tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3341781063297253612024-03-13T23:19:27.197-07:00Finding My WayStories from Laurel LaneKathy Hayniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08128459743012799948noreply@blogger.comBlogger616125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-334178106329725361.post-84889694008111361152022-04-07T11:05:00.002-07:002022-04-07T11:05:27.311-07:00<p> <span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.999999999999998pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 36pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Nancy Jenkins Obituary</span></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-1f9fbbd7-7fff-cc15-9bad-374296680818"><br /><span style="border: none; display: inline-block; height: 245px; overflow: hidden; width: 184px;"><img height="245" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/UnD0-Q9_E6Y-TT51vbWNYB0Nku-J2wIJR234ig1kHaaRDhMmpaPNEL3vUfp2G7dn7ZoazPwlH5iZnnb28djkE7tmMoiFrPwUEQoRuQfWzfSWECuQeVuM_hj1y7srQ9PVE20FUS9J" style="margin-left: 0px; margin-top: 0px;" width="184" /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Following a lifetime of kindness and cheer, Nancy Pauline Jenkins died peacefully at age 86 on March 3, 2022. She was surrounded by love from her family, friends, and her caregivers at River Terrace Memory Care in Oregon City, Oregon. With her customary spunk and positive attitude, Nancy navigated nearly a decade of dementia with grace and joy in life. In her final weeks, Nancy repeatedly assured family members and caregivers that “Everything is okay,” always accompanied with a thumbs up gesture. She loved (and was loved by) so many, and is surely smiling down on all of us today to brighten our day with her cheery smile. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">She is preceded in death by her husband, Douglas Kendall “Kenny” Jenkins of Colville, Washington; her parents, Herb and Virginia Holman of San Luis Obispo, California; her sister Mary Anne (Bill) Kenney of Alameda, California; brother David (Barbra) Holman of Lodi, California; and grandson Craig Jenkins of Concord, California. She is survived by daughter Kathleen (Mark) Haynie of Oregon City, Oregon and son Maury (Linda) Jenkins of Gulf Breeze, Florida; 12 grandchildren, and 48 great-grandchildren. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">She attained a Master’s Degree in Elementary Education at age 36, and taught fourth grade at Tunnell School, in Santa Maria, for 23 years. During retirement in Colville, Washington, she and Kenny pursued a second career in real estate as agents with Century 21 Kelly Davis Realty, where they delighted in helping new residents find their homes in the beautiful “4-season” climate of northern Washington. After Kenny’s death, Nancy relocated to Oregon City, Oregon to be near daughter Kathy. As her health permitted, she enthusiastically participated in daily water aerobics classes, family hikes and campouts, family trips, and singing in the church choir in the Oregon City 2nd and 4th wards of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, where she was a member. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Her memorial service will be held at 12:00 noon on Saturday, April 9, 2022 at the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, 15344 S. Henrici Road, Oregon City, Oregon, 97045. The service may be attended in person or via Zoom; please email daughter Kathy Haynie at </span><a><span style="color: #1155cc; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; text-decoration-skip: none; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">haynieoregon@gmail.com</span></a><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> if you would like the Zoom link. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In lieu of flowers, the family suggests that remembrances may be made to </span><a href="http://www.donorschoose.org/" style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: #1155cc; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; text-decoration-skip: none; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">www.donorschoose.org</span></a><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">, which funds classroom projects for creative and passionate classroom teachers. </span></p></span><br class="Apple-interchange-newline" />Kathy Hayniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08128459743012799948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-334178106329725361.post-31718700815998700412021-04-16T22:09:00.004-07:002021-04-16T22:09:52.627-07:00Crossword Puzzles and Shopping Lists<p> <span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Wednesday, April 14, 2021</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-ceb9bda0-7fff-d583-99e4-1a877335335e"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.2; margin-bottom: 27pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">If I am to undertake a writing project, I can only be inspired at this point in my life by focusing on the bits and pieces. The shards. Words and ideas that briefly have meaning and then float by. I can write a novel's worth of grocery lists. I can read an entire library of crossword puzzle clues. A story arc no longer than the line of a poem. To seek for more is too exhausting, too painful. To stay in the present, to be mindful, as the sages advise, is to have an attention span no longer than a moment. One blink, and the present has become the past. To plan what comes next and next and next becomes overwhelming as each next moment washes over me. This is the source of all anxiety: to care about what came before and is now lost, or what comes next with its nightmare of uncertainty. Peace lies in the here and now. What is. What is, is. If I can do nothing else, I can accept this moment, cradling it like a sparrow on my palm, not daring to breathe or blink, only cherishing the tight grip of those tiny talons, the impossible beating of its brave heart. </span></p></span><br class="Apple-interchange-newline" />Kathy Hayniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08128459743012799948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-334178106329725361.post-55018931955219265932020-07-10T21:47:00.001-07:002020-07-10T21:47:59.228-07:00American Citizen 2020<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibsHKcDwmfg0FiNTclQcROr9fKnTbRBMGxfv6acJmj61CH9Z9vRRl3fZq0RLOR5gwT4desFdRhCdQ1IlH577MmCfNWzZz_uZf_Qr5so-6PSQGFiSu6-_y1XtUoi0hd8FlfnGowp_ucm7Ya/s2048/ACS_0447.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibsHKcDwmfg0FiNTclQcROr9fKnTbRBMGxfv6acJmj61CH9Z9vRRl3fZq0RLOR5gwT4desFdRhCdQ1IlH577MmCfNWzZz_uZf_Qr5so-6PSQGFiSu6-_y1XtUoi0hd8FlfnGowp_ucm7Ya/s320/ACS_0447.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfYVMM3Wy-XYq9_qMCX5dm1pq0VG7yYk6PBcF4hiWZJDRYnFvaUeulJfc6jBYQ4d8VcZ7qahWDL3EWntEBaE1OGKvNcgBfdFdgpknrSBjonzXJr4qu_wt_xzcag-IlzQlUDeKitmGoeApl/s2048/IMG_5278.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfYVMM3Wy-XYq9_qMCX5dm1pq0VG7yYk6PBcF4hiWZJDRYnFvaUeulJfc6jBYQ4d8VcZ7qahWDL3EWntEBaE1OGKvNcgBfdFdgpknrSBjonzXJr4qu_wt_xzcag-IlzQlUDeKitmGoeApl/s320/IMG_5278.jpg" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgue8JELdumAU1MZYP9omtmpgqgyYAmVsM8p04kYaVKKEImufKNzaCOrVA4uPpDIhEAdx-Nrmxwrw5HQ8dU7KxseKw-pFRALC_jb4IiK0nrxvIkGbLimq88o-NXRctuAZYLJzJah3E96FgV/s2048/IMG_5275.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1537" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgue8JELdumAU1MZYP9omtmpgqgyYAmVsM8p04kYaVKKEImufKNzaCOrVA4uPpDIhEAdx-Nrmxwrw5HQ8dU7KxseKw-pFRALC_jb4IiK0nrxvIkGbLimq88o-NXRctuAZYLJzJah3E96FgV/s320/IMG_5275.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><font face="arial"><br /></font></div><font face="arial">I've been thinking A LOT about what it means to me to be an American citizen at this time. Here are some of my thoughts. You are welcome to read and respond. If you agree, let's encourage each other. If you disagree, let's learn from each other. </font><div><font face="arial"><br /></font></div><div><font face="arial">BLACK LIVES MATTER </font></div><div><font face="arial">Yes, they do. </font></div><div><font face="arial">I want to get better at being anti-racist. There is so much to learn. </font></div><div><font face="arial">Here are some resources that I am finding helpful right now:</font></div><div><ul style="caret-color: rgb(34, 34, 34); color: #222222;"><li style="margin-left: 15px;"><font face="arial">1619 podcast. EXCELLENT.</font></li><li style="margin-left: 15px;"><font face="arial">Following BeTall Libra on Facebook. She lives here in Clackamas County, so her experience is happening in real time right here. I can't make excuses that "it was back then," or "it's only in that other region." She is positive AND real. </font></li><li style="margin-left: 15px;"><font face="arial">Meeting Denyse McGriff, member of OC City Commission. Also SO POSITIVE. And so real. She introduced me to the Facebook page, OC Unite. More about that when I talk about local stuff in a minute. </font></li><li style="margin-left: 15px;"><font face="arial">Following Holladay Phillips on Instagram. She posts about her Black experience in Great Britain. Her background in yoga and meditation gives her a unique perspective with thought-provoking insights. I loved her recent post on empathy, and I am finding ways to apply her ideas. (Like with the Rude Dude without a mask in the Post Office the other day. But that's another story. Still, EMPATHY.)</font></li><li style="margin-left: 15px;"><font face="arial">Reading books like "Small Great Things" by Jodi Picoult. "Piecing Me Together" by Renee Watson. "The Vanishing Half" by Brit Bennett. "Just Mercy" by Bryan Stevenson.</font></li><li style="margin-left: 15px;"><font face="arial">Following NAACP on Instagram and listening to their webinars when I can. </font></li><li style="margin-left: 15px;"><font face="arial">Wearing my Black Lives Matter tee shirts on a weekly basis. Keeps me grounded. </font></li><li style="margin-left: 15px;"><font face="arial">Donate monthly to LDS Charities, Southern Poverty Law Center, NAACP, Black Lives Matter. Researching organizations that create ways for more Black people to enjoy wilderness areas and how I can contribute. </font></li><li style="margin-left: 15px;"><font face="arial">I don't respond to every post on social media that bugs me. It would be too exhausting. But I do speak up at times, and I am gradually learning more about speaking up as an anti-racist ally, being true to what I know in my gut. </font></li><li style="margin-left: 15px;"><font face="arial">Racism IS systemic, and we simply must dismantle the structures of white supremacy that are built into the fabric of our culture if we are to truly become the country we have never been yet, but aspire to become. </font></li></ul><div style="caret-color: rgb(34, 34, 34); color: #222222;"><font face="arial">BEING A GOOD CITIZEN AT THE LOCAL LEVEL</font></div><div style="caret-color: rgb(34, 34, 34); color: #222222;"><font face="arial">So how do I translate this into actual actions I can take?