kind of fun, and people either really, really liked me or really did not. That was all right, too, I didn’t mind being the villain. I think a sport needs a villain, but as the years progressed, I became more of a fan favorite, which is far more enjoyable.” Anthony and Roth were among those who were often in Holman’s corner sticking up for their young counterpart, and the trio brought about great theater on the lanes with their nationally televised battles in ABC’s prime Saturday afternoon time slot from January through late April in the

1970s and ‘80s. That era is often referred to as the sport’s heyday. “Earl was the machine-like bowler from the left-hand side, Mark was the super-cranker and I was Mr. Wacko,” says Holman. “In any given week you would see one, two or all three of us on the telecast, so it was a great time for bowling. Bowling was very healthy back then and it was fun being a part of that threesome. I was always the third wheel in that threesome. It was either Mark was the best player that year or Earl was the best player that year. Sometimes I’d be the second-best, but usually I was like third, and it wasn’t a bad place to be.” Longtime PBA staffer Larry Lichstein dubbed Holman the “Medford Meteor” in the late 1970s. “Part of it was the way I threw the ball, and part of it was the way I reacted, because I was fairly volatile,” says Holman, who rarely bowls anymore. Holman was named the PBA Player of the Year in 1987, earned his final PBA title in 1996, and gained a prominent role as color commentator for ESPN and CBS from 1996-2001. “I don’t think anybody who goes out can expect to do as well as he did,” says Magerle, “but once he got started and actually doing quite well, he was dominant out there for quite a few years. That’s not easy to do in any sport, and at the time Earl Anthony and Mark Roth ... those guys were really, really good, so for him to stay at the top of his game for so long says a lot. “You have to be mentally tough to handle that, and he turned out just to be that, mentally tough, and it showed,” Magerle says. Reach reporter Kris Henry at 541-7764488, khenry@mailtribune.com, www. facebook.com/krishenryMT or www.twitter.com/Kris_Henry.

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The twists and turns of Dead Indian Memorial Road are part of a beautiful drive that loops past several mountain lakes. [MAIL TRIBUNE/FILE PHOTO]

The Legend of Dead Indian Memorial Road A dark name for one of Oregon’s most beautiful roads By JOHN DARLING For the Mail Tribune

eautiful Dead Indian Memorial Road, running through Cascade foothills and national forests from Ashland to Lake of the Woods, got its unfortunate name because in 1855, settlers found two Indians dead on a small prairie about where HyattPrairie Road comes into it now. Pioneers attached that “Dead Indian” moniker to the prairie, to the creek whose headwaters are there, and to the wagon road, which pioneers blazed on top of an ancient Indian trail connecting the Klamath and Rogue basins over the Cascades. Stories about the men varied wildly then and still do, but apparently, no slur was intended by the name — and no one is sure

how the Indians died. “I’ve heard they found two bodies, but when you’re dealing with pioneer history, it’s not very exact or well written down, and things get exaggerated, so I don’t think we’ll ever really know what happened,” says Ashland historian George Kramer. Historian-archaeologist Jeff LaLande of Ashland, who has researched the issue over many decades, says it’s pretty certain that the Indians either died of disease (whites brought in many new diseases to which Indians had no defense), or they were victims of inter-tribal warfare with Klamath Indians on the other side of the Cascades. It was the time of greatest hostility

between natives and settlers and, says LaLande, if settlers had killed them, they would have openly claimed the deed. The deaths happened at the time of the Rogue River Indian Wars when a man named Fred Alberding, who was emigrating over the Cascades, apparently lost a horse during the night and, seeing smoke of nearby Indians when he awoke, assumed they had stolen it. Alberding dashed into Ashland and rounded up a posse of 15 men, noted local historian Bill Miller in a 2011 Mail Tribune story. In the ensuing clash, three settlers were wounded and one, Granville Keene, was killed. The settlers fled and soldiers from

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Fort Lane were called in. That’s when at least two Indian bodies — and some say as many as 15 — were found. Patrick Dunn, a settler who lived near the present Emigrant Lake, and other members of the posse found the dead Indians in their wikiup, says LaLande. “They were on a punitive mission to punish and likely kill assumed livestock rustlers,” he says. “The two stories about how they died were told at the earliest date, so they hold the most weight — and didn’t implicate the whites. If settlers had killed them, they wouldn’t be shy about it. They would be proud of it. They felt they were taming the country.” Showing how fuzzy 160-year-old history can be, LaLande says he never found evidence that soldiers got involved or that there was a battle between Indians and whites. In addition, LaLande doubts any immigrant was on that wagon road, because they used the Applegate Trail, some 20 miles to the south. If it was an inter-tribal attack, it likely would have arisen from the longtime enmity between Klamath Indians on the east side of the Cascades and Shasta or upland Takelma on the west side — or disease took them

down, notes an entry in the online “Oregon Encyclopedia” by Ann Staley. It turned out that the Indians accused of stealing the horse that started the whole ordeal had been gathering berries, and the missing pony wasn’t stolen but wandered back in on its own, noted Miller. As the civil rights movement bloomed in the mid-20th century and America became more conscious of degrading epithets — this one certainly made the grade — the Jackson County Board of Commissioners, which oversees county roads, was called on to change it. A huge dust-up ensued, with many letters to editors and vigorous testimony at meetings. In 1993, the board changed the name to Dead Indian Memorial Road. Those who didn’t like it, including many Native Americans living here, tried to get their point across by saying: “How would you feel if it were named ‘Dead White Man Road?’” The name also carries baggage from Gen. Philip Sheridan, who infamously said, “The only good Indians I ever saw were dead” (which later on became, “The only good Indian is a dead Indian”). Kramer observes of the new road name, “I thought it wasn’t much of a name change.

I remember the logic against changing it was that people didn’t want the cost of getting new business cards. The new name is not less offensive, but it’s not an issue for me. But then, I’m not Native American.” The wagon road now called Dead Indian Memorial Road did not run to the Klamath Basin until about 1870. It was completed by Klamath Indians under the supervision of Oliver Cromwell Applegate, the son of legendary Lindsay Applegate, who blazed the Applegate Trail, an alternate and safer route than the Oregon Trail. It parallels portions of Highway 66 now. Regardless of the flap, the highway is one of the beautiful drives in Oregon, with great views of Pilot Rock, Mount McLoughlin, Mount Ashland and the town of Ashland nestled in the upper Bear Creek Valley. It provides access to Shale City Road and the Grizzly Peak trail, passes Earth Teach Forest Park and goes into the Rogue RiverSiskiyou and Klamath national forests, with access to Howard Prairie Lake, Hyatt Lake and Lake of the Woods, where it joins Highway 140. John Darling is a freelance writer living in Ashland. Email him at jdarling@jeffnet.org.

