Sunday, March 3, 2024

How the John Birch Society Bit Ravalli County and Gave It Rabies

Breaking: Montana's "Freedom Caucus" employs tax dollars generated from super-charged property-tax hike to hire unidentified physician tasked with fitting square conspiracy theories into round, black holes.



In case you're wondering--and I hope you are--the following is a true story. I changed the names of the innocent  because cats are always innocent. It was first published in What the Funk a couple weeks ago, and I recommend that you go to that blog, not necessarily to see if I'm lying or not, but to find some good reading on what's happening behind the curtain of the right-wing wizards currently infesting our political landscapes, mostly in Great Falls but, by extension, in the whole, currently-sad State of Montana.


I don’t call my cat “Fatso” (not her real name) lightly. It’s not who she is, it’s where she likes to sit and when, which is on my lap when I’m using my laptop. Her body blobs onto my keyboard and, when I try to write, my minimal hand movements harsh her mellow, which prods her to give the back of my hand a nip of annoyance. That’s endearing, but, not too long ago, one of her love bites broke the skin and became infected, which recalled a ‘70s pop song that should have been killed at birth (“Cat Scratch Fever”) which, in turn, triggered a temporary bout of irrational cognitive dissonance (anger mixed with conspiracy theories), the sort of thing that short-circuits your brain and sends you to an emergency room for drugs because you never know WHO or WHAT is out to get you in Ravalli County. It could be your cat. Or Ted Nugent.

 

To point: Ravalli County has had a problem with science for a while. During the Covid-19 pandemic, our local cops couldn’t possibly enforce humane safety protocols to keep other peoples’ grandparents from dying because of other peoples’ conspiracy theories. Alas—and as a direct result—more people died of Covid than in traffic accidents. Paradoxically, these same cops could and did enforce speed limits throughout the pandemic, including ticketing me for going 29 MPH in a 25 MPH zone. Paradoxically-squared: local paranoia over Nazi-nurses torturing transplanted retirees with freedom-smothering N-95 masks birthed the local “Breathe-Free Montana” group, a John Birch-flavored extremist outfit whose adherents recently succeeded in orchestrating a coup against the already-entrenched, already-hard-right-but-apparently-not-hard-right-enough Republican Central Committee that has had a stranglehold on our local politics since that black guy became president.


So there I sat in a Ravalli County examining room which, in a reality-based county, would be a “safe space”, but, remember, we’re talking Ravalli County. The nice nurse left to “get the doctor” and, less than two minutes later, a Hamilton Police officer barged in unannounced, in “full metal jacket”, demanding that I either surrender my cat to be quarantined for 10 days in kitty jail or that I sign an affidavit that I will do it myself and that, if my cat escaped during that time and caused damage to other peoples’ property, I would be liable. As an example, he cited the possibility that my cat could bite a cow and give the whole herd rabies. 

 

His logic, of course, was impeccable but, as my hand throbbed in my lap, I also thought that maybe I had contracted rabies or some other hallucinatory microbe. I had to get rid of this guy so I could get drugs and, thankfully, cognitive dissonance is usually a passing thing, and so I told him that I would be glad to produce a record of her recent rabies shot. Never mind, he countered. I must either surrender Fatso or sign, which I did. The catch: the affidavit stipulated that, after her 10-day quarantine, I would bring her in to the station to prove she wasn’t a rabid John Bircher yet, which was beauty-cubed, since I thought a conversation with local law enforcement about cows being more important to them than people would be priceless. I have no intention of taking Fatso in for her parole hearing and, to date, we are still on the lam, awaiting a wonderful conversation. BTW: Anyone know a good lawyer who doesn’t have rabies yet?


Fatso visits Montana governor Greg Gianforte's Creationism Museum in Glendale, MT. 

Close Call!!


And remember: you heard it here first.

Wednesday, January 24, 2024

The Medicine Tree

  


 

January, 2024

Victor, Montana

The Bitterroot Valley, like the Nile, is upside-down. Both take their directions from rivers that flow from south to north, so when an old-time “Bitterrooter” talks about her beloved headwaters, she’s really talking about its tail, its southern end. And just so, conversations in the Bitterroot (and maybe in Egypt) get unnecessarily confused. 

Think about how it is here: fourth-generation Bitterrooters forever insisting that they are going “down to Missoula”, which is actually north, while newcomers who have only been here a few decades—and considerably outnumber the old timers—equally insisting that since Missoula is north of the Bitterroot Valley, it is therefore “up” and that native Bitterrooters are “down”. Native Bitterrooters who “know better”, take umbrage at these know-it-all "libtards", vote for fact-free religious zealots with an assault-gun fetish (and sometimes a criminal record) to "show them" and it becomes a reverse-polarity sort of thing, a tough, mental divide when applied to a whole population, because it challenges the People to reconcile their opinions about geology and religion, which some people, of course, will never do. For instance:

 

The Medicine Tree

 

In the fall of 1928, white men bristling with guns and sitting in the back of black Ford pickup trucks roared past the Medicine Tree at a high rate of speed, admonishing their neighbors to arm themselves against a Papal takeover of America. The bristling men had been sounding the alarm all day, roaring up and down Western Montana’s Bitterroot Valley, then down and up, and now they were headed to Sula at the far southern end to make sure that the people living just below the Great Divide heard the news. It was an election year and Al Smith, the Democrat, was running against Herbert Hoover, the Republican. The problem, the bristling ones wanted their neighbors to know, wasn’t that Al Smith was a Democrat. The problem was that he was a Catholic. 

The Medicine Tree had been at the upper end of the Bitterroot Valley forever, or at least since the beginning of Time, which is measured, by those who know about such things, from when Coyote started telling good jokes. The fact that it was still standing despite the county wanting to blast it out of the way and “fix” the narrow spot the Tree forced cars into between the cliff and the river was proof that Coyote still held sway on that particular stretch. They also knew that Coyote, whose coloring could have been anywhere from off-white to deep red, liked a good laugh and so it’s a wonder that the bristling men didn’t dump themselves into the East Fork. But, for whatever reason, he gave them a pass and allowed them to squirt gravel instead, asses and elbows around the S turns that topped the riprap constricting the river into a straight neck of pretty fast, pretty deep water just below the road.