</font></div><div style="caret-color: rgb(34, 34, 34); color: #222222;"><ul><li style="margin-left: 15px;"><font face="arial">I keep putting out free masks in front of my house. I live near some Section 8 housing, and I know I have many neighbors with financial struggles. I also donate masks to local senior living communities and resource centers for homeless neighbors. I am grateful to many friends who have donated fabric to me for this ongoing effort. I've made around 500 masks so far. </font></li><li style="margin-left: 15px;"><font face="arial">Collecting signatures for a petition to recall the mayor of Oregon City. More about that in a separate post. </font></li><li style="margin-left: 15px;"><font face="arial">Volunteer at a local historical museum (Rose Farm Museum, one block from where I live). Mark and I started volunteering on the groundskeeping crew today. One of my goals is to work with the docents to include more about the history of white supremacy that was a founding principal of Oregon's early pioneers. The first legislature meeting of Oregon was held at Rose Farm Museum, and white supremacy was enshrined into laws there that lasted over a century. NOT trying to change history! Trying to reframe history more accurately. How else can we understand how we got to where we are today, and where we might be able to go in the future?</font></li></ul><div><font face="arial">I know this is a long post, and if you've actually read this far, I'm super impressed! I've just had a lot on my mind for a long time now. Been trying to formulate thoughts and learn more, and I'm still on that journey. What's your journey like? What are your thoughts about citizenship at this time? </font></div></div><div style="caret-color: rgb(34, 34, 34); color: #222222;"><font face="arial"><br /></font></div><div style="caret-color: rgb(34, 34, 34); color: #222222;"><font face="arial">Please stay safe and wear your mask, wash your hands, you know the drill. If you're reading this, you're my friend and I truly care about you. Let's keep talking and learning!</font></div><font color="#888888" face="arial"></font></div><br class="Apple-interchange-newline" />Kathy Hayniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08128459743012799948noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-334178106329725361.post-54397651089323964462019-06-09T21:10:00.000-07:002019-06-09T21:10:36.510-07:00Oregon City High School Graduation speech, June 9, 2019<div class="Section1" style="page: Section1;">
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Dear graduates, Our time is brief. I have three things to say. <o:p></o:p></div>
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One. Humor me for just a minute. Let’s go back to English class (collective groan). Mr or Ms. Teacher is blathering on about literary stuff, and you catch the word “flashback” and suddenly, you, sitting here in your elegant red gown, have teleported back to The Worst Moment of Freshman Year. You know what I’m saying. The time you walked into the wrong classroom because you mixed up the B hall and the C hall. The time you cried in the bathroom because your friends talked behind your back. The first Real Relationship, followed by the disaster of The Breakup.<o:p></o:p></div>
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As you remember that moment, I want you to stop judging and hating and shaming that little freshman, and instead go back and thank her or him for being so brave. For showing up. For trying again. You already know that “worst moment of high school” experience is not going to be the hardest thing you ever face. And the courage you showed then, the gumption you had at 14 to come back and give it another go, is the same courage that you will summon as an adult when everything hits the fan. <o:p></o:p></div>
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And hitting the fan it is, because, Two: You’re inheriting a messed-up world. We didn’t mean it to be this way, but here we are. You know the problems, and they are doozies. One of the defining challenges of your adulting years will be addressing imbalances in power. Here we are, with nearly the first quarter of the 21<sup>st</sup>century behind us, and we are still trying to figure out how to correct a system that privileges men over women, whites over people of color, straight over gay, able-bodied and minded over differently-abled, industry over environment. Your generation faces the particular task of creating openings for power for women and minorities that go beyond mere figureheads. Your generation knows the power of collaboration, the necessity of using ideas from a diverse range of individuals. You have seen what happens when we embrace new traditions, new ways of thinking about power, and so you are more likely than your parents or grandparents—wise and wonderful as they are—to not only acknowledge but demand the leadership of women and minorities, leadership which has been proven to more effectively address the intractable systemic issues we face. We will not resolve the challenges facing democracy, the environment, and poverty if the current systems of power do not shift. So vote. Your vote is your voice, and your generation will likely be the deciding voice in elections from local to national. Do not underestimate the power of your voice, of the rightness of your voice. You know what you know. Use what you know to speak truth to power. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Three. Listen to me. I have something cool to give you. It’s from an American poet named Max Ehrmann, and he wrote this in 1952 a couple years before I was born. I loved it when I was your age, and I want to give it to you now. It’s titled “Desiderata,” which means, “the desired things.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times";">Go placidly amid the noise and haste,<br />and remember what peace there may be in silence.<br />As far as possible without surrender<br />be on good terms with all persons.<br />Speak your truth quietly and clearly;<br />and listen to others,<br />even the dull and the ignorant;<br />they too have their story. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times";">Avoid loud and aggressive persons,<br />they are vexations to the spirit.<br />If you compare yourself with others,<br />you may become vain and bitter;<br />for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.<br />Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times";">Keep interested in your own career, however humble;<br />it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.<br />Exercise caution in your business affairs;<br />for the world is full of trickery.<br />But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;<br />many persons strive for high ideals;<br />and everywhere life is full of heroism. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times";">Be yourself.<br />Especially, do not feign affection.<br />Neither be cynical about love;<br />for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment<br />it is as perennial as the grass. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times";">Take kindly the counsel of the years,<br />gracefully surrendering the things of youth.<br />Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.<br />But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.<br />Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.<br />Beyond a wholesome discipline,<br />be gentle with yourself. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times";">You are a child of the universe,<br />no less than the trees and the stars;<br />you have a right to be here.<br />And whether or not it is clear to you,<br />no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times";">Therefore be at peace with God,<br />whatever you conceive Him to be,<br />and whatever your labors and aspirations,<br />in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times";">With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,<br />it is still a beautiful world.<br />Be cheerful.<br />Strive to be happy. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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So time for review. One, you have great courage that will show you how to live. Remember that. Two, use your vote because it’s your voice. Speak truth. And three, never never never forget that you belong and that you are needed. I love you. Be brave. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Kathy Hayniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08128459743012799948noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-334178106329725361.post-69025462328170535932016-09-02T20:54:00.000-07:002016-09-02T21:05:34.479-07:00Lessons from Dorothy<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9eirHXlBcKuQfpLZV_fF7_sklCk3sNNRwQwzSRoIrSe3ZPhuk10_s8N1FiD2eplAfdqauESqtWSTb3TxSag3RFqK8VVNgToH9BUxE2qq0U_FI39Zn2zwjP_TAADUp5jkLCv6SC6AVrSh5/s1600/IMG_4462.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="174" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9eirHXlBcKuQfpLZV_fF7_sklCk3sNNRwQwzSRoIrSe3ZPhuk10_s8N1FiD2eplAfdqauESqtWSTb3TxSag3RFqK8VVNgToH9BUxE2qq0U_FI39Zn2zwjP_TAADUp5jkLCv6SC6AVrSh5/s320/IMG_4462.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
My dear friend of over 30 years, Dorothy Jenson, died of inoperable liver cancer on Sunday, August 21.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYS8xBygje-R6huq6DUKl_uVNOzQdU5PhGa7ugTGObCbLWIjvEAQ6GqHHML1q7ZlyZEtd7-921VB1NMM8-vpPWcJclzz_tPPO-rM2fZ-iINVMHrcoq-jB_O1n9sjfqjeM5_p69Af6OOIrq/s1600/IMG_4479.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYS8xBygje-R6huq6DUKl_uVNOzQdU5PhGa7ugTGObCbLWIjvEAQ6GqHHML1q7ZlyZEtd7-921VB1NMM8-vpPWcJclzz_tPPO-rM2fZ-iINVMHrcoq-jB_O1n9sjfqjeM5_p69Af6OOIrq/s320/IMG_4479.JPG" width="234" /></a>She died at home, with her family. She was comfortable and did not experience pain. I was privileged to spend several sweet times with her in her last few weeks of life. Mark and I joined Dorothy and Ken, at Sparks Lake in July. We visited Dorothy and Ken at home several times over the summer. Three nights before she died, I spent the night with her so that Ken and their son could get a full night's sleep. These were sweet, tender visits. I am so grateful that the family included me as a family member right up till the end.<br />
<br />
<br />
Her memorial service was held just two days after she died. She had asked that I give a eulogy and play a song I had written with my ukulele.<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Life lessons from Dorothy</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Dorothy
Jenson and I met when we were in our mid-twenties. We share the same birth
year, the same age of convert baptism, and we both gave birth to five children