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Backcountry Star

Extreme skier Pep Fujas started on slopes of Mount Ashland By TONY BOOM | For the Mail Tribune

ep Fujas has spent half of his life flying through the air, performing twists and back flips above powder snow in mountains around the world for extreme skiing videos. The 34-year-old developed his skills at an early age starting near and at Mount Ashland. Fujas has been in more than 20 featurelength ski films, made countless other videos, competed in X-Games competitions, terrain parks and half-pipe events, and has sponsorship from ski and outdoor clothing firms. He’s skied hundreds of areas and traveled the globe making films, doing about 100 days on the snow per year. “Skiing has always been about learning for me, and I still feel like I’m learning on a daily basis,” says Fujas. “The beauty of skiing is it’s a conditional sport. The conditions and the terrain are constantly changing, depending on how much snow covers the ground, rocks and trees.”

Fujas’ early years were spent on the family’s organic farm in the Colestin Valley just south of the Mt. Ashland Access Road. His parents are Elizabeth and Richard Fujas, owners of Rising Sun Farms in Phoenix. Pep did his first cross-country skiing on the family property when he was about 2 or 3. “The snow was deep. He’d go up and break trail, then he had to ski down. It had a couple sharp corners,” says Elizabeth. Pep’s first recollection of Mt. Ashland Ski Area is using the rope tow on the beginner’s Sonnet run. He was probably 3. “Pep was trying to do aerials from a young age,” recalls his mother. He practiced for hours doing flips and turns on an in-ground trampoline. She worries more about him getting hurt while mountain biking than skiing, but physical exploits always attracted him. “I certainly prefer to ski powder — I enjoy skiing all types of terrain — but my focus is on the backcountry,” Pep says.

“He just took to it naturally,” Elizabeth says. “He’s got great observation skills. He would look at someone to see if they were skiing well, and then he would just do what they were doing.” Fellow local skiers Zach Rote, Trevor Tanhoff, Adam and Miranda Briggs and others influenced him. He had his first lesson at 8 years old and recalls thinking he could ski better than the instructor. In the eighth grade, Rote persuaded him to get into racing. Pep Fujas would either finish in the top five or would end up running off course as he pushed his speed. Fujas was home-schooled at first, then in local schools, and his mother realized he’d stay on track best if he went to a ski academy where students studied until noon and skied in the afternoon, so she enrolled him back East, and he finished at another in Steamboat Springs, Colorado. “Around my senior year, I was skiing competitive moguls at the school, and then I

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shifted focus to free skiing and started doing parks contests and pipes and photo shoots,” Fujas says. “I got involved with sponsors.” When he started skiing terrain parks competitively, the smooth, energetic, flowing styles of skateboarders inspired him. “I did a whole slew of different activities, but none influenced me more than skateboarding,” Fujas says. “As a kid, style wasn’t all that important to me. I was more into going fast, navigating challenging terrain, skiing powder and finding anything I could jump off of.” After graduation, Fujas moved to Mammoth, California, where he and others developed their extreme skiing aerials. In 2007, Fujas, Andy Mahre and Chris Bencheter collaborated with Eric Pollard to start Nimbus Independent film company to bring a different perspective to skiing videos. Fujas does a lot of cross training to stay in shape. He surfs, rides mountain bikes and dirt bikes, snowboards and plays golf, along with doing exercise routines for agility. Fujas has been featured on the cover of Powder magazine doing a back flip. He has sponsorship from ski manufacturer K2, ski-binding company Marker, Oakley sunglasses, and apparel firm Patagonia. He is often featured in ads. Fujas moved to Salt Lake City 10 years ago. He and his wife, Claire, have two

Pep Fujas, shown here in Utah, is featured in extreme skiing videos and skiapparel ads all over the world. [coUrtesy Photos]

daughters, age 20 months and 2 months. In February, the family took a non-skiing trip to Poland and Slovenia. Last fall he started classes at the University of Utah, where he is majoring in business with a minor in environmental studies. “It’s helping engage my mind in the 21st century to run a business. I’m an entrepreneur,” Fujas says. “I feel I need better knowledge, and the degree would be an advantage, as well.” Part of his work is pitching photo shoots to sponsors who underwrite the trips. He also develops relationships with photographers to ensure he and they are in the

right spots for shooting on a mountain. This season he has been to Japan, coached a camp on skiing steep terrain at Utah’s Alta area. He no longer does competitive events. And the name? His full name is Braden Pepperell Fujas. The middle moniker comes from great-grandfather Pepperell, an explorer and adventurer who helped map parts of Labrador, Canada. Videos of Fujas’ exploits can be found on his website, pepfujas.com, or by searching the internet. Tony Boom is an Ashland freelance writer. Reach him at tboomwriter@gmail.com.

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Callahan’s Lodge, shown here in 2015, turned 70 years old in March. [MaiL Tribune / FiLe phoTo]

Still an icon After being leveled twice — once by dozers and once by fire — Callahan’s celebrates 70 years By JOHN DARLING For the Mail Tribune

allahan’s restaurant and lodge, a Rogue Valley icon built near the top of the Siskiyou Pass, has suffered through two death-rebirth episodes, each time rising like a Phoenix to recreate itself and thrive. It was built in 1947 and served a steady stream of Highway 99 motorists headed south to San Francisco and Los Angeles and north to Portland and Seattle. It was midpoint on a long haul, had five rooms and a cafe that looked like a cafe, not the big rustic dining spot it would become. When Interstate 5 was built, Callahan's sat right in the path of the southbound lanes, and one day in 1963 the Oregon Department of Transportation mowed it down with a cat, say present owners Ron and Donna Bergquist.

