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SEPTEMBER 2001ARCHIVES 2001 - IDAHO MOMENTS HUCKLEBERRY HEAVEN
Last August
Patty-I-want-to-die-picking-berries-in-the-sun reported huckleberries were
good around Lake Cascade. St. Patty of the huckleberries biked over
in the heat, bearing evidence, wrapped in ice packs. “Better than
gold!”, I thanked her, stunned at her generosity. We talked about
our new homes and neighbors. “I take the grumpy ones huckleberries”,
she prescribed. Wondered if they fall upon their knees at receiving
such treasure!
Berry picking
is
one of the times when I lose myself completely. However, my passion
pales in comparison to Patty's. “I told my husband to just leave
me and come back the next day; I'd hike into town for food.” [He
didn't.]
A few days
later, loaded with food and well used yogurt tubs, I headed north.
Since moving to Idaho I've been disheartened, having failed to find more
than a handful err... mouthful of huckleberries at a picking. This
I had to see. After hours of bumbling around on logging roads exploring,
I ended up about sunset, on a dead end with potential come morning.
When sun overheated the tent, this lazy gal headed to the bushes.
Not exactly the size of grapes per rumor, but huckleberries, yes, enough
to pick!
For a long
time my mind stuck in a rut, whining about how much easier it was to pick
[huckleberries] on the slopes of Mt. Baker. Far more beautiful than
in this old clear-cut with cows bellowing nearby! Or Tonga Ridge.
Once Marli and I picked and ate more berries along Tonga Ridge than I could
believe. Berries so abundant hikers were dumping extra piles along
the trail!! Oh, for the goode olde days! Ach. Probably
took an hour to wear out that old tape and shift into the present moment,
letting memories float by rather than wrestling with them.
One of
my favorite, berry memories is of my first major blackberry excursion,
in Seattle. (I try to forget stepping through dog piles in Carkeek
Park to gather blackberries with Marli.) Having never lived in such
edible surroundings, I gladly followed fellow folk dancer and native Seattlite,
Roni, to her childhood stomping ground, now condemned and abandoned in
the flight zone into SeaTac airport. Succinctly, she's a gal who
never stops talking, doesn't require a listener. Long immune to the
roar of low flying craft, Roni kept right on talking when a plane came
over. The first umpteen times her monologue was drowned out, I pleaded
with her to stop until the plane went over. “I can't hear! Roni”,
I shouted as she plunged ahead with stories of brothers, mom, cousins,
momentary husband, without so much as a coma, oblivious to both roar and
me.
I'd recently
seen “My Dinner with Andre” (the art movie of one man talking for hours
through a dinner). Here I was in my own version, Berry Picking with
Roni, I giggled. Don't know how long it took me to "get it", stop
wishing for conversation and just pick. I do know we were gashed,
slashed and bleeding by the time we packed up our buckets.
Recalling
the alternative of company that might drive me nuts, I became more and
more delighted with respectful chipmunks, squirrels and birds, old buddies.
Better my own monolog than Roni and the jets any time, though that was
fun!
Memories
softened and deepened. I returned to a blackberry scene I hadn't
visited for ages--much different—that took place a few years earlier.
During a kayak trip in Johnstone Strait off Vancouver Island, we beached
at Mamalilucula Island. This was heaven. Overgrown,
real totem poles, warm sun, fresh water and an eat-as-you go magical afternoon.
I was wearing a favorite light gray, sleeveless, eco T-shirt (opposing
nuclear waste in Canyonlands) later transmuted into a Volkswagen seatback
cover. When, bam, a ripe blackberry from our charismatic trip leader
Pat splatted on my chest. I wince to recall what a poor sport I was,
sharply complaining about the stain on my favorite shirt. Months
later, I was startled and embarrassed to realize I was now sad the reminder
from such a sweet memory had almost washed out! I'd grown to cherish
it! Perhaps this fickle attachment was an early root of my now consuming
interest in the power of the mind! Shift happens, attitudes change.
Suddenly
I realized I was having a wonderful time picking berries in an Idaho clear-cut.
Oh, to
be right with the moment! Berries may be my ultimate meditation!