The only route going to and from what would become Ross’s Hole, where Lewis and Clark met the Salish and where Sula now sits, had always passed directly underneath the Medicine Tree. It was the Salish people’s ancient trail, and there had always been a little bit of space between the river and the tall Ponderosa Pine with the Bighorn ram’s head embedded in its trunk for people, dogs and horses to pass. But Fresno Scrapers and bulldozers had long since dumped sand and rip-rap into the river and crowded the trail even closer to the tree to widen the path into a road. Wheels came, first the wooden ones and then the inflated ones made from African rubber gathered by local people enslaved to a happenstance Belgian prince who wanted an empire and, it could be argued, mistook the Upper Nile for one and couldn’t take it back when he found out otherwise. It was this rubber that began compacting the tree’s delicate root system, compromising its health while rutting the decomposed granite and tiny layer of topsoil that comprised what passed for dirt in the canyon. By the time the bristling men passed under the Medicine Tree, the road had been improved so much that cars could zip past faster than human caution had evolved. The bristling ones, of course, were not cautious and they didn’t stop to give thanks to the tree either, as had been the Peoples’ custom for centuries. Like Lewis and Clark, who passed under the tree a century before, they weren’t inclined to do so and were on a mission besides.  

The reason they were in such a hurry was that they had evidence, unimpeachable and from a secret source (probably divine) that could therefore neither be revealed nor doubted, that there were nefarious black ships anchored in New York Harbor which, in those days, was as far away from the Bitterroot Valley as the Moon. Rural areas like the Bitterroot hadn’t even fully-engaged with the age of electricity yet, so the Bristling Ones had to overcome the vast limits of geography and slow-moving information that was their lot and would naturally impose upon their prejudices, and this they did. The black ships, they duly informed their neighbors, had been known to be there “for a while” and no one had been seen either boarding nor disembarking from them except for boats bringing loads of food which were being unloaded at night, and every Friday night that food was fish! How could any patriotic Bitterrooter doubt, the bristling men wanted their neighbors to ask themselves, that this was the Pope’s infamous Army of Conquest, the one their forefathers and mothers had been dreading since the Irish Potato Famine. It was now floating right off the shores of America, waiting stealthily for the signal from their landbound co-conspirators—Socialists even then! —that the Catholic Candidate had successfully stolen the presidential election and then…then O Bitterrooters! The Papists would swarm off the ships with guns the efficiency of which America had not yet taken the measure of, to overwhelm the freedom-loving people and convert them by fire and force to worship a female god! Then…then O Bitterrooters! Not a man among you will be able to burn your tires in your fields whenever you want! 

Sure enough, it turned out the Klan had been behind that one and, almost a century later it again became trendy for white people on similar missions to pass under the Medicine Tree. Disaffected urbanites attracted to our white demographics, the hit TV series “Yellowstone” and other parables of rugged individualism, and also the fishing. They would flick their dry flies out into the ancient currents with what they hoped looked like the practiced, steady hand of a gunslinger or a pro golfer, and try their luck at catching a flashier version of themselves that they believed was swirling just under the surface and, when they caught it, throw it back. But they forgot, or just never knew, that there are no narratives in our western rivers that they couldn’t have found closer to home with less effort and expense. They mistook our lack of cluttered landscape for a last, best chance at simpler times, but the only real difference between their homes and ours is that we can still measure our wishful thinking against the lay of a land still recognizable as such. We still have our stories. 

Henry Ford, that singularly-American enigma, had his. He bragged that even though his America was Main Street, Christian and white, you could order your Model A in any color you wanted so long as you wanted the color black. He was a pacifist during World War I, a Presbyterian, hired African-Americans in his factories when it wasn’t fashionable and was a virulent anti-Semite his whole life. He, like many Americans between the big wars, admired Hitler and reckoned that maybe the Fuhrer and his “team” were on the right track with their robust application of Henry’s own political philosophy, which is really a corporate one that has been applied with equal vigor to many things by many like-minded CEOs ever since: “There are winners and losers.” Simple, and Henry and Hitler did a brisk business with each other until Roosevelt finally ordered Henry to aim his fabulously-profitable, steel-extruding operation toward his own country’s war effort instead. But Shakespeare and Coyote knew, and Henry might have, that irony is the better part of comedy, so it was Coyote who had the last laugh on those who would fly through his sacred narrows too fast in the back of black, white Presbyterian pickups to warn the People about black Catholic ships in New York Harbor, the dark side of the Moon, or whatever, and this has always been so, at least since Fresno Scrapers and Ford pickups.

Of course, the stories of the Salish and Kootenai people who actually knew Coyote and those of auto magnates, Belgian princes and the KKK wobble and diverge away from each other even before the beginning. According to tribal accounts, a giant ram had chosen to live where the Medicine Tree crimped the old trail exactly where the bristling men had squirted gravel, where the valley bottlenecked into a narrows that was the only path the People could use to squeeze themselves through and still stay out of the river. There were friends and relations to visit east of the Divide, buffalo to hunt, enemies to fight, and Coyote knew that, if these migratory people would make their home in the Bitterroot, which he knew they would want to do once they arrived, they would have to pass through this slot regularly. 

Giant rams are hard to figure, though, and this one was ornery besides. He decided he wasn’t going to let the People pass, and grew inscrutably violent. Coyote, whose aim was to prepare the valley for his friends to live in peace within, decided to play a trick on him. He knew that, since even normal-sized rams had testicles that were not an insignificant part of their total body weight, this ram’s testicles were as big as the hotrods that equally-charged young men would use in the future to bypass their own self-preservation instincts, sometimes at this very spot where the drop into the river was such a short, missed-turn away. Those who know might say that Coyote had that warped sense of humor we still mistake for high comedy, but he was also far-seeing and wise, which is to say that he could recognize a slam-dunk when he saw one. He pointed to the tree and bet the ram that he couldn’t knock it over. The ram immediately accepted the challenge, of course, revved himself up and powered forward, hit the tree and lodged his horns deep within the trunk’s wood. Coyote walked up and, with a few quick slices of his flint knife, cut the ram’s head off. The skull remained embedded in the tree as it grew over the years, and the People, when they arrived, were grateful. They would always thank it with offerings and prayers whenever they passed. The path became their ancient road, and time passed. 