within the same decade. We share a similar love of the outdoors, books, family,
and the gospel. For the first 10 years of our friendship, we were in the same
ward; since then we have been in the same ward only briefly as the Oregon City
ward boundaries have shifted from two wards when we moved here, to the five
wards we know today.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Across
the nearly four decades of our close friendship, I have learned many important
lessons from Dorothy. I would like to share eight of those lessons with you
today.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin-left: .25in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">1.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Use lots of colors</b><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>If
you were to describe Dorothy Jenson in only one word, which word would it be?
For many of us, the word “artist” immediately comes to mind. And while some
artists may prefer to work in media such as black pen or charcoal, that would
not be Dorothy. To experience Dorothy’s art is to experience color. One time
Dorothy and I were together in the celestial room of the Portland Temple, a
room that is decorated in gold and white to suggest the light and beauty of
heaven. As we turned to leave, Dorothy pointed out to me that the carpet was a
shade of lavender. What?!? A hint of purple in that gold-and-white room? But I
took a closer look at realized that Dorothy was right. Dorothy’s paintings
often surprise me with color—orange in a mountain snowfield, pink along the
side of a road, blue on a hawk’s face, yellow in a nighttime sky, deep reds and
purples among meadow grasses, green hues in white daisy petals, <br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In
one of her blog posts about her art, she wrote, “<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;">Well, who knows what is going to happen when
I sit down in my studio? I'm not always sure I do. Today I was thinking about
abstract...just designing with color to see what comes up.” What came up was a
meadow that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">looked just like a meadow</i>,
even though—or probably because—she used 10 or more different bright colors to
paint a scene where I might have imagined only 2 or 3 muted shades. </span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: .25in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">2.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span></b><!--[endif]--><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Pay
attention<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></b>Dorothy’s
use of color is correlated with another of her traits. Along the Eagle Creek
Trail, on our first girls-only backpack trip I asked her what she saw as we
hiked. I wondered what she noticed with her artist’s eyes. She showed me the
lines in the landscape—the lines made by tree limbs, and how the lines of a
Douglas fir are different from the lines of a maple tree. She pointed out the
contrasts between the light on needles and leaves and the dark shadows that
made the light more evident. <br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Until
she pointed these things out to me, I hadn’t seen any of them. She saw them
because she paid attention. Paying attention in this way requires analysis,
breaking the whole into parts. Seeing detail. Really seeing, attending.<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Not
only did Dorothy attend to shadows and shapes, she attended to people. She
noticed details and nuances in what people said and did. So much of living a
life of kindness is tied to knowing when and how to be kind, and Dorothy
blessed my life and yours because she knew how to pay attention.<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: .25in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">3.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span></b><!--[endif]--><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">A
sense of smell is highly overrated</b><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Did
you know that Dorothy did not have a sense of smell? There was always some
irony for me in her love of flower gardening, but for Dorothy, flowers didn’t
grow for sweet smell; flowers were all about color. I remember one time walking
into the house on John Adams Street, with the scent of Dorothy’s delicious
homemade bread wafting through the screen door as I pushed it aside. “What
smells so good?” I reflexively asked her (even though it was obviously bread
baking). “I don’t know,” she replied, laughing. <br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Dorothy
found humor and the bright side in her “disability.” Stinky diapers produced by
five babies never bothered <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">her!</i> In
recent years when she and Ken organized campouts at Sparks, Lake, she
cheerfully managed the group’s porta-potty maintenance—nothing smelled funky to
Dorothy. <br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Although
Dorothy generally maintained a light-hearted take on her inability to smell,
she was sometimes wistful. She shared with me how she appreciated the skills of
sister-in-law Kate to describe scent in terms of color and texture.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Daughter Sarah remembers describing
scents to Dorothy as colors. Dorothy told me once that for one afternoon, she
briefly gained the ability to smell and that she had eagerly sniffed everything
until the gift faded in the evening. Although Dorothy’s stance toward <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not</i> smelling—that it was no big deal,
really—was positive and light-hearted, I can’t help but think how much she must
be enjoying the sweet smells of her new heavenly home.<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: .25in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">4.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Be nice</b><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Years
ago, when Gordon B. Hinckley was still president of the Church, Dorothy sat
down with the General Conference talks published in the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Ensign </i>magazine to read <u>all</u> of Present Hinckley’s messages
from the recent conference.<br />
She told me afterwards that she wanted to capture his key ideas so she could
commit to following the prophet’s counsel. To her surprise, she was able to
distill his several messages into two words: Be Nice. <br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Be
nice! It seemed almost irreverent to think that the inspired words of a
prophet, especially the words spoken over the pulpit at a General Conference in
Salt Lake City, could be summarized in only 6 letters. Dorothy was not deterred
by the simplicity of the syntax. She fully understood that “being nice”
required choices and actions on her part, and that “being nice” is a call to
walk the higher road, to make the better choice, to choose charity over cheap
gossip, to look for—and to acknowledge—the good, to stick up for the underdog,
and to trust that others are doing the best they can. <br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is one thing to be nice as a matter
of our natures. Dorothy has always been a nice person. But even nice people get
tired or frustrated or overwhelmed, and they can speak crossly to a child or
spouse, or forget to be grateful in the midst of trials. I believe that
discovering that golden nugget of prophetic counsel to “be nice” gave Dorothy a
motivation to develop her basic nature and become a mature woman of charity who
made deliberate choices to follow the example of her savior. </div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: .25in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">5.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span></b><!--[endif]--><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Go
play outside</b><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>One
of the gifts of the last few weeks of gradual goodbye for the Jenson family has
been the time they have spent together discovering Dorothy’s journals and
letters from years back. Becky shared with me how tender it was to read her
mother’s thoughts about her before she was even born. And one of the hopes that
young Dorothy had for her future family was that she would be able to teach
them to love the outdoors. <br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Dorothy
was thoroughly happy outside. She loved to walk and garden and hike and camp
and and canoe and swim and paint and dream and simply <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">be</i> outside. For the last ten years that she and Ken lived in Oregon
City, Dorothy and her walking buddy Paulene walked for an hour every morning at
7:00 am, rain or shine. I joined them a few times when I wasn’t teaching, and
it was hard to keep up with them! For Dorothy, some of the chief joys of moving
to Washougal were the meadow and woodlands surrounding their home, roasting
marshmallows with grandchildren around the fire pit, the patio perched on the
rise that looked over the valley, the shaded porch with its swing, the flower
beds lovingly planted by her Relief Society sisters, the raised vegetable beds
Ken built so she could continue gardening into the last weeks of her life—all
inviting her outside, every day, to play.<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: .25in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">6.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span></b><!--[endif]--><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Get
it over with<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></b>Most
of the years we camped with our canoes at Sparks Lake, we pitched our tents at
“the cove,” a campsite with its own swimming hole. Of course we took advantage of
our swimming hole on the warm central-Oregon summer afternoons! I will always
be able to hear Dorothy saying to me, “Kathy, just get <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">in!”</i> Perhaps you will sympathize with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">me</i> as you imagine that cold water hitting the back of your knees,
the top of your thighs, your navel—<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">of
course</i> one has to experience things like that gradually, to take time to
get used to it. Not Dorothy. It didn’t matter to Dorothy that the water was
cold. She knew that getting right in—getting it over with—meant that she could
be enjoying the water sooner. She and Ken often joked that by the time <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I </i>got in the water, they were finished
swimming and ready to dry off. <br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Dorothy’s
practical, down-to-earth view of life helped her to take challenges in stride.