With eminent domain, ODOT had its way, but the compensation it offered wasn't enough to rebuild, the Bergquists say. Original owners Don and Nilde Callahan took ODOT to court and, using the Frohnmayer-Deatherage law firm of Medford, won a fair settlement. They rebuilt Callahan's on the other side of the freeway, at the present site. To make the spot level, they got ODOT to dump dirt removed during grading for the freeway. What emerged was the much larger, rustic-looking Callahan’s with two-sided fireplace in the center and a bar in the corner, adorned with a large painting of a naked woman reclining on her bed. She is Colleen, wife of the painter Vincent Garrison. A photo of screen legend Cary Grant, standing in Callahan’s, hung in the lobby.

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Nilde Callahan was Italian and knew how to make pasta, so that became the main dish, crowning a seven-course meal that included a big pot of minestrone soup, salad, breadsticks, pepperoncini and spumoni ice cream. Refills were free. Donna Bergquist flashes a menu from about 1970, showing the whole meal at a stunning (and popular) $1.75. When the Callahans retired in 1996, the Bergquists bought it. Ron, an Eagle Point native, had designed and built scores of restaurants and took on a remodeling with ease. After 10 years, they were hit with the second big tragedy: In September 2006, a raging fire burned it to the foundation. The blaze was triggered by an inexperienced kitchen worker who turned a gas stove on full blast with a big load of wood for smoking salmon. When fire shot up the pipe, the worker doused it with water, lowering the temperature so the fuse-able links wouldn’t melt and turn on sprinklers. Donna was out of town. Ron, living in their adjacent house, tried to fight the blaze, but soon gave up. Their 26 acres and water needs are fed by nine nearby springs. The beloved stone fireplace was ruined by heat, so it was replaced by building stone, with a thin layer of river rocks gathered by Ron. The photo of Cary Grant survived, but not the painting of the naked woman. Donna’s long search failed to turn up a replica to recall the old soul of Callahan’s, but one day she got a call from a man who said he had one and it had to go in the new Callahan’s. It was a crowning moment, she says with a laugh, in the triumph of recreating rustic Callahan’s, this time with large outside decks in the back, more convention and wedding space and luxurious rooms, each with a

Top: An old photo shows the inside of the original Callahan’s cafe. Above: Cary Grant poses inside the old Callahan’s. [CourTesy phoTos/ron & donnA berGquisT]

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Jacuzzi. The insurer honored the loss with enough to replace it. Ron’s architectural and contracting skills were summoned on the rebuild. His vision was “a lodge with a restaurant” instead of the other way around. Cabins will sprout in the near future. The couple is building their own home downslope and will turn their old house into four lodge rooms. In both destructions of Callahan’s, the community rallied in every way. In ’06, a wedding was planned the

afternoon of the fire, and everyone helped hold it in Lithia Park, bringing food and trimmings, with Ashland Springs Hotel donating a reception space and local markets donating cake and food. Even the city rushed a park permit through, though it was a Saturday. The Bergquists held $40,000 from gift certificates and wedding deposits and insisted, if the people would wait, on honoring them when they reopened — or cash if not.

The Bergquists know they possess — and have breathed new life into — a Southern Oregon icon. It reopened in August 2008 and celebrated its 70th birthday in March. Basking in the nostalgia of their historic collection of memorabilia, Ron notes that it’s almost the oldest restaurant in the region. Omar’s Restaurant on Siskiyou Boulevard opened six months earlier. John Darling is a freelance writer living in Ashland. Email him at jdarling@jeffnet.org.

Callahan’s is shown shortly after its reopening in 2008. [Mail Tribune/file phoTo]

Callahan’s owners Donna and ron bergquist pose in front of a replica of a painting that was destroyed in the 2006 fire. an aerial photo, circa 1950, shows the original Callahan’s restaurant off highway 99.

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The intense heat of the Callahanâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Lodge fire in 2006 kept firefighters well back. The landmark burned to the ground, but was rebuilt and opened in 2008. [MaiL Tribune/fiLe phoTo]

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✩ ✩ ✩ Political Winners & losers al Densmore

ric Holt

Former Medford Mayor Al Densmore graduated from Portland State University in 1968, moved to Medford, and at 24, in 1971, became the youngest legislator in Oregon and among the youngest ever elected in the House or from the Rogue Valley. He was elected three more times, then the popular Republican and investment planner came home to Medford for a long career on the City Council, starting as mayor from 1977 to 1983. A Greenway bicycle and pedestrian bridge spanning Barnett Road in Medford bears his name in recognition of his service and commitment to projects like the Greenway.

County Commissioner Ric Holt started life acting in one of the most famous movies of all time, “Gone With the Wind,” although he may not have known he was a star seen by millions. Why? Because he was an infant, “Beau,” playing the son of Melanie Wilkes, acted by the famed Olivia de Haviland. That was it for Hollywood. Settling in the Rogue Valley, Holt became a county commissioner for 12 years. An outgoing character who promoted economic development and (unsuccessfully) passenger train service, he retired in 2002. A long bout of diabetes, including a leg amputation, ended his life in 2015, at age 77.

Jon Deason After serving in the Peace Corps, Jon Deason, at 33, a farmer and Democrat, in 1973 became the youngest Jackson County commissioner in history (soon the honor went to Peter Sage). He served two fouryear terms but figured commissioners should only serve one or two terms, so he didn’t run again. He skipped two years but then got the bug to go back and defeated Republican Rodney Keating. Deason supported many big changes, writing a home rule charter, creating the county administrator post, introducing computers, creating the new fairgrounds and making the tax collector a new office instead of a job of the sheriff. He says he was fond of a Daily Tidings headline of 1972 that said, “Deason brings youth and hair to County Commission." “The others were in their 70s and didn’t have much hair,” he notes.

tam Moore After a career in news at KOBI-TV, Tam Moore was elected county commissioner in 1974. Although deeply knowledgeable about county affairs, he was voted out after one term. He says it was because when the Legislature cut funding for abortion for people on public assistance, commissioners, under home rule, took the position that it was a legal medical treatment. Moore was up for re-election and was a good target, he notes. “We touched a considerable hot button. ... You don’t want Republicans saying that kind of thing here.”