Then in 1841 the first whites came to settle in the Valley, after the Corps of Discovery came and went, trappers and traders, too, for a little while, and these first whites were Catholics. The Black Robes, Jesuits who built a mission where the valley widens into vast, protected horse plains for several miles on either side of the river until they toed the foothills of the magnificent Bitterroot Range to the west and the rounded, fecund Sapphires to the east. Everyone, the Catholic priests and especially the Salish whose beloved home the priest had built their mission in the heart of, agreed that the current site of Stevensville was a beautiful spot, and from that very spot the priests admonished their native neighbors (‘charges” in the vernacular of the U.S. Government) to live in peace with the coming whites, which they were already pretty good at doing.

Blackfeet raiders, though, armed with trade guns acquired from Scottish Protestants up north who directed Hudson Bay Company affairs, disagreed with these Catholic priests about peace in general and peace with the whites in particular. Conflict ensued and the Jesuits moved on, selling their mission and pastures to an American sutler from Pennsylvania with a drinking habit, Major John Owen. Fort Owen soon became a popular trading post and then the jumping-off point for white settlement in Montana. Gold discoveries and the rash of deserters to the west from Confederate recruitment drives in the southern states drove the white population to explode, and the People’s ancient road became a wagon trace in almost no time at all until it was forgotten by—or didn’t matter to—the recently-arrived ones that the valley was the home of the Salish by fact and by treaty. A critical mass of land-hungry squatters was achieved before reason or compassion could catch up. The buffalo famously disappeared for good by the 1880s, corruption and bureaucratic incompetence balled up any intention by the government to live up to their 1855 Hellgate Treaty obligations and the Bitterroot Salish under Chief Charlo, who were living up to the treaty and refused to leave, faced starvation and gunpoints. Charlo and his people were forced out of the Bitterroot in October of 1891, passing through the newly-surveyed streets of Missoula and over the Clark Fork River, their horses’ hooves clopping in dirge-time as they led them across the board planks of the Higgins Street Bridge. 

By this time the Jesuits had built another Catholic mission further north in what would be called the Mission Valley, and, as the federally-designated denomination to settle and acculturate the tribe, beckoned the Bitterroot Salish to leave their home and come to them. Congress, whose only real concern for the tribes was to move them off the lands most-coveted by ranchers without spending too much money on bullets, figured the Mission Valley would do, and those whites who witnessed the procession over the bridge from their homes made of fresh-baked bricks recalled it as quite a sight. The Salish recalled it as their Trail of Tears. 

Almost simultaneous to the Bitterroot Salish’ removal was the removal of the ram’s horn from the Medicine Tree, cut out by an anonymous vandal and it wasn’t long after that before the wagon road became a motor highway between the tiny logging town of Darby and the tinier ranching community Sula. Now that the Salish were gone and the “Wild West” done, “safety” was on the county’s mind as automobiles were built to go faster and faster and they pressed the highway department to blast the Medicine Tree out of the way. But, given the Tree’s upper hand in the upside-down Bitterroot valley, the highway department could never get enough political bunnies in a row to pull it off outright. 

Over time, though, the tree’s health started to decline, due to soil compaction and other abuses. Then in the winter of 1995 another anonymous vandal came in the night, and salted its base to kill it outright. The salt was noticed right away and was removed, but it wasn’t two years after that that frequent skiers buzzing through the narrows noticed that the Medicine Tree was dying from the top down. Noticing the same thing, the Confederated Salish and Kootenai Tribes bought the 58 acres of cliffs and steep draws that the Medicine Tree site occupied, and then requested an examination of its soils to determine what was killing it. The year the tree died, in 1999, the Forest Service complied and offered up a soil scientist, who offered in turn the opinion that, since the ground was frozen when the salting happened and the salt was gathered up soon after its sowing, it was bugs not malice that was the tree’s demise, and this looked good in the valley newspapers for those who wanted to put such things as cultural vandalism to rest. But there were others who passed under the Tree regularly who had longer memories than soil scientists, and weren’t so sure. 

The next year, in 2000, an epic fire season torched the whole mountainside surrounding the now-deceased Medicine Tree and probably would have consumed it if Forest Service fire crews, instructed by those within the agency who had been re-charged with a renewed appreciation for what a political hairball it’d be if they let the tree burn, hadn’t dug a line around it. When winter snows came and the fires petered out the Medicine Tree, to some white locals’ chagrin, remained standing. 

Then a huge windstorm came through the very next year and blew the top three-quarters of the Tree over onto the highway, leaving the branchless, buckskin lower twenty feet of trunk still standing sentinel over the ancient site. The upper remains of the Tree were brushed into a pile off the highway by a county crew, where the Salish came and picked up every piece and placed them under the Medicine Tree’s designated heir located on their property, the location of which, as non-tribal locals who also cared about the fate of the tree thankfully-observed, was not disclosed. 

Things came to a head of sorts in December, 2013, when the Confederated Salish and Kootenai Tribes decided to place their sacred acres in trust to the Bureau of Indian Affairs for its protection against such obvious threats as the highway department’s condemning of it through Imminent Domain and blasting it out. By then, most Ravalli County officials had been installed in a nationwide, mostly-rural backlash against the results of a presidential election that placed the first non-white person in the Oval Office, and the new commissioners duly objected. They cited “bafflement” as their reason, that the tribes would want to create a “federal inholding” that would deprive the county of its rightful taxes (about $800 a year on that parcel). What they didn’t cite was that, since Ruby Ridge and Waco, Ravalli County had been cranking out anti-government, militant “constitutionalist” as regularly as a Hershey factory cranked out Kisses and so claimed a mandate to be done with this whole “Indian thing”. The commissioners called a meeting in Hamilton with tribal elders to discuss the issue, where one commissioner claimed reverse-discrimination, and accused the tribes of scheming to build a race track or a casino on the dry, rocky cliff faces. He also wanted to know how “out a billion trees on the Bitterroot Forest” the tribes picked the only one blocking the highway department from straightening and “improving” the highway. 