Old tapes pause. One by one, hour by hour, tiny Idaho huckleberries
slowly filled a tub. Mt Baker, Alaska cranberry jewels, even Mamalilicula
faded. I was present in the here and now, focused on the eternal
fascinating variety of berries: dark and shiny, frosty blue; reds; low
bush and tall; berries from under trees, in shade, in full sun. As
empty and peaceful a mind as I experience, the harvest mind.
August 2001
To The Editor --of cows and rainbows
(submitted twice, unpublished "due to length")
To the Editor, Idaho Statesman:
Last weekend I found the campsites
I've enjoyed for 3 summers near West Mountain trashed.
I'd just driven through miles and miles of cows and fresh cow pies, noticing
cropped vegetation on hillsides and along stream, and stream banks trampled
into mush. So I wasn't stunned to find cows had been in the small
meadow I so enjoy, on the edge of which are the campsites. I've lived
in the West since the 60s; been there, forest user, seasonal worker.
The damage I found was beyond cows. The tent area in the trees that
had so much growing on my last stay, one could barely set up tent, was
now a rough, bare, much larger ripped up area without a blade of vegetation
remaining. The spot where there'd been well established fire ring
and I'd sat for hours, alone and with friends, was also trampled, filled
with manure. Hay too suggested horse camp. The ring was totally
gone. In the meadow was a new one and more scatted hay. About
the only thing I recognized was the pile of elk hair by the parking area
that appeared early this season. The new scene was uninhabitable,
destroyed by careless campers and horses. No wonder it was vacant.
As I walked towards the nearby forest, hoping I might yet find a tent site,
before I got there I could see numerous huge wads of toilet paper throughout
the trees. I'd never found trash there at all!
Walking to the site across the road, I could see a good sized ribcage in
what was once the fire ring and tent area. Hadn't been there a few
weeks before! One fall 'd kicked cow pies aside and slept in the
trees with a heavenly scent that I decided in the morning might be from
wild geraniums. I love this site! I always hear deer cough,
coyotes howl, owls call. Last fall a fair amount of trash including
diapers had been left; I'd recycled the cans. I didn't want to sleep
by a carcass.
As I continued looking around, hoping one of the campsites was usable,
the camper trailer that stopped in the middle of the road, drove across
the ditch, directly out into the center of the meadow, something I'd never
seen before. So much for meadow flowers, camas and elephant head.
Low water year, drive right out, I guess. I was sickened. However,
had they looked, they wouldn't have used one of the existing sites either.
Dust sat thick, churned up by ATVs, in what used to be small paths among
the sites. I'd seen enough. Fled and camped in the middle
of a logging road miles away; no sounds of deer, coyote or owl; just the
bellow of cows. Slapped a piece of beef and an ear of corn on the
small fire I made in the middle of the road and dismally chewed over the
ironies of the experience as night fell.
I sense there's an element of rage when we tear up/trash something, land,
whatever, coming from not realizing “Them” is “Us”. If you've ever
tried to get a campsite, you pretty much know others like to camp and follow
when you leave. Sure, we all want our own way, our cut of the forest.
As we meander through life, most of us grow out of childhood into awareness
of others and make peace with rules and order, discriminating between those
wise, self protecting rules and those frivolous. We learn to bury
or carry out human waste, burn toilet paper, pack out trash, pick up after
ourselves, children and animals, and sometimes, others. It was a
painful thought that more than likely the folks who trashed the campsites
are fellow Idaho neighbors letting off steam. Just a hunch.
Folks, there
is no “Them”, only “Us”.
The following
day as I retreated back to town with a jolt I remembered the huge brewhaha
over The Rainbow Gathering! Not wanting to miss this once in a backyard
happening I'd had to see for myself: hear bullhorns; see overstaffed, overpaid
officials on overtime; see miles of corded off public land; watch frolicking,
skimpily clad hippies. Finally I found a valley parked full of old
rigs, reminiscent of a 60s rock concert. On The Gathering's World
Peace Day I walked through the encampment wondering: wherever in the world
could folks with such chips on their shoulders against “Them” find such
acceptance, if not with such a gathering as this! Thousands of anythings--cows,
anarchists, ATVs, campers--cause impact. As I wandered I kept thinking:
folks, the universe has laws, is orderly, not chaotic!