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River City

Grants Pass

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Bend resident Max King crosses the finish line well ahead of the pack to win the 10-mile Pear Blossom Run. The victory, coming in record time, was King’s fifth. [Mail TRiBune PHOTOS/JaMie luSCH]

M A X- IM IZ E D Pear Blossom icon King overcomes setback, readies for big 2017 By TIM TROWER | Mail Tribune

eldom does Max King get beaten by other runners. It’s even more rare that he’s defeated by a course. Regardless of the distance, regardless of the altitude, regardless of the terrain, King is used to being the conqueror, not the vanquished. One hundred miles, OK. Ten thousand feet high, no problem. The rugged, rocky, repellent trails of, say, Mont Blanc in the French Alps, sure. Yet, it was a rare setback last summer that had King — a former Central Point schoolboy who is the most decorated men’s champion in Pear Blossom Run history — taking stock of what went wrong and re-examining his agenda.

It sidelined him for the rest of the year and sent him into 2017 with a restructured game plan and renewed vigor. “It’ll be a big year, and it’s exciting,” said King, who came up short in a bid for his eighth Pear Blossom title two weeks ago, placing second to Cole Watson. “I’m focusing on shorter distances and the ones that are kind of fun for me.” At 10 miles, the Pear Blossom fits that mold, but this year, he ran into a determined Watson and had to settle for second best. Watson broke King’s course record by 5 seconds, winning in 49 minutes, 5 seconds. King ran 50:31. Nevertheless, the race represents a comfort zone, and who could blame King for

seeking it out after a tough end to 2016. King began last year in fine form, finishing 12th in the U.S. Olympic Marathon Trials in 2:17:14. He followed that with an eighth place in the Comrades Marathon in South Africa, a 56-mile road race of some renown. At 91 years and with 20,000 entrants, it’s the oldest and largest ultramarathon. King’s finish was the best by an American male since Alberto Salazar won in 1994. Those were among his triumphs. Tribulation followed. In the Leadville Trail 100-mile race in August, King pushed himself to the CONTINUED ON PAGE 94

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breaking point in the Rocky Mountains of Colorado. He was on record pace early but underestimated the toll it would take on his body to twice traverse Hope Pass, at 12,540 feet. At about Mile 80, his body cried uncle and “shut down,” said King. As much as he wanted to quit, determination took over. In the next four hours, he walked the final 20 miles. He finished ninth and came in at under 20 hours, but he paid a price. “Walking in with my body in such shape, it kind of left me a little injured through the end of the year,” said King. “I didn’t race anymore and tried to get healthy.” His body mended, and so, too, his mind. He was moved to rethink the notion of running 100 miles. “Oh, absolutely,” he chuckled. “At this point, yeah, I’ll stay away from 100-milers for a while. That was not enjoyable.” That experience didn’t necessarily bring the Pear Blossom back into the picture. It’s a race he always considers, even if it is passed over. The schedule this year and its 10-mile distance were amenable to King’s needs. The 37-year-old Bend resident, who counts running as his principal occupation, is as fit as ever, even as he downplays it. “Hopefully, I’m not slowing down,” he said, “but it feels like I am every day. This year, I don’t have the real long stuff planned, which is good. I’ve kind of started to step back a little and do the shorter mountain stuff that’s kind of fun for me.” His disciplines are as varied as Oregon spring weather. King has won world championships in trail, mountain and ultra running. He’s competed in the Olympic Trials in the steeplechase in track, fared well in the world cross-country championships and has claimed many road-race crowns. His versatility is the stuff of legend in the running community, and it challenges those who try to pigeonhole him. “I like to just consider myself a runner,” he said. “Some people try to peg me as sort of an ultra runner, but I still enjoy doing the half marathon, marathon distance. I still run the road. I just like to do a little bit of everything.” King already had a couple wins and a couple course records in 2017 before the Pear Blossom, dispelling the idea he’s slowing down. In Bellingham, Washington, on March 18, he broke his Chuckanut 50K standard,

Max King attempted to qualify for the Olympics in the steeplechase. [MAIL TRIBUNE/FILE PHOTO]

set in 2014, by 2½ minutes with a time of 3:33.11. It earned him a spot on the U.S. Trail Team. A month earlier, he won the USA Track and Field National Trail Championship in Auburn, California, covering the 50K course in a record 3:32.37. His schedule will reach far and wide in 2017, and will include stops in France (twice), Switzerland, Spain and Scotland. King’s pursuit of running came naturally. By his own admission, he was “terrible” at ball sports — basketball and baseball — while attending Mae Richardson Elementary and Scenic Middle School in Central Point. He fared much better in the mile run during a P.E. class. “It was a lot easier for me than anyone else in the school,” he said, “so that’s kind of where it took off. I stuck with it mainly out of the fact I was good at it, and I kept getting better with more and more competitions. I wasn’t great by any means, but I was good.” King continued to run through high school, enjoying moderate success until graduation from Crater in 1998, and in college at Cornell, where he was an AllAmerican in the steeplechase as a senior. He really hit his stride on the roads in his

post-college career, then later on the trails and in the mountains. “Those fit him perfectly,” said Jerry Swartsley, who started the Pear Blossom with his wife, Zellah, and was also director of financial services in the Central Point School District when King was in it. King entered the Pear Blossom for the first time in high school. His first victory came in 2003. “It’s big for me,” he said of the event. “It’s one of the races I always like to come back to, and to see kind of my progression from where I was in high school to the point where I was able to set a record and win it.” Along with his seven victories, he twice set the course record. In 2011, he lowered his own mark from 49:21 to 49:10. There’s no telling when a record — or a top challenger — will come along, said King. “You never know who’s going to show up and who’s racing,” he said, “or, how long I’m going to be able to maintain my current form. Obviously, I’m getting older, and at some point, it’s gotta give. You just never know when.” Reach sports editor Tim Trower at 541-7764479 or email ttrower@mailtribune.com.

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✩ ✩ ✩ Political Winners & losers lynn newbry

Bob Duncan

Sen. Lynn Newbry of Talent was an orchardist and powerful arbiter of the state’s budget on the Ways & Means Committee. He served from 1961 to 1974. Widely considered unbeatable, Newbry, by his own admission, didn’t campaign very hard and failed to consider how aggravated voters were with the Republican Party because of Watergate. A young and inexperienced Democrat named Lenn Hannon, then 29, beat him by a razor-thin 37 votes. Newbry died at 89 in 2012. A park along Bear Creek in Talent bears his name.