The attending elders who, unlike the commissioners, had a working knowledge of diplomacy between nations, tried their best not to sound like a 150-year-old broken record as they recounted the 1855 Hellgate Treaty, Coyote, private-property rights and the tribes’ rights as a sovereign entity, but it was like trying to feed carrots to cats. The commissioners’ strange words simmered instead, in the overheated, under-ventilated room that used to be a hospital delivery ward, until finally the county’s planning board chairman, who had also gained his official position as a result of local backlash against Black Things In The White House and Other Places, and who was not known for his patience or excessive reading, decided to speed the meeting up a bit with some from-the-hip “testimony”. He claimed that he had recently been on a “fact-finding trip” to Havre, Montana, which shares its county with the Rocky Boy Reservation in North Central Montana and that the officials there complained to him that their jails were being filled up with “drunken Indians”. The planning board chairman was only saying the quiet part out loud, that a casino or a racetrack would surely be built on the side of that hostile cliff and that “drunken Indians” would then start falling out of it, filling up the county’s jail. Maybe it’d be best for everybody, he implied to the not-unsympathetic commissioners, to just blast the Tree out of there once and for all and be done with it. 

It’s true that even Coyote probably would have been as concerned as the planning board chairman about drunken beings falling out of hot, snake-infested and otherwise-inhospitable cliffs, but there were some serious gaps in the chairman’s research that the tribal elders were not slow to point out. How, they wanted to know, was it that these drunken beings were dwelling in their sacred cliffs in the first place? And why, if these falling beings really existed, did the lightly-tinted planning board chairman assume they were “Indians” instead of drunks more in-tint with the planning board chairman and the commissioners, the kind who vastly outnumbered natives in almost any Montana bar? And where, exactly, did the planning board chairman think these magical beings were really going? It seemed to the elders like a lot of trouble for such beings to go to if they were only planning on going to jail. The planning board chairman didn’t have the answers and neither did the commissioners, who still magnanimously-objected in principle to drunken beings of any tint falling out of cliffs and robbing them of taxes. 

 

#

 

As of January, 2024, the 20-foot trunk of the old Medicine Tree still stands above the East Fork of the Bitterroot River, at the very tail of our valley which is really its head, still crimping the deeper desires of speedy trucks testing evolutionary principles of Bristling Ones and a couple other things that have so far remained officially unrecorded in objections about the Tree. One of those was revealed a few years ago when its thick Ponderosa bark began to dry and shed. A rusty broad point arrow about eye-level was uncovered, embedded deep in its wooden flesh where someone had bull’s-eyed it. It was a modern point, and the tree’s living wood had been well on its way toward healing around the sharp metal before it died, so it was plain that the wound was several decades old. Maybe the arrow had been embedded as the ram’s horns had been and the Tree’s assailant was gifted a vision instead of decapitation. Or maybe not. But either way, the Salish-Kootenai folks still persist in visiting the Tree and pressing gifts into the cracks of its buckskin trunk or to lay at its feet, offering their prayers. 

Upside down places like the Bitterroot are everywhere and all alike. From the Nile to Middle America’s heart, which I’ll call Fargo, where the Red River flows decidedly-north to Canada, everybody’s always had to deal with their own geology. Global warming and shriveling democracies can be calculated by researchers using computer models, but they can also be more-easily explained by gravity, God and the true weight of water. Your average Egyptian, for instance, could probably recognize a flim flam despot coming for his daughter, just like we can now that we’ve watched millions of our fellow citizens vote for a president who openly bragged about doing just such a thing, and I’ll bet there were bristling incidents in Fargo during the heyday of Klan popularity after World War I when, as happened after the American Civil War, men with undiagnosed PTSD were trying to figure out what had just happened to them and then assigning blame for it. 

Bigotry, like nuclear war, is a revelation you can rely on. The dread of both sit there unexposed, invisible until it’s stirred and forced to the fore, floats for a while like sun specks on the skin of your eyes, temporarily annoying. Then gone just as quickly, denied and forgotten even though it swims before your eyes, like a shark, or sun specks. It’s a word we assign to the inscrutable foible that dictates, almost scientifically, that no matter what facts are presented, what harm is done or whose children or environments die, there will always be a certain percentage within any demographic who will only have their opinions pried away from their cold, dead fingers. 

As for the Bitterroot, I’m not a tribal member with the long knowledge of what’s really at stake. I’ve only lived here 40 years or so and have regarded the Medicine Tree on my way to and from the ski hill for those many years, left my presents and prayers, and have had my suspicions. It’s easy enough to see, though, if the Medicine Tree isn’t just a blur in your windshield because you were driving faster than evolution just to score first chairlift on a powder day. Boil it all down and what’s left is the mere observation that politics and water almost always flow downhill, and if all we’re really looking for are excuses, then blaming a river is as good as the next, which means, of course, that there are no good excuses at all. 

To be fair to the Bristling Ones of 1928, though, they were right, at least about the tires. It’s also fair to say that at least some of those black Model T’s ended up in the Bitterroot River as legacy riprap, ideal habitat for oversized German Brown trout, another invasive species, a nice little loop.

#

 

 

Saturday, January 6, 2024

Far Less Effort

Bonneville Dam


Note: In the early 1950s, the Army Corps of Engineers proposed to build two 700-ft, straight-axis dams on the Clearwater River in Northern Idaho, one at Bruces Eddy on the North Fork of the Clearwater (later Dworshak Dam), and the other on the Middle Fork of the Clearwater about five miles upstream from Kooskia, Idaho, at a site known as Penny Cliffs. 