Whatever the unpleasantness, it was best to face the reality and get it over
with. When the cancer diagnosis came, Dorothy squared her shoulders and deliberately
savored each day. And when it became evident that the chemotherapy was not
going to allow her to be fully herself in her last months of life, she and Ken talked
it over and then she made the classic Dorothy choice—to get it over with—not to
hurry death, but also not to prolong a poor quality of life, chasing
unrealistic fantasies of a magic cure. <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: .25in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">7.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Write it down</b><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Most
of us think of visual art when we think of Dorothy, and rightly so. She is a
prolific and highly creative artist. She is also, however, a prolific and
dedicated writer. She kept a thoughtful, opinionated, and descriptively
detailed journal all of her adult life, a legacy that her family treasures.
When she was called as Relief Society president, she instituted a weekly email,
titled “The Chatter,” to all the women in the ward. Her vision was more than an
informative list of activities and announcements. She wanted to write a weekly <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">letter</i> to the women in the ward, her
sisters, to bind our hearts together. Oh, how we looked forward to Dorothy’s
weekly chatty email letters. <br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And
speaking of letters, Dorothy maintained a lively correspondence with Ken when,
as newlyweds of only one year, they were separated for several months while he
completed army training. Dorothy’s family recently rediscovered these letters
as they were sorting through her correspondence, and what a treasure they have
been—to read the tender words of that young husband and wife, missing one
another, writing of their hopes and dreams for the future. More recently, since
her cancer diagnosis, Dorothy has composed individual handwritten letters for
each of her 14 grandchildren and 5 children and also her mother and Ken. <br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Through
her writing, Dorothy’s family continues to hear her voice on matters from the
mundane and daily to the deeply thoughtful. Dorothy could always be counted on
to get to the point, to speak the truth, and yet to do so gently, and with
humor and love.</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: .25in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">8.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span></b><!--[endif]--><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Stick
to your story</b><br />
<a href="webkit-fake-url://3bc4453e-550d-48fa-a9a6-88857c7c0b49/image.tiff" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="webkit-fake-url://91f1d876-14ad-4abe-a501-6fb8c3ce5191/image.tiff" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We
rarely use the word “true” in one of its archaic uses, which is to be in exact
alignment, exactly straight. Dorothy Jenson was true in that way. She had an
innate sense of justice, of kindness, and though she was often perceived as a
quiet person, she was never afraid to speak up in defense of her family and
others if the occasion demanded. <br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYdMyMbOnBhlTAfsd7dsqZSahZNF5WrC-SEIZDB2h5_cQIcVqeUfESAQcRRZ2_KhaM2b33ONCNMxTmMVA0k6IAnz__e4FOZHX9k9ySN1Ekjs7UKXL3HW84XUvan2FKFuGxNF1jUG1947E0/s1600/IMG_4475.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYdMyMbOnBhlTAfsd7dsqZSahZNF5WrC-SEIZDB2h5_cQIcVqeUfESAQcRRZ2_KhaM2b33ONCNMxTmMVA0k6IAnz__e4FOZHX9k9ySN1Ekjs7UKXL3HW84XUvan2FKFuGxNF1jUG1947E0/s320/IMG_4475.jpg" width="120" /></a><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She was
also never afraid to interject her version of a story. I have witnessed, many
times, Dorothy reminding Ken that we wasn’t getting the story quite right, and
then sharing her “more correct” rendering of the facts. These moments almost
always included a classic Dorothy eye roll and some good-natured ribbing on
both sides.<br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Dorothy
also stuck to her testimony. She joined the Church at 18 and was firmly
committed to the gospel throughout her entire adult life. As a disciple of
Christ, she stuck to hope. She and Ken weathered episodes of unemployment,
injury, and other disappointments. She chose faith over fear, and gratitude
over whining. <br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Dorothy’s
story has unfolded across the arc of her too-short life but well-lived life.