Congressman Bob Duncan was a World War II Navy pilot, a Medford lawyer, and a state legislator who became speaker of the House. Then, for two terms, 1963-67, he was Democratic Congressman for the district including Medford. Duncan opposed Gov. Mark Hatfield, an anti-war Republican, in a 1966 run for an empty U.S. Senate seat. Duncan was notable for his support of President Lyndon Johnson’s Vietnam War, saying, “Americans will die in the buffalo grass of Vietnam or the rye grass of Oregon.” Even Sen. Wayne Morse, a Democrat and dove, crossed party lines to back Hatfield. After leading in the polls for months, Duncan lost by a narrow margin. He lost in two more tries for the Senate, being defeated by Morse, then went on to represent the House District encompassing Portland for three terms. He was beaten in 1980 by Ron Wyden. He died in 2011.

John Dellenback Congressman John Dellenback was a lawyer, law professor and Medford resident who was known as a liberal Republican. He spearheaded creation of Oregon Dunes National Recreation Area, pioneered a law to make shippers and pipeline owners responsible for oil spills, and he supported Title IX, which brought equal treatment for boys and girls in athletics. Dellenback was defeated by Democrat Jim Weaver after four terms, in 1974, a year when many voters were fed up with politicians because of the Watergate scandal. He was named head of the Peace Corps in 1975 and followed that with an 11-year stint as president of the Christian College Coalition, later named the Council of Christian Colleges and Universities. He also served as chairman of World Vision International, which provided aid to families and children in impoverished regions of the world. He died in Medford in 2002.

Bob smith Former Congressman and Oregon House Speaker Bob Smith was an Eastern Oregon rancher, now of Medford, who was elected to the Oregon House in 1962, becoming speaker for two sessions, starting in 1969. A popular politician known for high integrity, Smith was elected to Congress in 1982 in the district including Jackson County. He served six terms. When his successor, Wes Cooley, became ensnared in ethical problems, Smith was called out of retirement to serve another term. With Republicans now in power, he was appointed chairman of the

House Agriculture Committee. At age 84, in 2016, he struck a pedestrian with his car on a Medford street, resulting in the man’s death, but it was ruled an accident and no fault of Smith’s.

Wes cooley Wes Cooley was a one-term congressman with a knack for scandal. A rancher from Eastern Oregon and graduate of USC, Cooley was elected to the Oregon Senate, and in the middle of that term, in 1994, was elected to Congress in a district that included the Rogue Valley. Under Speaker Newt Gingrich’s “Contract with America,” Cooley worked for tort reform, a bigger military and private property rights, but he soon ran afoul of the law. The Mail Tribune, in an investigative report, found his statement in the Voter’s Pamphlet that he’d served in the Army Special Forces in Korea wasn't true. Then he was charged with keeping his marriage secret so his wife could keep getting veteran’s benefits from her previous marriage. Gingrich and Cooley’s campaign manager Greg Walden (elected to that seat in 1998) told him to step down. He did. With an open seat, well respected former congressman and former Oregon House Speaker Bob Smith of Medford came back from retirement and won the race. Then it was time to face the music. Cooley was indicted for lying about his military service, while claiming his vindicating documents were lost in a fire. He copped a plea for lying in an official document and got probation, fine and community service. Apparently not keen on learning lessons, Cooley was convicted in 2009 in California for money laundering and tax evasion in shaky business deals and served some jail time. He died in 2015.

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Healing Journey Paja Russell doesn’t hide from her self-inflicted scars By NICK MORGAN Mail Tribune

This photo was taken from a video, shot at the Medford library in 2016, in which Paja Russell talked about how she went from inflicting pain on herself as a coping mechanism to helping others who feel driven to harm themselves. [Mail TRibune/file PhoTo]

lifetime ago, Paja Russell of Medford developed a coping skill she may never fully shake — she learned to cut or burn herself as a way to deal with the pain of childhood abuse. Even after two decades of therapy and a loving support system, the wife and mother of two admits she still is still tempted at times to hurt herself. Russell uses adjectives such as “comforting” and “familiar” to describe her last self-inflicted lighter burn, even though it was done well over a year ago. As a recovering self-injurer, Russell has sought to help others and humanize a heavily stigmatized issue, in the hopes their scars can heal more easily than her own. Russell reaches out every way she

can, starting online with a WebMD forum about a decade ago, more recently on her own blog, “Getting the Bucks Out,” and for the past three years as a regular attendee at the Human Library Project, a program where people “check out” others like a book and hear their story. Russell says it’s important for her to put her scarred and burned arms in plain view, rather than hiding them as many who struggle with self-inflicted violence do. Since before kindergarten, self-injury has been a mechanism to relieve deep emotional pain, she says, typically a last resort when she was overwhelmed by suicidal thoughts. “It kept me alive,” Russell says. But it also has diminishing returns,

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according to Russell. The negative coping skill demands self-abusers step up their injuries for similar amounts of relief. “I knew the injury would be fatal some day,” Russell says. Her turning point came 17 years ago, when she had a dark thought in an otherwise happy moment. At the age of 23, she was actively planning her suicide while holding an infant. Long suffering from depression, Russell was living in a rented room on a farm and helping her landlord’s teen daughters, who were both new mothers. Holding the child changed her mind. “I kind of like this baby,” Russell recalls thinking. Russell says she sought help, but didn’t necessarily know the way out of something she’d done for so long. When she grew up in the 1980s, information about self-injury was sensationalist fodder for talk shows such as Sally Jesse Raphael and Geraldo. Her behavior was also new for her Grants Pass therapist. “He knew nothing about it,” Russell remembers. “I didn’t know why I was doing it, so it was a perfect match.” What worked was her therapist’s efforts to “re-parent” her, Russell says, revisiting

traumatic memories and reprocessing them with his guidance. Through counseling, she also learned how to reach out to others. “He did a lot of work reconnecting me with humanity,” Russell says. Russell’s next step was a hypnotherapist with a nurturing personality who taught Russell how to stop treating her body like it was separate from herself. Her hypnotherapist brought in tools such as warm, fuzzy clothes to help her be comfortable in her own skin. Those years of trial and error meant that not every tool placed in her toolbox was helpful. Russell uses her blog to share lessons learned from experience. She’s vocally opposed to contracts therapists often require patients to sign, in which self-abusers make a promise never to hurt themselves again. She says they’re futile without new ways to process emotions. Ultimatums are similarly unhelpful. Loved ones’ first reaction when a self-abuser relapses is often anger, but the self-abuser need compassion, Russell says. “People who self-injure are both the abused and the abuser,” Russell says. Russell also advises against support groups for self-injurers. The ways