A 700-ft, straight-axis dam is a massive wall in the current of a river guaranteed to kill any anadromous fish runs upstream from it. There was--and still is--no known technological fix for this inevitability, and, inevitably, Dworshak Dam did just that to the finest surviving Steelhead run on the planet up until the Corps closed the gates.

Penny Cliffs, on the other hand, was never built, and so a few, remnant native steelhead still manage to swim up the Middle Fork to pass the mouth of the little no-name creek (now Stewart Creek) a couple miles up the Selway River from Paradise Guard Station. The reason Penny Cliffs was never built was because of Stewart Brandborg (Brandy) who, as an Idaho Fish and Game employee and later as an organizer for the Audobon Society in Washington, D.C., rallied hunters, fisherfolk and wildlife biologists to raise holy hell for a decade and a half until Congress just gave up trying to fund it. 

Every year there are more and more floaters who come to know--and come to love--the Selway River, who also know Paradise as the put-in for a weeklong wild ride into its wild country. What few of them know, however, was how close the Selway came to being a stagnant pool from its junction with the Middle Fork at Lowell to within a half-day float from Moose Creek Ranger Station, the midway point between Paradise and the takeout at Race Creek. 

It's sad how, while more and more people are recreating in our irreplaceable backcountry haunts, at the same time there are fewer and fewer who appreciate why those haunts still exist, and how it's up to them to make sure they continue that existence. Below is a chapter from Brandy's "life and times" narrative I've been honored to be working on for too long to keep to myself anymore. Plumbing the depths of the publishing world is apparently beyond me, and I have posted bits and pieces here before. So be it, I guess, and damn the publishing world....I guess. Anyways, this offering is about a time that's now, incredibly, almost a century ago, when the Army Corps closed the gates at Bonneville Dam. 

Time: it's not static and does not seek equilibrium. It changes, at least from our perspective, for better or worse, depending on how we engage it. Context, history and time. Pretty big subjects, but what the hell. Here's to pissing in the wind.

 

End of Part One

Chapter IX

Magruder Ranger Station

Early November, 1937

 

Charlie Engbretzon and Stewart hunted all day up the little no-name creek that cascaded out of the sky in the time it takes a Clark’s Nutcracker to fly from the creek’s headwaters to its mouth with some pine nuts in her craw, dropping three thousand feet in less than a mile, more a crack in the landscape than a creek, and it had a big cave at the top for a bonus. Other than that, Charlie and Stewart had no luck. 

They came down off of the bench above the little canyon to the river and as they looked across the churning Selway from Charlie’s parked Ford they spotted a mule deer. A buck! Charlie helped the boy aim and shoot, then fired a shot to finish it off. Then they waded the river, whose waters were low enough in the Fall to do so, to retrieve the animal, pulled it back across and loaded the it into the back of Charlie’s Ford. Maybe a few representatives of the last free runs of Selway steelhead brushed past their knees. 

It was only Saturday when he and Charlie shot the Mulie buck on the banks of the Selway and they still had another day to fill their other tags, so they were feeling jubilant. Charlie turned to the boy.

“Y’know”, he said to Stewart, “this creek doesn’t have a name. Let’s call it Stewart Creek”. 

Now all that was left to do was a triumphant drive back down the new Paradise Road toward Deep Creek Ranger Station (now called Magruder) in the dusk and on up to the CCC camp where they planned to bed down for the night and then hunt some more in the morning. But they met Frank and Jesse Lantz at Deep Creek, instead, Fitz was nowhere around, and they didn’t go back to where the last wild run of Steelhead might have wriggled past their jeans. 

The next year, the Army Corps flooded the Columbia River Gorge to a depth of sixty feet to form the brand new geographic feature that, in what would become their disturbing flair for dark irony, they would dub “Lake Bonneville”. After that they built seven more dams along the mainstems of the Columbia and Snake Rivers between the Pacific and the little no-name creek. 

Inevitably there were critics of their good works, whom the Army Corps’ military officers and civilian engineers described as “fish enthusiasts” if they happened to be white, and “Indians” if they weren’t. But they also recognized the politics of the thing and agreed to design and install what would be their first rudimentary—and expensive!—fish ladder at Bonneville, declaring that these structures would adequately address what the Interior Department described as the “perceived fish problem”. To the colonels and generals of the Corps, this was nothing less than the magnanimous gesture they deemed it to be, given the horrid expense of the ladders. 

They feathered their magnanimity, though, with a warning that there would be no turning back for the fish, for the dams or for civilization. Epic rivers and ancient prerogatives notwithstanding, the wild runs of anadromous fish who had enjoyed unobstructed access from the ocean to the no-name creeks of the upper Selway or anywhere else for millions of years before God invented humans were simultaneously declared both obsolete and in need of help. This was no idle threat. It was demonstrable even then that, of all the human organizational constructs throughout our specie’s brief history who’ve swallowed such embarrassing amounts of hubris and then survived to get heartburn from their diet choices, the Army Corps of Engineers was one of the sickest. 

The record is clear on this: they knew perfectly well that their dams were going to create such problems for the fish that they would probably kill them outright, so they spent billions of taxpayer dollars covering their butts, with fish ladders, hatcheries and other non-sustainable substitutes for ancient freedoms. 

It’s interesting to note that in late 1937, when Charlie and young Stewart were wading across the river to get Stewart’s first deer, the Corps, the U.S. Bureau of Fisheries and the Oregon Fish Commission were finishing their first round of observations regarding the effectiveness of their new fish ladder at Cascade Locks. Frank T. Bell (U.S. Commissioner of Fisheries) put the whole thing into crystal-clear perspective for everyone when he observed that Chinook salmon were climbing the Bonneville fish ladder with “…far less effort than their forbearers that fought upstream through the swirling rapids that were now to be buried beneath fifty feet of water”

The Oregon Fish Commission put its own exclamation point on the matter when it chirped in that the fishways were a “howling success”.