Her story is one of kindness, of gracious inclusion of others, of courage and
faith. In sticking to her story, Dorothy exemplifies the invitation of the
Master: Well done, thou good and faithful servant. Well done.</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: .25in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
</div>
Kathy Hayniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08128459743012799948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-334178106329725361.post-23933981398408400012016-02-20T20:40:00.002-08:002016-02-20T20:40:13.326-08:00Posture<div class="MsoNormal">
“Look at her posture,” my father said. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Four
words formed in his larynx and uttered in quiet waves in the living room. 1964,
I think, staring into the black and white television, rabbit ear antennae with
aluminum foil sitting on top. Sunday night for sure, because we were watching <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Bonanza</i>, which came on after <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Ed Sullivan Show</i>, which came on
after <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Walt Disney’s Wonderful World of
Color</i>. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So,
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Bonanza</i> the Western show: a scene set
at a fort and a bunch of extras cast as townspeople and ranch people and Native
American people walking across the screen to show what a busy hub this fort is
and a woman in buckskins walks across the open square of the fort and my father
says, “Look at her posture.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>For
weeks after that I walked with my shoulders thrown back, the best, most
ramrod-straight posture you have ever seen, but my father never said a word.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
had grown up hearing “stop picking your nose” because it is important for
children to learn tidy habits, and if they are going to pick their noses, which
possibly I might still do, they at least need to learn to pick them privately
so they don’t get whacked by the back of their father’s hand. The fact that I
do not ever remember seeing either of my parents pick their noses says
something, although I am not quite certain what. Perhaps their noses did not
produce the aggravating accumulations that troubled mine, or perhaps they were
more experienced at being discreet, or perhaps I was not very observant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In
addition to “stop picking your nose,” which I might hear in almost any setting,
I also heard “eat with your chin over your trough,” but only at the dining
table. Here, my father explained, he was referring to the necessity of keeping
one’s eating apparatus in closer proximity to the plate instead of leaning back
and having whole forkfuls of food land in one’s lap. I was far less offended to
the references to my plate as a porcine feeding trough than I might have been;
secretly, I was tickled by the phrase; I got the joke. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My
father’s tone changed with the phrase: “Eat with your chin over your trough”
was a reminder, patiently applied. “Don’t pick your nose” was more embarrassing
to a parent, and therefore was delivered with aggravation and impatience. When
my father got after my brother and me to “straighten up and fly right,” though,
his voice increased in volume and it carried an edge, a raspy gruff warning
that we were treading on very thin ice, indeed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The very <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">idea </i>that
we were <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">knuckleheads </i>enough to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">need</i> such a reminder was patently
obvious; we had been taught better than that and we were to cease and desist
immediately. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But
when I heard him say “look at her posture,” it was different; he spoke in tones
of awe and reverence, and I very much wanted my father to say something like
that, in a similar tone, about me. I sat up straight in the third grade when I
learned to play the French horn. I stood straight and stayed in step when I
carried the Sousaphone in the marching band. At meetings of the Rainbow Girls I
glided gracefully—with a straight back—to the front of the room, to the door at
the back of the room, giving the secret knock signal, speaking the flawlessly
memorized phrases, wearing my floor-length dress, standing with my shoulder
blades over my hips over my knees over my ankles, perfectly straight. Such
posture, such grace. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My
father was not particularly demonstrative. He loved my brother and me, and we
were expected to have enough sense to know that without him having to verbally
remind us on a daily basis. He showed his love by respecting us, not so much as
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">children</i>, but as <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">people</i>, people who were quite capable of learning and doing hard
things. We lived in a quiet neighborhood in a small town; when I was three I
rode my tricycle in the driveway without supervision; by the time I was five I
crossed the street alone to go play with the neighbor children. When we were
nine and ten my brother and I walked the beach a mile and a half to swimming
lessons at the high school pool and home again; when we were ten and eleven we
regularly navigated a little row boat a quarter mile across the harbor to play
on the sandy peninsula on the other side of the bay.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It’s
funny that four words can still vibrate across the living room fifty years
later. Why that young woman in the buckskin dress provoked that particular
comment from my father, I do not know. When he said, “look at her posture,” I
looked and caught just a glance of her, her collar bones set back right sharp,
her hair swinging behind her. Was his comment a euphemism of appreciation for
the actress’s comely shape? A premonition of my mother’s eventual hunching
over? A completely random meaningless spewing of four small words to cover some
awkward moment I did not understand as a child? Was good posture something he
even cared or thought about? Out of all the things he said, why do I so clearly
remember those four words?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Dad
died three years ago, a good death, clean and painless. He was sharp right up
until the last couple of hours. He sat up straight in his living room chair and
gave me orders, made me write things down that he wanted done that last morning
he was alive. He was not unkind; these were simply things that needed to be
done in certain ways, and he knew he didn’t have much time left, so he made
sure I knew his expectations. He snacked that afternoon on his favorite
“nibbles”—a piece of cheese and salami, only two or three bites, which turned
out to be his last meal before he died that night in his bed. </div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But
that last afternoon, a lot of things suddenly got hard for him. Hard to
breathe, hard to walk to the bathroom, hard to speak. My parents lived in a
cramped single-wide trailer; even though we had a wheelchair for him, it was
too wide for the hallway to the bathroom and the bedroom. Dad and I were in the
kitchen. He was sitting in the wheelchair. I was standing behind him, wheeling
him toward the hall where my husband would help Dad to the bathroom. My father
reached up for my hand, and I paused the chair and moved my hand from the
wheelchair to his hand. My dad leaned his head toward my hand held in his, and
he leaned his cheek on my hand. I could have bent over to hug him, could have
kissed him, could have told him I loved him. We were paused there only a
moment, barely longer than a glance. He rubbed his grizzled cheek on my hand
and I squeezed his hand from where I stood, standing there, just standing,
standing in the kitchen behind the wheelchair, standing straight with good
posture behind my father. </div>
Kathy Hayniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08128459743012799948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-334178106329725361.post-27175542987245904922016-01-29T20:59:00.001-08:002016-01-29T20:59:49.722-08:00Dear FriendDear friend,<br />
<br />
You know who you are. Yes, this post is for you.<br />
<br />
Although we live a thousand miles apart, I can hear the gentle cadences of your voice, the way your smile comes through when we talk. How does it work, this digital world we've grown old in, your voice beamed through unimaginable miles of cold space from where you stand to a silver satellite we cannot see between us and into the waiting curve of my ear?<br />
<br />
We are not really 62. We are 16, standing outside the classroom door, watching the boys. We are 16, on the front lawn of the school eating lunch with our circle of girl friends, the lunch bags spread out in a patchy brown paper tablecloth in the center between us. We are 16, driving to Taco Bell for lunch. We are 16, sprawled across your crocheted bedspread sharing the things we thought might be true, the things we could tell no one else, the things we trusted to no one else. We dared to think and dream those things together, yes we did. We are 16, walking the beach near my house while the moonstruck waves lap at our feet and the stars tug at us to sail somewhere out over the far dark horizon.<br />
<br />
We've seen each other how many times since that June night when all the seniors rode the bus to Disneyland? Not enough. A handful of times, no more. You married young, and so did I. You moved east, I moved south, then farther north. Since we left our parents' homes behind, our paths almost haven't crossed, and when they have the time has been brief, too brief, and yet. And yet. It doesn't matter, does it? There might be an awkward hug, a cliché to begin our talk, and suddenly we've slipped into the old familiar way of being with, of listening to, of trusting one another.<br />
<br />
There's a kind of muscle memory to our friendship, a sureness in the moves, a thread of laughter that winds its way south along the Cascades, up and through the Siskiyous, and gently between the Sierra Nevada and the Coast Range through your valley, and then back north again. A thread, a current, a drumbeat, mostly quiet, but sometimes insistent like that time you called last year because you knew, you just somehow knew, that I was sad.<br />
<br />
To you, my friend, I hold these outstretched hands, cupped, trying to hold on to what? Cupped hands as useless as a sieve while time slips through, and here we are: hanging on tight to this beautiful blue spinning planet, and all I can say is happy birthday, happy birthday, happy birthday. I'm so glad that our times and places on the planet coincided enough that we are who we are: dear friends. Peace to you, and love.Kathy Hayniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08128459743012799948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-334178106329725361.post-74180260484013881972016-01-17T23:41:00.000-08:002016-01-17T23:41:00.281-08:00Sign Language*Another reflection on our trip to Antigua in 2004.<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Little things you notice:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Three
different times, as I walked past the church called <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">La Merced</i>, I saw a man cross himself as he passed in the other
direction. This was not the same man, mind you, but three different men, and
one time, the man I saw was riding a bike as he crossed himself. It was a small
motion, private.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>On
another evening, the son of our <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">dueña</i>
came to visit. He wanted to introduce his nine-year-old daughter to us, and he
called her to him with an outstretched hand. If it had been me, I would have
cupped my hand upward, ready to catch rain perhaps, or a gift. But he was
Guatemalan, so he called her with his hand cupped down as his fingers motioned.
His hand was the perfect shape to curve gently over her head.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Then
on the plane ride home, we chanced to sit next to one of our former students.