participants have hurt themselves vary dramatically, and putting self-injurers in a group provides ideas for new injury methods more often than support, possibly turning into “one-upping contests,” Russell says. At times, it hasn’t been easy to be so up-front about self-injuring. She recalls that during one of her pregnancies, a look a nurse gave her when she saw Russell’s arms filled Russell with fear. “I was so afraid they’d take my baby,” Russell says. She emphasizes that as a self-abuser, the last thing she wants to do is hurt someone else. “All this is directed in,” Russell says. Keeping herself “safe” is a challenge, Russell says. In her blog, she talks about her triggers, big and small. She recalls the weight a recent kitchen accident carried, when her arm brushed a hot pan. An incident most would shake off was a temptation to go back to hurting herself, she says. Instead, she applied a Band-Aid, telling herself, “You’ve been hurt enough.” Reach reporter Nick Morgan at 541776-4471 or by email at nmorgan@ mailtribune.com.

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A hero to the end George E. Milligan founded Mercy Flights By TAMMY ASNICAR For the Mail Tribune

yoma Huffman was a witness to the fiery aircraft crash that claimed the life of Medford hometown hero George E. Milligan. In an article published Feb. 10, 1985, she recalled the incident for United Press International reporter Susan Tebbe. Huffman was in her Central Point yard at about 12:45 p.m. Feb. 9 when she saw a plane approaching over a stand of trees. She heard “a big bang, like when a gear breaks in a car. And then he lost altitude real fast.” Huffman said the pilot flew into a field about 150 yards from her trailer, hitting the ground at an angle. “When it hit the ground, it flipped the plane over and it instantly blew up into a big ball of fire and a big ball of black smoke,” she said. “There was no way for anybody to get out.” Milligan, the 65-year-old pilot and founder of Mercy Flights, was killed instantly along with three others. He and his medical team were transporting Brookings resident Marjorie Bush, 71, to Rogue Valley Medical Center. The others on the flight from Gold Beach to Medford were Dr. Henry L. Boehnke, 56, a Medford pediatrician and Milligan’s co-pilot, and Steven Kent Trosin, 31, of Medford, a nurse. The fatal air crash was the first accident in Mercy Flights’ 35-year history. Milligan, who had flown north to Alaska, south to Mexico and even across country to Michigan transporting more than 11,000 patients, died just one mile north of the Medford airport. In Tebbe’s article, witnesses applauded

George Milligan. [Courtesy southern oreGon historiCal soCiety]

Milligan’s heroics as he guided his twinengine Aero Commander away from several mobile homes, including Huffman’s. “He was coming in right behind the shop building, right next to the house,” she said. Huffman’s son-in-law and next-door neighbor, Ed Arnold, recalled a second explosion as he ran toward the crash site. Both witnesses said the airplane disintegrated on impact. They said parts of bodies were scattered throughout the wreckage. Very likely, Milligan’s efforts prevented additional carnage. “If he hadn’t turned when he did, there’s a very good possibility he would have hit us,” Arnold said. The National Transportation Safety Board, Federal Aviation Administration and Mercy Flights investigated the crash. Engine trouble is listed as the official cause on the PlaneCrashInfo.com website.

Minutes before the crash, Milligan had reported loss of power in both engines, which led to his inability to maintain airspeed or control the throttle as he approached the runway. The plane pitched and rolled before hitting the ground. Milligan left behind his wife of 25 years, Helene, and a son, Richard. Milligan founded Mercy Flights Inc. of Medford in 1949. At the time, the World War II veteran radar operator was employed by the FAA as an air traffic controller. The polio epidemic of the late 1940s inspired his vision of an air ambulance service. In a Nov. 7, 1983, interview for a Southern Oregon Historical Society oral history project, Milligan recalled the “terrible ordeal” that polio victims suffered en route to a Portland hospital — the nearest medical facility equipped with an iron lung. The polio vaccine wasn’t developed until the

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mid-1950s, and at that time an iron lung was the only option for those with the paralyzing disease that often compromised a patient’s respiratory system. Ambulances of the period did not have oxygen on board, so the trip north required stops at hospitals in Grants Pass, Roseburg, Eugene and Salem to give the patient oxygen. In the days before the construction of Interstate 5, the journey from Medford to Portland was a slow, arduous 12-hour trek, one that often made the difference between life and death. Fundraising efforts by the Boy Scouts, schoolchildren and civic clubs enabled the purchase of a twin-engine, military-surplus Cessna. It was christened “Rogue’s Wings of Mercy” on Jan. 8, 1950. Milligan, a licensed pilot, transported his first patient Feb. 28, 1950, with volunteer medical personnel and medical equipment on board. According to biographical notes at the Southern Oregon Historical Society, Milligan obtained a law degree to “effectively interact with regulations” as he worked to get Mercy Flights off the ground. Through the efforts of local businessmen, he was able to initiate the first pre-paid membership program in the

country. Paying just $2 a year, subscribers could keep the operation aloft and ensure transport to comprehensive medical facilities. The demand for Mercy Flights’ services required Milligan to purchase a second aircraft, and soon “the two planes were meeting each other coming and going,” he said. “We flew ourselves silly.” The most famous of Milligan’s fleet, “Iron Annie,” arrived in 1959, and by 1980, the C-45, also known as the “Band-Aid Bomber,” had transported 1,150 patients from remote rural Southern Oregon and Northern California to big-city hospitals. The plane also flew missions to locate downed aircraft and assist in firefighting operations. In Hattie B. Becker’s 1995 “History of Rogue Valley International-Medford,” Milligan is credited with pioneering cloud seeding to clear the fog that often stalls flight operations in the Rogue Valley. Low-flying airplanes drop dry-ice pellets, which condense the moisture in the fog; the “super-cooled” fog is then converted into ice crystals that “fall like fine snow.” Milligan “became interested in fog dispersal,” Becker writes, “because of the

need for Mercy Flights to fly in all kinds of weather.” The first formal seeding operation was conducted Dec. 5, 1963. Milligan once described his job as air traffic controller as “eight hours of boredom punctuated by moments of stark terror.” It was during one of these long stretches of tedium that Milligan tinkered with various innovations, including CALANAV — Calculated Area Navigation — which helped pilots calculate a direct flight route. At the time of Milligan’s death, Bob Packwood, Oregon’s Republican senator and a personal friend, was in Washington, D.C. Shaken by the news, he said, “Southern Oregon has lost an institution. “For more than three decades, George Milligan’s life was dedicated to the singularly unselfish proposition that other people need help getting the medical care they need.” Milligan was inducted posthumously in Oregon’s Aviation Hall of Honor at the Evergreen Aviation & Space Museum in McMinnville in 2006. Reach Grants Pass freelance writer Tammy Asnicar at tammyasnicar@q.com.

