The Owhyee 50 Years Later

I floated the lower Owhyee river in Oregon’s SE corner this spring and although I’ve run it over the years, this Spring was roughly 50 years after I canoed from Leslie Gulch to dam in 1968. The turmoil of Vietnam, Woodstock and the rest of a significant year was a long way away from Boy Scout Troop 382, from Hood River, Oregon on that voyage. Flash floods, rattlesnakes and headwinds were our main concern.

1968

East of the mountains, in an ancient lake bed, a river snakes restlessly.

River bank red mud paints my white feet.

The hammering thunderhead rain has ceased and the tangy wind of sagebrush is bitter and sweet.

We fish for crappies and bass and tye the unlucky ones off the stern of the dented, aluminum, boy scout canoe. We fried them up for dinner on a small fire of juniper.

The troop slept in flannel-lined sleeping bags under the canoes with a star-filled sky sliced out the side. Our dad’s built elaborate, plastic longhouses.

After breakfast, with a northern breeze kicking-up, we sailed the canoes using a sheet of plastic between two sticks. One guy steers, the other fishes and trims sail. Vietnam surplus ranger hats for head shade but sunburt knees in the cuttoff jeans.

Afternoon of wetness and fear in an electrical storm, trikles of brown water followed by a four foot wall of it. Somebody yells “run for it” and we do.

My brother scrambles up a cutback as a gully washer rages below. Sitting in the safety, panting wide-eyed. Break into an old miners cabin and cook oatmeal with raisins for dinner.

We dry our sleeping bags on sagebrush in the hot morning sun.

One of the scouts killed a rattlesnake, outside of camp, with a rusty shovel blade. Six rattles for the effort and danger.

Swatted mosquito and worst in Vale and the bird-watching station Malheur refuge.

Hot blacktop, dun humpy hills, the Boardman flat back down the Columbia. Scoutmaster Ned got a ticket for speeding.

The Snowman

The Snow Man

By Wallace Stevens

One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;

And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter

Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,

Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place

For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.


Three Sisters Wilderness, Skier: Guy Giffin

Welcome to Hokkiado Japan

I've put off going to Japan but then I pulled it off. I've traveled for good and poor skiing my adolescent and adult life. Japan was on the bottom half of my ski travel list, honestly. I thought it would be Tokyo traffic and hard snow, like those couple of Olympics. Trustworthy friends have traveled to Hokkiado for powder skiing and told me stories and showed me worthy pictures. When my buddy, Vermont Johnny, called last summer with an invitation, I put him off but didn't turn him down. Turns out a Japan ski trip is about a needed respite and spiritual renewal of Zen cold powder face shots, soaking in the peaceful, but gender segregated, onsens hot springs, challenged by delicious food and drinking ice cold Sapporro Classic tall boys.

John in the bushes

The vertical climbing isn’t long and the snow is light enough that it doesn’t concern a skiers thoughts much. But it is kind of weird to skin up what amounts to a steep orchard. But it’s worth it…the drops back to a creek are delicious. Like a mouthful of nigari sushi that you just shoot the morsel onto your tongue, like the guy behind the bar suggests.

Can’t read that sign, but was a good joint

Don’t know this guy

I think an open mind and wide skis will help any Japanese skiing experience.

All good slope etiquette

I don’t know

 

Big baby doesn’t like the uphill blisters or nail polish in them.

Our hardy crew at the end of another satisfying day of touring.