This really happened. Eric had been in my literature class last year, and
Mark’s homeroom class his freshman year. Eric should have graduated last month,
but somewhere between the lit class and graduation he dropped out, and
completed a G.E.D. instead. This plane ride was his first one ever, and he
watched the landscape below his window with wide eyes. We chatted, and he told
us of a summer visit to his mother, where she is a student at Gallaudet
University, the university for deaf people. He was a coda he said, and he must
have seen the question in my eyes, because he explained that CODA means “child
of a deaf adult.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He told us
about working at Gallaudet, as a counselor at their summer camp for deaf
children and codas, the challenges and the rewards he experienced. “You just
fall in love with the kids,” he said, and his eyes glowed. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Now this is where your heart
breaks, because this kid didn’t do well in high school, but he’s obviously
bright and eager, and you wonder where the system let him down. Here he is,
bilingual in ASL and English, loving working with kids, and yet he doesn’t know
what he wants to do in the future. I didn’t know any of this when he was in my
classroom last year; I only knew of his interest in skateboarding. I enter my
classroom with the intention of being an insightful, caring, helpful adult in
the lives of my students. How could I have missed so much?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Eric tells us a funny story about checking
in at the airline counter in Baltimore. He had been waiting in line with his
mother and her boyfriend, conversing in sign with them both. When it was his
turn at the ticket counter, the agent had called in a sign interpreter to help,
not realizing that Eric could also hear and speak. He chuckles again over the
humor of the moment, and the flight attendant stops by to offer us soft drinks.
As Eric accepts his cup, he thanks her, and out of the corner of my eye I
notice his hand flick away from his chest, thumb extended, saying thank you
twice.</div>
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A few small signs, caught with
peripheral vision. Who can count the signs I miss every day?</div>
Kathy Hayniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08128459743012799948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-334178106329725361.post-22184233317265859872016-01-16T22:32:00.005-08:002016-01-16T22:33:57.079-08:00Antigua Mornings*My friend Liz Jorgensen is currently studying Spanish in Guatemala. Her posts and pictures trigger so many memories of the study trip that Mark and I took in 2004. Here's what I remember about the mornings.<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Sometimes
the roosters begin first, sometimes it’s the empty trucks rattling over the
cobblestones, but morning comes early in Antigua.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At 4:00 a.m. it’s still pitch-black when the roosters begin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One fellow sings pretty well, but the
rest of the chorus must be teenagers:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>cocka-dooka-rawka-rawka.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Sound carries well up to our third-floor room, perched on the roof of
the house where my husband and I are home-stay guests for three weeks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We are intimate with the
roosters, and their neighbors the geese.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Year-round, the temperature is in the 70s, and the windows are always
open.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We
hear street noise equally well, and we deduce that at 4:00 a.m. the trucks are
empty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Their empty trailers bang
down the cobblestone streets with the sound of someone throwing trash cans
around.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One morning the sound is
even louder, and the next morning, louder still.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One of the stones in the street has come loose, and the hole
grows deeper with each passing bus.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Antigua buses!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is not
Tri-met.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Guatemalans import
broken-down U.S. school buses, paint them in bright and wonderful colors, and
drive them for thousands of miles after their northern rejection.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We live on a street which has been
designated a truck-and-bus route.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Before we arrived in Antigua, I imagined that the cobblestone streets,
the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">calles empedradas</i>, would be
quaint and tidy affairs like the cobblestone drives I had seen in picturesque
settings in the U.S.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
cobblestones I had known were uniform rectangles marching in neat rows.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Antigua cobblestones are stones of all
shapes, placed in holes in the street, and occasionally held in place by
cement.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When the cement wears
away, there is only dust, and then the stone rolls itself out of the hole.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Bang-a-bang-a-bang!</i>
Another truck on its way to a load.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>With
a sigh, my husband rolls over in his small bed on the other side of our small
room—this furniture is not designed for romance—but before he settles into
sleep again, he reaches for the bottle of nasal spray to combat his allergic
reactions to the constant dust.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>If
we are lucky, we will sleep until 6:00, when the church bells will begin their
insistent call to mass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One time
we asked a shop owner what the Spanish word is for the noise of the bells.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He looked at us quizzically.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Ding dong,” he said, leaving us
unsatisfied, for these bells are much noisier than a simple “ding-dong.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Bong-a-bong-a-dong-a-bang-a-clang” is
more like it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nearly every morning
before the church bells we hear a string of firecrackers, signal that someone
in a neighboring family is celebrating their birthday today.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The geese chime in, roosters make a
chorus, the bells sing out, and it is a new day in Antigua.</div>
Kathy Hayniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08128459743012799948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-334178106329725361.post-6642601140308424692015-11-08T19:51:00.000-08:002015-11-08T19:51:10.296-08:00Just HappyI'm just happy. I don't have anything profound to say or funny to post.<br />
<br />
It's Sunday evening. All my papers were graded and the lessons were planned last night before I went to bed. I got to help out in the church nursery today. Three-year-olds are hilarious!<br />
<br />
I'm gradually cleaning out the random clutter that accumulates. It feels good. I feel lighter, cleaner.<br />
<br />
Our little family that is living with us is still…living with us. I will be glad and grateful when we are empty-nesters again. But this is fine for now. There are tender moments that compensate for the hard work of getting along with extra housemates day in and day out.<br />
<br />
I waffle about retirement. Most days I adore my job and my students and I'm in no hurry to change my lifestyle. But there are days… For now the good days far outnumber the difficult days and I can think of no place I'd rather be than my classroom.<br />
<br />
Well, maybe I'd rather be out hiking.<br />
<br />
But that doesn't pay very well.<br />
<br />
Speaking of waffles, Mark and I splurged and bought ourselves a Black & Decker waffle iron! Amazing! It cooks really good waffles!! It cooks quickly and evenly. After 21 years of marriage, it is such a treat to have a working waffle iron.<br />
<br />
Life is good. I'm happy. Maybe I'll go eat a waffle.Kathy Hayniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08128459743012799948noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-334178106329725361.post-62014446915671920102015-09-14T21:21:00.001-07:002015-09-14T21:23:34.435-07:00Not in the hospital, not in the morgueI did something really dumb today.<br />
<br />
I could be dead right now. Easily.<br />
<br />
Almost home, the final turn on to the street I've called home for 36 years, I turned left out of the bike lane and across the street <i>right in front of a car.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
The driver slowed, I think.<br />
<br />
The car's left front bumper missed my bike's rear tire by inches.<br />
<br />
I say I'm all about safety. Mark and I bought more blinky lights for our bikes. We bought more reflectors for our helmets and our ankles. We bought white cycling water-repellant jackets with reflector tape all over them. And we're using the blinky lights and the reflectors and the awesome jackets.<br />
<br />
And then I go and do something so stupid and careless I'm ashamed to admit it; I can hardly believe it happened even though I was the one sitting on the bike that almost got hit by a car at the corner of Holmes Lane and Laurel Lane at 4:05 pm today.<br />
<br />
IDIOT.<br />
<br />
Mark has been sweet about it. He hasn't bugged me. I stopped the bike when he caught up with me--<i>after </i>that car plus another one or two had passed--and promised him I would never, never do that again. I promised that I will always come to a complete stop at that intersection and walk my bike across. No more hasty glances over my shoulder assuming everything is ok. Nope, not me.<br />
<br />
And Mark, so kindly, hasn't said a word more.<br />
<br />
Later this evening, bouncing up the back steps into the house after running a (car) errand, I thought to myself, "I'm so glad I can walk myself up these steps. I'm so glad I'm not in the hospital. So glad I'm not in the morgue."<br />
<br />
They say teens think they will live forever, and it's true that they mostly do. But sometimes 60ish folks fall into that trap, too.Kathy Hayniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08128459743012799948noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-334178106329725361.post-70254644361488811772015-09-03T19:20:00.000-07:002015-09-03T19:20:31.654-07:00Bike commuting<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Ok folks, I'm ready to make it public: Mark and I are becoming bike commuters this year.<br />
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We have ridden to school almost every day for the first two weeks and we are loving it so far.<br />
We feel stronger and healthier. We feel good about spending fewer dollars on gas* and putting fewer pollutants into the air. And it's FUN.<br />
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The trip is 3 miles one way. There are some gentle hills, but nothing terribly steep. It's kind of a no-brainer.<br />
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The best thing (so far) is that we feel ourselves getting stronger every day. Literally. Every day we are a little less out of breath. At first my knee was bothering me, but not now. We get to school in the morning, and I am just glowing and full of energy. I love it so much!<br />
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A few things we've learned already:<br />
1. We must allow more time. Duh. The trip takes 10 minutes by car and 20-25 minutes by bike. Yesterday morning we left the house in the nick of time, only to discover that one of my tires was flat. Mark fixed it and then he forgot his helmet and had to go back. By that point we were only 20 minutes away from being late and I was about to climb in the car, but Mark said he thought we could make it. And we did! We pulled into the school 22 minutes after leaving the house - only two minutes late. But really, we have to allow ourselves a little extra time.<br />
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2. Construction sucks. The most obvious route to school, down the main thoroughfare of Molalla Avenue, is under construction for the next couple of months. Torn-up asphalt and patches of gravel are no fun. It's worth it to us to take the "back route" through the middle school and the parking lot of the Presbyterian church, even though it's about 1/2 mile longer that way.<br />
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3. The best ride is in the morning. Overall it's more down hill (see the maps above). We have more energy, the roads are quieter, and the sunrises are gorgeous. See below. 'Nuff said.<br />
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4. You have to think about your clothing. I made it to school in a long skirt one day this week. Pulled my rain pants up over them for the morning ride. On the way home it was too warm for the rain pants so I "kilted" my skirt by bringing the back hem up between my knees and clipping it to the front of my shirt. Voila! Long baggy shorts.<br />
Then I found this video called "Penny in Your Pants." I think I'll be able to wear lots of skirts!