It was
obvious some people cared a whole lot. I was asked respectfully to
stay away from the stream (while elsewhere dogs and families romped).
It was a hot day. I didn't want to stay and smell garbage and trench
latrines. (Garbage would be removed by responsible Family members
later.) I left, curiosity satisfied at having observed what happens
when a lot of folks who donut want to be told what to do get together with
some folks who care a lot. Interesting, and very, very familiar.
Compared to miles and miles of stream bank damage and pollution from multiple
use (also subsidized by Us), cattle, mining, logging, irresponsible horse
camps, and other forest users, the Rainbow Gathering was a cakewalk.
I donut want to hear another word about it. Take a look at the way
a small group of us locals fouls a lovely area of land for the rest of
us. Teach your family and friends gently and firmly to clean up after
themselves for those who follow. Let's use our infamous Idaho independence
maturely so we can continue enjoying this beautiful country.
Yours sincerely,
Jeannie, Boise
JUNE 2001ANNUAL National OLD TIME FIDDLERS FESTIVAL - Weiser, (Idaho, nat)
After years of hearing about
Weiser (Idaho's famous fiddle contest since the '50s or '60s), we were
there! A couple of years ago during festival week, while on an abortive
volksmarch that ended wandering through wheat fields, Phoebe and I listened
unsuccessful for strains of fiddles. A perennial beginner fiddler
during my Seattle lifetime, I was certain I'd know a fiddle tune if I heard
one. This year, 3 of us headed out and lo, there were signs, if not
music, directing us. Coming from the strong participatory philosophy
of the upper northwest corner, I was armed with outdoor gear and a set
of good sounding rocks I've used in jam sessions, in case I felt a beat
I couldn't resist joining. Can always dance. My rusty mandolin
and fiddle stayed home.
Luckily
a delightful Moscow/Potlatch woman, a veritable one woman Weiser chamber
of commerce, filled me in on the festival as we fellow tickets purchasers
waited amiably in the heat for an hour plus, and a community food booth
provided burgers. By then it was obvious bleachers meant indoor high
school gymnasium, not the outdoor sort. Suddenly we had tickets (we
were about 5th & 6th in the long line) and a choice of fine seats among
said bleachers, to which I shortly became painfully familiar. My
knees straddled a slumping young girl; my mind shot back to high school
gyms. Soon my buddies, who "already had tickets", joined me!
Oops.
First class
acts preceded the official adult fiddlers contest. I was thrilled
to again watch the Duncan boys, 5 and 8, who again swept the youth categories.
In a peculiar twist of fate, the boys had been entertainment at a health
fair while I sat at a hospice booth; I'd been touched to tears by their
ease and naturalness and vowed to give up fiddle forever, happily turning
it over to the unbelievably capable younger generation!
Throughout
the evening I winced to think how fervently I was urged to enter a fiddle
contest in Juneau AK, because I was carrying one. Luckily no amount
of assuring me there was no way to lose since there were only a couple
of contestants, could overcome my death grip terror of solos. Other
than waltzes (beginner's haven) I wasn't even familiar with the types of
tunes needed to enter!
These fiddlers,
however, were fabulous. In my wildest dream I couldn't imagine ranking
the contestants. It seemed utterly preposterous!
Equally
fascinating, was the whole scene. A bit unnerving was the resemblance
of the silver haired and tongued emcee to the minister of the only church
I've ever joined, and the first fiddler, to the minister's senior (female)
assistant. And the bearded fellow who stood up and cheered extra
wildly, to one of my buddies at the same church. Perhaps the number
of white haired folks and bent spines made the whole experience smack of
old time religion. The presence of a disproportionate number of Asian
folks, puzzled me until I learned 3 tour busloads attended.
If the
audience was aging and seated, contestants were not! The fast fingers
of young women and men, judges and contestants, that created both flowing
waltzes and ripping breakdowns ran through teens, possibly into their 40s,
maybe only 30s. Mere youth! Their backups (guitar persons)
however, were more mature.