It’s also worth noting, for those of us who love those beautiful arcs of irony that sometimes serve as halos for such statements, that Bell’s agency had just hired Rachel Carson, future author of “Silent Spring”, a couple years before to write script for the Bureau’s weekly radio broadcast titled “Romance Under the Water”. There’s no denying it; when you talk about dams, you’re talking about epic disconnects that goes back to the world’s first honkies: the Greeks. 

But try putting your finger on that disconnect now. It squirms away from you just as fast as a Salmon fry in a hatchery tank, a treaty with the Dakota People, or any other easy promise made and then easily broken. Reverend Samuel Parker, the first literate “Boston” who crossed the Upper Selway country with his Nii mi puu guides and then wrote about it, laid the first moral foundation for the Corp’s “benevolent designs (to) render the deserts, both naturally and morally (into) the garden of the Lord”. 

“The question often arose in my mind,” the reverend further waxed.“Can this section of country ever be inhabited, unless these mountains shall be brought low, and these valleys shall be exalted?” 

It took a hundred years, but the Corps finally came along and accomplished the feat, understood too late as mere Zeitgeist, not natural, and not prone to revisionism. When the reverand’s notions of developing the treasures of the West strictly for its resources became the core tenet of both classic American literature and of “Manifest Destiny”, there was, as the Corps felt duty-bound to point out, no turning back. Progress without context is, by definition, inextricable, and is now embedded in our national soul. Pharaohs understood that dams and pyramids will ever be the spore of such a species capable of building “fish ladders” (for entertainment, give that phrase a moment’s thought). But didn’t Bonneville Dam put hungry people to work during a time of great economic need, the Pharaohs and politicians would ask. And weren’t families starving for lack of work, suffering for lack of light and wasn’t Woody Guthrie, the Voice of the People himself, writing songs in praise of dams? And now in our Global Warming times, isn’t hydropower considered “clean energy”, even by certain key “environmentalists”[1]

These are questions that will always resonate within the hollow spaces of unformed consciousness a species such as ours inhabits, the Army Corps not only knew it but was tasked with exploiting it, and so the Corps’ attitude was right on target for the Depression, and even for later, when people weren’t so hungry. Resonance is a matter of habit, a taste in a certain genre of music, and a few other things. Words like “disconnect” and “environmentalist” weren’t even words in 1937. Nobody used them, not even future environmentalists. You just can’t put your finger on it, and you can’t fairly blame the Corps or anyone else, at least not much, because no one else except Rachel Carson and a few others were interested in such words at all at the time. 

Of course there will always be dam boosters, just like there will always be art critics and pharaohs, and in 1941, after it was found that Bonneville’s turbines were massacring the anadromous fingerlings trying to get past them on their way to the sea, the art critics started gaining their stride and the U.S. House Committee on Rivers and Harbors held a hearing on the status of migratory fish and the dams in the Pacific Northwest. Congressmen, acting within their ecological niche, were pushing for more dams, and they wanted reassurances and so they brought in General Thomas Robins of the Corps to testify before their committee on the ticklish issue of doomed fingerlings. The Corps by this time had modified the turbines that were killing the fish by the millions just enough to say that they had done so, and General Robins got right to the point. He claimed that a mule could now safely pass through the turbines if it were outfitted with an oxygen tank, and that it has now been proven conclusively that the turbines were incapable of hurting the fish. Fish runs upstream at Bonneville, he further pointed out, had been the largest in thirty years. Congressman Homer Angell from The Dalles, where the next dam would eventually be built, wanted to help the colonel along, and he piped in that “the fish took to the ladders like a duck does to water.” The engineers, Angell declared, had “solved the problem”.

General Robins, whose intriguing challenge about scuba-diving mules making their way through dam turbines is still being studied by top-notch civil engineers around the world, did not disagree with the Congressman’s analogy, but he did finally offer the Committee his succinct, romantic observation in one perfectly symmetrical statement that has stood the test of time:

We have done all that could be done to take care of the fish. If they disappear it will be because of civilization and not because of the dam.[1]

 

#

 

Like almost everywhere else, many of the Selway’s pieces are now gone, recently extinct albeit not entirely forgotten. The wild fish runs are extinct, of course, except for a few derelict genes rubbing against the rough cement sides of hatchery ponds. These were built on the banks of the drowned canyons as consolation prizes to those prehistoric anadromous beings who could cling to archaic spatial memories that nature gifted their race, but apparently not ours. Making Nature better has always been the frame within which we have related to Her, and we still tolerate people talking about Her in that now-ubiquitous bureaucratic dialect —probably pioneered in 1937—when modern specialists who had better things to do wished to declare how they had gone the extra mile in helping mere fish and other such mere things. 

                    There’s one thing about the Selway, though. A lot of its pieces are still here and relatively intact, thanks to the young kid wading across the river with his hero to collect his first deer and his Wilderness Law. People who didn’t know Brandy but know the country he saved recognize it as part of the biggest contiguous wilderness area in the lower forty-eight states, and then they take that fact for granted. Most of us who are lucky enough to love the Selway (or at least can afford to float it and then learn to love it later) hardly notice the little lessons anymore because it’s such a relief to find such a big hunk of unroaded mountains anywhere in the world now. The little lessons of history and deep biology are too hard to see, let alone the big ones that are there every day, that the Land still gives. 

                    Maybe Her biggest lesson is that the remnants of this place remain in their nominally intact condition because of a few things that you can’t quite put your finger on. Maybe one of those things is that you can’t judge the past by simply remembering it. You need context, the grounded kind, the kind that only an extremely-large, relatively-intact piece of Land gives.

                    What’s fair to say about the Selway country is that everything is as steep as a cow’s face, including the learning curves of her lessons, which tend toward randomness, which is what actually saved it. It was Big Brandy’s CCC boys who were called away from punching the Paradise Road all the way to Selway Falls, which was their intent, to the war instead, and to the good-paying defense jobs on the coast, that gave the Land the reprieve it needed to be worth saving again, and again, and yet again. It’s certainly not nostalgia that saves big places like the Selway. It’s things like war, steepness, and a couple of other things. 