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A driving force Medford boy Bill Bowerman became one of the greatest names in U.S. track and field By TAMMY ASNICAR For the Mail Tribune

y his own admission, Bill Bowerman was a “mean little kid” and “a cut-up.” Coach Prince “Prink” Callison never would have imagined that the boy he kicked off the Medford High School varsity football team would become the University of Oregon’s legendary track-and-field coach. Medford schools Superintendent E.H. Hedrick never would have guessed that the “hell-raising kid” would mentor generations of athletes and be an innovator who ignited the sport of running. Much has been written about how Barbara Bowerman’s round, six-inch waffle iron inspired the look and feel of a running shoe that transformed the sport and jump-started her husband Bill’s little-known footwear company. The early days of what would later become the global sports apparel giant, Nike Inc., is the stuff of legend and lore. But Bowerman’s legacy is more than his ingenuity and innovation. William Jay “Bill” Bowerman Jr. was born in Portland in 1911 and spent his early childhood and last days in Fossil, where his great-grandparents had homesteaded in the 1830s. After Bowerman’s father, Jay, a twoterm state senator and short-term Oregon governor, abandoned the family, young Bill and his sister were raised by their mother and aunts. The family moved to Medford when he was 10. Bowerman went out for varsity football at Medford High School as a 5-foot-8, 145pound sophomore. Undersized and immature, he was kicked off the team by Callison. “He put me on the JV and probably saved my life,” Bowerman told a Mail Tribune reporter in 1999. “He was a very good

coach and a tough man.” Hedrick also had to set him on the right track. “I got my rear kicked out of school for being a cut-up,” Bowerman recalled. “I went to the superintendent’s office and sat in the outer office until noon. Then I heard a voice from the inner-sanctum: ‘Is that hell-raising kid still out there?’ Then, he told Mrs. Jensen to send the little so-and-so in. “He dressed me down for what seemed a half-hour. It probably wasn’t two minutes. He told me to get back to school and he didn’t want to hear any more about me cutting up.” Bowerman eventually grew to 6-2 and 190 pounds, and as a senior earned a starting spot as left end on Callison’s 1928 state champion Tigers. He also played basketball, was in the high school band, and edited the school newspaper. He also dated Barbara Young, his future wife. After graduation, Bowerman headed to the University of Oregon, where he met Col. Bill Hayward, the Ducks’ track coach. Although Bowerman never became a great runner, he says he learned the “gist of developing greatness” from Hayward. Bowerman wasn’t planning to become a coach. When he obtained his bachelor’s degree in journalism in 1934, he had sights on being a doctor. To earn money for medical school, he coached football and taught biology at Franklin High School. He earned $1,000. Medford High School recruited him to coach football there the next year. And with a salary boost to $1,500, he married Barbara in 1936. Bowerman’s coaching philosophy was simple: “If you have a body, you are an athlete.” He revved the school’s track program and compiled a respectable 69-13-8 overall record on the football field between 1935 and 1941. His 1935 and 1939 teams were 7-0-1 and 8-0-1. World War II interrupted Bowerman’s plans to enter med school. Because he had been an ROTC cadet, he was among the first called into active duty. And as a seasoned cross-country and downhill skier who learned on the slopes of the Siskiyous, he was assigned to the 10th Mountain Division in the Southern Alps. For his feats on the battlefield, he was awarded a Silver Star and the Bronze Star four times. By the time he was honorably discharged in 1945, Bowerman had seen enough bloodshed.

He gave up the idea of becoming a doctor. He returned to Medford in 1946 and coached two seasons before heading back to Eugene. He was hired in 1948 to coach track and field and freshman football at the University of Oregon. Over the next two decades, Bowerman had phenomenal success at his alma mater. His teams finished in the Top 10 16 times and won NCAA championships in 1962, 1964, 1965 and 1970. He coached 24 individual champs and 31 Olympic athletes. He also had 51 AllAmerican runners on his squads, 12 American record holders and 16 sub-4-minute milers. Bowerman’s 1967 bestseller, “Jogging,” cowritten with cardiologist W.E. Harris, and his fitness programs are credited with sparking a jogging phenomenon in the United States. In 1964, Bowerman co-founded Blue Ribbon Sports with former protege Phil Knight. The deal was sealed with nothing more than a handshake and $500. After operating initially as distributors for the Japanese shoemaker Onitsuka Tiger (now known as Asics), Blue Ribbon Sports became an independent with plans to launch its own line of footwear. Nike Inc. was born in 1971. In 1972, the so-called “Moon Shoes” were released. The shoes were named for their resemblance to the waffle-patterned footprints left by astronauts on the Moon. Even before he was Nike’s first director of research and development, Bowerman tinkered to improve his runners’ performance. He used his wife’s waffle iron to create a sole without spikes that could grip well on any surface and be lightweight. By the time Nike went public in 1980, Bowerman’s initial $500 investment was worth $9 million. (Today, the Nike brand is worth $19 billion.) Bowerman served as an assistant track coach for the 1968 Mexico City Olympic Games and head coach during the 1972 Munich Olympic Games. His training program to condition athletes for the high altitude they would experience in Mexico City had earned him a spot on the coaching staff. In Munich, he coached athletes from Norway, Canada, Australia and the United States. Bowerman managed to stir up a bit of controversy at both games. At the 1968 games, when AfricanAmerican runners Tommie Smith and John Carlos raised their black-gloved fists — a moment captured in an iconic photo — Bowerman showed unwavering support.