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<iframe width="560" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/svhpJKvZZac" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>
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It's starting to get chillier in the mornings. Today we commented to each other that it won't be long before we need to wear gloves. And maybe something to keep the neck warm.<br />
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We haven't had to ride through rain yet. But we know it's coming. We'll see how we do on that day, but for now we are feeling positive and happy about our new commuting style.<br />
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5. We're both happy with our bikes. I'm riding the 5-speed green Schwinn bike that my parents gave to me on my 17th birthday. Mark is riding the commuter bike he bought a few years ago, with a comfier seat and new (old school) handlebars.<br />
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*So far the money we have saved on gas is more than offset by the money we are spending. New seat and handlebars for Mark. New tubes in both bikes. New headlights and some flashy little gizmos for our spokes. It will take us a little while to recoup our bike investments. But if you add in saved gym memberships, saved time for workouts, and saved time by not being sick, it is WAY more than worth it.Kathy Hayniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08128459743012799948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-334178106329725361.post-77922155717335420692015-05-24T10:00:00.004-07:002015-05-24T15:44:54.934-07:00Pruning, Gardening, Grief, GuiltWinter was long and dark.<br />
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I grieved my mom's placement in memory care. (It all seemed to happen so fast at the time. Now, looking back, I realize that she was heading into a decline for many months prior to the placement. It can be difficult to see the trajectory when you are living it every day.) (And in January, after 5 months in memory care, she "graduated" into assisted living. She loves having her own apartment. No stinky cranky roommates. A door she can lock. Her own refrigerator. A sign-out/sign-in book that lets her leave and walk a mile or more.) For months I walked a tightrope of guilt that I could no longer keep her safe in my home, and relief that I no longer had to be her caregiver. I felt judged by a few people, but mostly by myself.<br />
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I grieved--am still grieving--the estrangement of one of my daughters. It caught be off guard. Should have seen it coming, I suppose. It reminds me of the day Joe and I moved to Oregon, moving away from his parents in southern California. His mother, Eva June, stood in the driveway as we waved goodbye. I can hear her voice wailing, "They've changed the rules! They've changed the rules…" Meaning that in her world, adult children were supposed to live close to their aging parents and care for them, as she had cared so carefully for her parents. We were moving over 1,000 miles away. Escaping. Anyway, that's how I feel about this change in mother-daughter relationship. I want to hold Eva June's hand and wail with her, "They've changed the rules!" I had not known, previously, that such a thing was possible. (Not that I expect my adult children to live near me. But at least stay in touch. I had not known it was possible to walk out of a parent's life.)<br />
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Grief silenced me for months.<br />
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Sometimes silence is the only way through.<br />
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Yesterday, something seemed to turn within me. Mark and I had promised ourselves a day of yard work, but we were true Oregon slugs and didn't get outside until 3:00 pm. Among other chores--it feels so good to work hard!--I pruned the Japanese maple. It had grown into a shapeless bush, a large red leafy mound in the middle of the lawn. I probably cut away 1/3 of the growth. (I want to think of something creative to do with all those weirdly-twisted branches. They are so cool.)<br />
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Now the tree has light within. Instead of a lump, it is a lovely tree with shape and sweet interplay of light and shadow.<br />
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Mark and I dragged the plastic off the garden bed. We've created our little garden in the front lawn eight years ago, and only one other time have we planted this late, a fact of timing that triggers shame and guilt. For what? Who cares what week the garden gets planted? Just me heaping blame on my own head. So silly.<br />
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Woke up this morning planning to water the garden and found that God had already done that chore for me. Robins are cheerio-ing each other.<br />
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I feel, finally, the rising juices of spring within me.Kathy Hayniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08128459743012799948noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-334178106329725361.post-86307279507086788892014-12-11T20:27:00.000-08:002014-12-14T19:41:43.053-08:00Stormy NightEarly December in Oregon, and it's blowing hard outside. Later we'll get some more rain.<br />
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I'm settled into my green rocking chair--the one I bought new when David was a baby--in the corner of the living room. Lamplight falls over my shoulder. I just finished grading the last--well, <i>almost</i> the last--stack of papers.<br />
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The refrigerator hums in the kitchen, the clock on the wall ticks steadily. In the basement, the furnace is rumbling to life.<br />
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Pretty soon I'll grade the (late) <i>Hamlet</i> essays that were turned in today. I've promised myself to make a batch of coconut macaroons to take to school tomorrow for my seniors, who are reading <i>A Doll's House</i> (the main character eats macaroons and they are a symbol for deceit in Ibsen's play). Load the dishwasher, wrap up tomorrow's lesson plan.<br />
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I am nourished by the quiet. The glow of book jackets in our little library, the living room populated with furniture from my grandparents' homes, the crisp green and white bannister on the stairs.<br />
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There are some things that aren't quite right in my world. My mother had a difficult day in memory care. I learned today that a dear friend who has been battling cancer will start hospice care this weekend. It's somewhere around week 6 of a difficult personal disagreement.<br />
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But there is this: the storm outside, the clocking marking its time, this quiet peace in my home.Kathy Hayniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08128459743012799948noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-334178106329725361.post-37285077786177837972014-11-16T15:48:00.000-08:002014-11-16T15:48:51.963-08:00Itty-Bitty GetawayMark and I escaped overnight this weekend. It was just a quick overnight trip across the Columbia River to Camas, Washington, but it was enough to make us feel like we really broke out of our rut for a bit.<br />
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We enjoyed beautiful fall weather. Cold! But so pretty.<br />
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We stayed at the Camas Hotel, a restored historic building. It operates like a cross between a small hotel and a bed-and-breakfast.<br />
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It was fun to be tourists in a small town. This morning we went to church in Camas, then drove home the "scenic" route - east along the Washington side of the Columbia River Gorge to Bridge of the Gods, then home along I-84.<br />
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We had planned to stop at Multnomah Falls to take a few pictures, but the parking lot was icy, so I was only able to snap a couple of quick photos from the car. Too bad, because the falls are always spectacular this time of year when the spray freezes all along the sides.<br />
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A beautiful drive home along a very cold and choppy Columbia River.<br />
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Now a peaceful Sunday afternoon here at home…and then back to reality tomorrow!Kathy Hayniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08128459743012799948noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-334178106329725361.post-53870879108549459452014-10-15T19:46:00.002-07:002014-10-15T19:46:44.552-07:00Happy Birthday, DadMark, Mom and I went to celebrate Dad's birthday with frozen yogurt this evening. We forgot to snap a selfie, but you'd better believe that the yogurt was yummy! Dad would have been 82 today. Love him and miss him.<br />
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Here's a photo from his 80th birthday - lunch at Bob's Red Mill 2 years ago.</div>