#

 

Two weeks after Charlie and Stewart gave the Lantzes a ride over into the Bitterroot, Charlie held true on his promise to the boy. He had a CCC kid paint the name “Stewart Creek” on a board, then had it nailed to a tree where the little creek poured into the culvert under the road. 

“By god!” Stewart exclaimed, still surprised at how such little things stick while such big ones get away. “It got named Stewart Creek on the maps!” 

And this is how Stewart Brandborg, the last surviving architect of the Wilderness Law, explained to anyone who asks why he spent so many decades in the swamps of Washington D.C., away from his beloved mountains, saving the Selway from the last dam that was never built because of his efforts, fighting the Fight in the old-time way his father had taught him.

 “The imprint of that wonderful life. You don’t get over that.”

end


This view behind Penny Cliffs (5 miles west of Kooskia, ID) would be 700 feet underwater if the Army Corps of Engineers had built their dam 



Dworshak Dam


What a 700-foot straight-axis dam (Dworshak) looks like to a fish 

Ice Harbor at Sunset


 

 

Friday, December 8, 2023

We Got It All




Winter Solstice, 2008, 6:30 AM

    First thing I did was admire Venus rising to the east over the Sapphires, and give a nod to my man, Scorpio, on the far-eastern edge of the still-starlit sky, ready to fade with the coming sunrise, because it was winter and his time was still yet to come. Then, as Herman Melville would say, I fell to, chipping the ice off my son’s windshield out in the barnyard with a dull scraper so he could drive to school. The moon was a night away from being full and the snowy mountains around us were shining, huge and quiet. That’s not unusual, although our local pack of wolves sang to them last night up the canyon, a master choir singing from the gut of the Earth. But other than that, we were enjoying not paying attention.

    So we weren’t looking up, but suddenly from directly above us there was a bright flash, just out of Scorpio’s clawed reach. Lightning is the usual suspect around here, since such Big-Picture luminescence in the Northern Rockies is common in summer. But this was Winter.

    I thought of Pakistan and India, nuclear-tipped nations currently at each others' throats, of our voracious, never-ending wars in Iraq and Afganistan. I thought of Iran, nuclear-curious, and of George W. Bush and of the upcoming elections that would probably oust him if something really scary didn’t happen first, like planes crashing into tall buildings. Or something like that. Trust, it's hard to argue, is in short supply these days.

    Standing out there in the snowy barnyard in the exquisite dawn with my teenage son who would soon inherit this goddam mess we have bequethed, trying to explain a flash of light above us, I resisted, but the thought leapt forward anyways. 

    Nuclear war. 

    Of course I dialed it down a notch and thought that maybe it was just something gone haywire. Maybe just Global Warming. 

 “Did you see that?” I asked Daniel, who had been busy stuffing his guitar into the cold back seat.

“Yeah,” he said. “I thought it was lightning. I looked up and it was just like when lightning is flashing from behind a cloud at night. That bright and big.”

“Was there any red in it?” I asked incongruously. Daniel, being a kind person from the time he was a baby, considered this for a moment.

“No,” he said honestly. “I just saw bright. I was waiting for a boom. What do you think?”

I owe my son an answer to anything. That’s the deal I made him when he surprised us with his birth on the eve of the first Gulf War in 1990. So I considered the thing. The Kmart scraper hung idle in my numbing fist. Scorpio waited patiently, not quite ready to fade into morning. Global Warming? Wolves? Nuclear war? Certainly that last one should be the last for a father to mouth because if it's that, why bother? And once again, in the instant it took my synapses to jolt enough neurons with the information that I had actually had that thought, my synapses reversed course and passed back a new bit of information, a reasonable answer. 

“Star Wars.”

“Huh?”

“They were going shoot down a spy satellite,” I riffed. “Sometime soon, I think. I read it in the paper.”

“Oh,” Daniel, my teenager, said, and that was all he said. 

We stood another moment in the moonlight together, considering this. I purposefully lingered. Nothing happened. Nothing bad, anyways. I went back to scraping the windshield. 

“This scraper sucks,” I finally said. “You need a new one.”

“I didn’t know they could be better,” he said. 

I hugged him, told him to drive carefully and that I loved him, because that's always the least you can do for your kids.

Right now, 45% of my fellow citizens believe the Earth was created less than 10,000 years ago. An equal number don’t believe in Global Warming. This at a time when there is no serious disagreement within the scientific community about either evolution or human-caused climate change. The subject of peer-reviewed science--and not the peer-reviewed science itself--has devolved before my eyes to the level of partisan politics and, like Galileo, Copernicus or the vast multitude of historical unknowns who have known bullshit when they saw it, I haven’t been able to do a thing about it. Just like the Popes of Old, corporations who profit from unregulated greed define the subject of Science--not the Science itself--and a few hundred years is nothing in the big scheme of the evolution of human consciousness. It’s pretty simple then. We’re fucked.

 I wanted to write a book once about how weird the beginning of the 21st Century was, how beautiful it was, how beautiful I hope it will be for those who stumble upon it in the future, how beautiful I know it is and still can be. I’ve been lucky, I would tell those future readers. Through circumstance I’ve been given the opportunity to tell you that luck is where you find it, and please don’t take this as trite. All I really want to say is that I hope you’re finding your luck, like I did mine.

The human brain is, if nothing else, a fascinating example of how nature can take a chain of anything—in our case the junction point of two neurons across which nerve impulses pass the news of the instant, be it pain or unexplained event—pour it into a dirty bag like the the one holding my rusty tire chains that live in the back of my pickup all Winter to honor a lifelong struggle to be impulsively adventurous, and create from the nondescript heap of crap the infinite patterns that, taken together, represent Life.

 There had just been a lightning flash in Scorpio's bedroom, a winter sky unimaginably-depthless and dark above my me and my teenage son that, without stretching possibilities too much, could have been the start of a nuclear war, and we had looked up.