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“He backed them wholly and without reservation,” Knight wrote in a June 18, 2016, op-ed for the New York Times. “He believed in equality. He believed in freedom.” The 1972 Olympic Games were overshadowed by the killing of nine Israeli athletes and coaches. A PLO terrorist group, Black September, stormed the Israeli team’s dormitory near where Bowerman and his athletes slept. Israeli race walker Shaul Ladany managed to escape and run to Bowerman’s door. The coach pulled the runner inside and alerted German police. He also called for U.S. Marines to come and protect American Jewish Olympians — swimmer Mark Spitz and javelin thrower Bill Schmidt. Bowerman called the killing of the Israeli athletes “an act of war.” “And if there’s one place that war doesn’t belong, it’s here.” In his piece in the New York Times, Knight paid tribute to Bowerman and referred to him as his “surrogate father” — “the roughest, toughest son-of-a-gun” he’d ever known. In his honor, Nike created the “Bowerman Series” of performance running shoes. Before his death, Bowerman’s hometown

Steve Prefontaine, left, with Bill Bowerman. [Mail TriBune/ file PhoTo]

paid him homage. The Medford Linebackers honored Bowerman in the early 1970s when they built Bowerman Field on the North Medford campus. Bowerman’s foundation has helped build or improve tracks at North and South high schools, St. Mary’s, and Hedrick and McLoughlin middle schools. His statue, holding a stopwatch, stands at the northwest corner of Hayward Field, home of the Prefontaine Classic at

University of Oregon. In 2009, the U.S. Track & Field and Cross Country Coaches Association created “The Bowerman,” an award given to the most outstanding collegiate male and female track-and-field athlete. The “Bowerman” trophy was designed by Tinker Hatfield, a Nike employee and former Oregon runner coached by Bowerman. Reach Grants Pass freelance writer Tammy Asnicar at tammyasnicar@q.com.

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Forced removal The Rogue River Indian War led to the removal of most native people from Southern Oregon By JOHN DARLING For the Mail Tribune

Left: Southern Oregon University anthropology major Tatiana Watkins digs for artifacts from the Rogue River Indian War at an old fort site north of Gold Beach. [VICKIE ALDOUS/MAIL TRIBUNE]

he Rogue Valley was an of out-ofthe way place in the early 1800s. Whites had settled Portland and San Francisco by 1850, but many Indians here had never even seen a white person. That all changed with the 1851 discovery of gold in what became Jacksonville, a classic gold-rush town, triggering a large influx of miners, followed soon by settlers. Native Americans already had occupied the land for about 14,000 years, and were happy hunting and fishing it and roaming about it with the seasons, says Southern Oregon University anthropologist Mark Tveskov — but settlers viewed it as empty land in need of farming and civilizing. Many Indians and settlers attempted to get along and somehow harmoniously share their diverse lands and lifestyles, Tveskov notes, but conflict inevitably ensued and European diseases, to which natives had no immunity, took a huge toll. Soldiers came and built Fort Lane, near the Table Rocks along the Rogue River. Enough raids and killings happened that whites decided co-existence wasn’t going to work, and within six years, the natives were gone. “It was a tragedy for the native people,” says Ashland historian-archaeologist Jeff

LaLande. “They were all basically removed from their home. Very few ever came back here to live. They were marched up the present I-5 or coast, some to the Siletz reservation on the coast and some to the Grand Ronde reservation (west of Salem). “It was a sort of ethnic cleansing on the part of white settlers. Some whites had the motto ‘extermination’ on their flags. That slogan came from miners on the Trinity and Klamath rivers. They shot them on sight. It was more the miners than the farmers who did that.” Tveskov adds, “Their land was stolen and a lot of them killed. ... By 1856, the majority of them were dead from war and disease. It was a tragedy of epic proportions. I phrase it as genocide. They lost their political autonomy, which they’d had for thousands of years. The only natives who remained here were the women married to whites.” The valley was home to 9,000 natives before white contact, writes E.A. Schwartz in the online "Oregon Encyclopedia," but only 2,500 were left alive to move to reservations. The first white party here was the Hudson Bay Co.’s Peter Skene Ogden group in 1826.

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“It was a sort of ethnic cleansing on the part of white settlers. Some whites had the motto ‘extermination’ on their flags. That slogan came from miners on the Trinity and Klamath rivers. They shot them on sight. It was more the miners than the farmers who did that.”

Bad blood began when trappers killed Indians here in 1834. The Applegate Trail, blazed in 1846, brought wagon trains, which peacefully headed for the Willamette Valley. The diseases of the Spanish in Mexico and California found their way here and, says Tveskov, archaeologists uncovered evidence of depopulation and abandonment of local Indian camps long before the war. Smallpox had reached the central California coast by 1540 and “it spread easily.” Still, notes Tveskov, the two sides often tried to get along, and Shasta Indians living where the Ashland Plaza is now “initially welcomed them and made individual deals ... but the different ways people used land proved untenable for the Indians, for example, whites tearing up camas root grounds for pigs, so relationships would sour.” With the gold rush, attacks increased on both sides. Army Cmdr. Joseph Lane arrived with troops. After major exchanges in 1853, Indians — Shasta and Takelma — signed a peace treaty ceding lands and agreeing to live on the Table Rock Reservation north of the Rogue River. It didn’t last. Some Indians asserted their age-old right to migrate around the valley, pursuing game and inevitably moving across whiteowned farms. Whites decided to start killing Indians not living on the reservation. Indians resisted and started attacking back. The main part of the Rogue River Indian War was short, October 1855 to May 1856, but violent, with about 250 Indians and 50 whites (troops and volunteers) killed. That included some women and children on both sides. It ranged from Ashland to Gold Beach. After that, pioneers poured in, taking advantage of the 1851 Donation Land Claim Act, which offered 320 acres, free, to single white males and 640 acres to married couples. It was a huge incentive to trek west and settle and, says LaLande, “It wasn’t an extermination. It was a removal.”

Top: A cabin at Fort Lane. Above: On this 1859 map of the Rogue River Indian War, the Battle of Hungry Hill is marked in the upper right above Grave Creek. [SOuTHeRn OReGOn HISTORICAL SOCIeTy #5912]

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