Suddenly
after 8 finalists had presented their 3 tunes, my butt unannounced, a la
Chief Joseph, "I will sit no more". Three hours of bench sitting,
even with my best yoga awareness, had me coiled in agony. I sprung
up and out. The next round would have to go on without me.
After purchasing
ice cream at old fashioned prices from old fashioned volunteers, I plunged
out into what turned out to be a ferocious, sudden wind storm to tour the
campground, essentially the school ground. Walking and moving had
never been more welcome--bliss to swing legs! Small wonder so many
folks carried pillows and blankets--they knew what lay ahead, uhh behind.
This was
my chance to wander around and see if the scene resembled my Pt. Townsend
Fiddle Tunes experience of 1987? or Northwest Folklife Festivals.
A few tents flaps snapped in the wind. Waves of dust blew across
the grounds. I flipped up my reading glasses and stumbled blearily
onward. The rest of the grounds were lined with a variety of motor
homes. I saw one VW bus and a toyota station wagon with a dealer's
flyer in the window.
At one
far end, I stumbled onto a couple of low key booths, one of which sold
corn on the cob for $1. I chuckled when a harried woman call a child
to turn off a large fan! No kidding! What a storm!
Toured
past 2 or 3 low key jam sessions between motor homes, low key, because
they consisted of a few elderly pickers and bowers in lawn chairs, surrounded
by a much larger number of spectators, also seated. My impression
was more of onlookers wanting to be entertained, possibly more of an economy
stop on the motor home route, than of groups of crazed musicians with loose,
sore fingers, high on music, that I recalled from my former fiddle world.
Then again, it was the final evening after nearly a week of camaraderie.
Even dogs just seemed to be hanging out. I recognized no old Seattle
faces (furred or bearded), though I did spend some time with a bored cat,
tethered to a motor home.
Later,
as I sat reading our book club selection (the Dalai Lama's autobiography)
by the light of the burger trailer, my buddies stumbled out, more tenacious
than I, but also, defeated, before a finalist was selected. How could
one possibly be chosen, we agreed! On the drive home we marveled
at our adventure, the strange weather, and the serious rear end challenge
of spending hours on bleachers! On a higher note, never, ever had
I enjoyed the national anthem more. The unaccompanied local male
soloist was sensational. When had I last tried to sing along with
the Stars Spangled Banner? A few bars in, out of the collective unconscious,
my hand covered my heart. Luckily I suppressed my evangelical desire
to elbow my unpatriotic companions. How I've changed! Thanks,
Idaho!
The next
day, I biked through Boise's River Festival in search of deep fried onion
blossoms. I smiled at $2.50 corn of cob, recalling Weiser prices.
Stopped to listen when I recognized the base player from the Idaho Spuds
group that had been at Weiser. Sufficiently miked this time, their
exquisite bluegrass harmonies could be fully enjoyed.
Here's
to many more Weiser Festivals, though my rear end may not be there 'til
the memory of the bleachers softens.
March 2001TAI CHI - Idaho Style
One never
knows when a peculiar Idaho Moment will strike.
The last
few weeks I've been dropping in on tai chi classes at the senior center
(ever hopeful of finding a class compatible with my out of state background
in qigong, the root practice of tai chi). The senior's group (originally
based at the YWCA) has been practicing together for 19 some years!
I'm fascinated that this sometime cowboy town, that once had a Chinese
area known as Chinden Gardens, has had an ongoing presence in oriental
arts for decades. Why not!
Suddenly,
one Monday morning, in the absence of the regular fearless leader, the
senior next in line started a cassette tape to follow the "long form".
To my astonishment, it was in Chinese!! As Car Talk's
Click and Clack would exclaim, "Sonja Henie's tutu!" I could hardly
believe my monolingual eyes and ears. The only word I recognized
was "tai chi", yet a room full of seniors waived arms as though they'd
been following spoken Chinese for years, which of course, they had!
Here in Idaho, where neo-nazis are neighbors, not some distant "them",
and the legislature has a chaplain so conservative (I'd use right and left
but I'm dyslexic) even the mainstream twitches, a group of seniors follows
instructions in Chinese, their original instructor having learned directly,
without translation!
Could it
be, the bottom line in Idaho is: Idahoans will follow just about anyone/anything
if they wanna!