Maybe times have always been this precarious for humans. It certainly seems so now. 




Sunday, October 29, 2023

Steal This Song.........Jimmy Driftwood Did!

St. George and the Dragon
 

First of all, let's get one thing clear: Nobody can steal "The 8th of January". It's a fiddle tune that's been around since God invented spare ribs and is Public Domain even by the crooked rules of our crooked corporate music industry. I only posted this under that provocative title so that the ASCAP and BMI bots assigned to scanning social media in search of songsters to strong-arm protection money from (And believe me, they actually do exactly that with your Spotify fees!) would trip over it a few hundred times and increase my click-count. Sadly, I'm no Taylor Swift (see photo) and have no discernible fanbase that even a vigilant bot could discern. Therefore I predict that I will be ignored, never to be contacted by the bot bosses who use your music money (!#?) to send sugar-coated letters threatening legal action unless I knuckle under and pay their "modest" copyright fees. This turnip is not worth squeezing, they'll assess, because I'd only benefit if they reconsidered. My fame (or infamy in the case of politicians and other entertainers who use similar attention-getting methods) would soar and I'd get even more clicks. So I'm safe but, really, who knows? I may get enough recognition to actually make some money off Spotify and Pandora. So yes, it's a twisted, paranoia-based strategy I'm gaming, which, in the present state of the world, makes it Kafka-esque and therefore almost viable, if only in my own dreams, which suits me.


Speaking of "twisted", have you been lucky enough to have had your head in the sand this last month or have you, like the whole rest of the Human Race, been inflicted with the latest news from the Middle East? If you're one of the latter, and you're actually curious enough to crave a little context, you might appreciate this little rhyming history lesson (below) from someone who lived through it (me) written over 30 years ago about the first Gulf War in 1991. I know many of you had not even been born yet, so when words or phrases like "Iraq" or "Saddam Hussein" are mentioned your thoughts and prayers go straight to the second debacle perpetrated on the Cradle of Civilization by the Home of the Brave. Nobody talks about Desert Storm anymore, except the Dude, who inhabits a cult film that most of you who stumble on it will be Watching While Stoned (WWS) with no sense of context, nor any desire for one. Never mind then, Dudes, I'm gonna school you anyways, so your choices now are to quit reading or remain curious.


The first Gulf War was a big deal in relation to the perpetration of the current mess playing out before our eyes in Gaza and Israel. It was the first time the U.S. felt bully enough to kick it's "Vietnam Syndrome" in the pants (or some equally-sexy body part) and send hundreds of thousands of ground troops to invade another country...again. The Soviet Union had just disintegrated, which meant that corrupt corporate entities (see rant above😁) like the arms industry, needed new horizons to sell product. Sand dunes overseen by despots loomed large as attractive targets, and so it was that Iraq--located right next door to arch-enemy, Iran, as a bonus--was chosen for the roll-out. Dick (Darth) Cheney, Bush Sr.'s Secretary of Defense, hung catchy names on each phase of the "operation" to describe what U.S. forces would do to the people of the region: Desert Shield for the build-up in Kuwait and the Persian Gulf, Desert Storm for the actual bloodletting, and Desert Penis (not its real name) for what the US did for the next decade to those poor folks in terms of tens of thousands of kids dying due to various blockades and punitive raids etc. etc. until the 2nd Iraq War. It's not much of a stretch to posit that most policy and conflict coming from the Mideast since 1991 have genetic markers dating their origins, mutations or re-occurances back to that Big Mistake. 


In the name of Context, then, I offer up this serving of Crow which, as most songsters in my age group know, is best eaten warm, which this Crow wasn't, which is why this song is so bitter, and remains so. For you whippersnappers who actually care, a few reference pointers: Stormin' Norman was the war handle given to Gen. Norman Schwarzkopf, commander of Coalition forces during the 1991 Gulf War. "Canons" refers to the old-timey cameras that still had clicking shutters, but whose images could still be projected out to the Universe in e-seconds, and is used here for its double-entendre effect (if you like such things, and if you don't, apologies). For deeper context, remember that during the Vietnam War, which occurred during my own tender youth, real-time war footage was shot with reel-type movie cameras and then overnight-air-mailed overseas to be shown on Walter Cronkite news program the next evening. This was seen as almost a new-age advance in tele-communications compared to the news reels shown in movie theaters during World War II. So, although journalists were still using hard copy for some of there war-image work, Desert Storm was the first, huge American conflict beamed into citizens' living rooms in near-real time.That was a big deal, although now it's taken as much for granted as Climate Change baking your grandkids to the golden crispness of Tater-Tots. Thus my ranting in this song about the unnaturalness of such willful sleepwalkings. 


So, that's my story, I'm sticking to it, and without further ado I present to you, straight from the shelves of Inscrutable Obscurity:



The Sands of Araby

Sung to the tune of “8th of January”

(or Jimmy Driftwood’s “Battle of New Orleans”)


In 1991 we took a little cruise

Along with Stormin’ Norman to the nightly evening news

I didn’t leave my couch

And I’m wondering what for

A rube would wanna join the Army just to see a war


Chorus:

They aimed their Canons and the shutters started clickin’

Hurrah for the troops and for Ameriky

They shot the boys live as they gave Saddam a lickin’

In a second to your TV from the Sands of Araby.


We---ll, the photogenic generals they learned their lesson well

You gotta practice up your smilin’ if you got a war to sell

It’s spendy but it’s worth it if your image needs a-fixin’

You can sell a war to anyone if you don’t look like Nixon.


Chorus


The smart bombs rained for 40 days and nights

While the smart image-makers told us we were in the right

And it’s smart not to question all those holes in the sand

In a world where the bombs are gettin’ smarter than the men.


Chorus


They sold that war like a tube of pepsodent

They sold it like a car or like they do a president

There might a been some news, I’m just not sure where they hid it

We’re supposed to have a free press

Do ya wonder why they did it?

                                                                                        Words by Bill LaCroix