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Kathy Hayniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08128459743012799948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-334178106329725361.post-48902496875854142172014-09-13T21:33:00.001-07:002014-09-13T21:33:09.932-07:00Aurora Borealis sightings in Portland…NOT!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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There has been a huge solar storm this week, and the northern lights are supposed to be visible much further south than normal. <a href="http://www.oregonlive.com/pacific-northwest-news/index.ssf/2014/09/northern_lights_omsi_star_man.html" target="_blank">The Oregonian reported Friday afternoon</a> that there was a good chance they would be visible from locations with a good northern aspect and a dark sky.</div>
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Mark and I decided to drive to the Women's Forum State Park in the Columbia River Gorge (near Crown Point) to have a look. Because the moon was nearly full and would interfere with darkness, the best time was supposed to be near midnight. We were pretty tired, so we decided to go a little early to see what we could. We left home about 10:30-ish. That would get us to our site in the Gorge around 11:00 pm. (Pretty late for us old fogies.)</div>
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We exited I-84 at the Corbett exit, and within 1/4 mile of starting our way up that windy road to the top of the Gorge, hit a traffic jam. We thought maybe there had been an accident. Nope. Portland had decided to have a star party. Thousands of people had the same idea we had. It was "Keep Portland Weird" in live action.</div>
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It took quite a while to get to the top. We parked along the side of the road about 1/2 mile before reaching the state park - saw lots of other cars parked along the road and decided to walk the rest of the way. Took our lives in our hands walking along dark rural road w/ no streetlights + tons of traffic.</div>
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It was warm! A brisk warm breeze coming toward us down the Gorge. Lots of people at the park. Probably many more at Larch Mountain and Crown Point. By the time we finally got there, it was…almost midnight. The moon was very bright and our night vision was not good.</div>
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Never did see any northern lights. Saw a gorgeous, huge meteorite and decided that was enough. Enjoyed the beautiful evening, arms around each other, in the company of hundreds of our good Portland neighbors. We lasted about 15 minutes, then made our (dangerous) way back to the car. Loved every minute of it. Drove home, yawning all the way, got into bed about 1:00 am.</div>
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Took naps today. Feeling fully recovered, grateful for adventures together, even slightly silly ones.</div>
Kathy Hayniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08128459743012799948noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-334178106329725361.post-58635407518430998302014-09-07T19:14:00.000-07:002014-12-06T19:25:54.502-08:00Backpacking the North Fork of John Day River <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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We backpacked 40 miles in-and-out on the North Fork of the John Day River in late August 2014. We hiked a total of 60+ miles because we added 3 day hikes from our base camp at the midpoint.<br />
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I have written several blog posts about the hike (links below) and this is the summary of the overall trip.<br />
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<b>Entry point:</b> Oriental Campground on Road 5506 (off of Road 55 out of Ukiah, OR).<br />
This is at the west end of the Wilderness area around the North Fork of the John Day River.<br />
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<b><a href="http://kathyhaynie.blogspot.com/2014/08/north-fork-of-john-day-river-backpack.html" target="_blank">Day 1:</a> </b>Hiked 3.5 miles east on the unimproved Road 5506 to a meadow campsite next to the river. This campsite was about .5 miles before the Wilderness boundary (bridge across Big Creek). There is a better campsite at Big Creek; had we known about it, we would have hiked a little further to the better site.<br />
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<b><a href="http://kathyhaynie.blogspot.com/2014/08/north-fork-of-john-day-river-backpack_24.html" target="_blank">Day 2:</a> </b>Hiked 4 miles east to a campsite we named "Huckleberry Springs" for the abundant ripe huckleberries and an old metal cot with springs at the site.<br />
We crossed 3 water crossings after the bridge at Big Creek.<br />
We passed trail junction for Cougar Trail. We rested at a campsite named Basin Camp on our map. There is a foundation of an old building there - probably a mining cabin.<br />
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<a href="http://kathyhaynie.blogspot.com/2014/08/north-fork-of-john-day-river-backpack_25.html" target="_blank"><b>Day 3:</b> </a>Hiked 8 miles east to the confluence of the North Fork and Granite Creek.<br />
There is a good bridge at this point to a large established campsite adjacent to a meadow.<br />
13 water crossings between Huckleberry Springs and the bridge.<br />
Crossed trail junctions to Glade Trail, Paradise Trail, and Silver Butte.<br />
Camp site / good rest stop at about 5 miles - Wind Rock (signed). A small camp site along the trail at about 7 miles.<br />
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The hiking included LOTS of underbrush and bush-whacking. Also lots of bear scat - 26 piles of scat in 8 miles. Two or three were very fresh. No bear sightings. Several salmon sightings in deep pools of the river - 50-100 at a time.<br />
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We also passed an abandoned cabin about .5 miles before reaching Granite Creek.<br />
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<b><a href="http://kathyhaynie.blogspot.com/2014/08/north-fork-of-john-day-river-base-camp.html" target="_blank">Base camp:</a></b> We made our base camp at Granite Meadow for the next 3 nights.<br />
The campsite includes a primitive outhouse (useable) and a simple table (no benches).<br />
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<b><a href="http://kathyhaynie.blogspot.com/2014/08/north-fork-of-john-day-river-granite.html" target="_blank">Day 4:</a></b> Day hike up the Granite Creek Trail. Hiked about 4 miles (one way) to an area with unimproved roads and mine tailings from 1890's gold mining in the area.<br />
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<a href="http://kathyhaynie.blogspot.com/2014/08/north-fork-of-john-day-river-day-hike.html" target="_blank"><b>Day 5:</b> </a>Day hike up the North Fork of the John Day River. Hiked about 4 miles (one way) to river crossing - no bridge. Abandoned mining cabin on the other side of the river: Tub Spring, 1895.<br />
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<a href="http://kathyhaynie.blogspot.com/2014/08/north-fork-of-john-day-river-silver.html"><b>Day 6:</b> </a>Day hike up the Silver Butte Trail. We hiked about 3 miles (one way). The trail is steep in places, well-maintained.<br />
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<b><a href="http://kathyhaynie.blogspot.com/2014/09/north-fork-of-john-day-river-days-7-and.html" target="_blank">Day 7 & 8:</a></b><br />
<b>Day 7: </b>Hiked 16 miles west back to the campsite at Big Creek.<br />
<b>Day 8:</b> Hiked 4 miles west back to our car parked at Oriental Campground.<br />
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<b>Alternate entry points:</b> Hiking guide book suggests access from North Fork John Day Campground on Road 51. It is possible to shuttle vehicles from the Oriental Campground to here via the Blue Mountain Scenic Byway for a one-way hike. The shuttle drive takes about 2 hours.<br />
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The area appears to also be accessible from the unimproved roads leading to the Granite Creek Trail and the Lake Creek Trail (near Road 10 and Desolation Butte). I do not know if the roads are drivable; I only have the topographical map for information.<br />
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<b>Information: </b><a href="http://www.fs.usda.gov/recarea/umatilla/recreation/hiking/recarea/?recid=56453&actid=101">North Fork John Day Ranger District </a>(541) 427-3231Kathy Hayniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08128459743012799948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-334178106329725361.post-3511342234057145802014-09-01T21:40:00.002-07:002014-09-01T21:49:09.348-07:00North Fork of John Day River: Days 7 and 8 - Hiking Out<b>Day 7 - Monday, August 18</b><br />
Monday morning we rise early and load our packs with mixed feelings.<br />
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We are tired (especially Dorothy - sleeping on the ground is always a challenge) and it will be good to be home and in our own beds.<br />
And yet…sigh…it means we are leaving this beautiful place.<br />
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But before we head out, it's time for backpacking portraits in the meadow!<br />
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We know what to expect for much of our Day 7 hike (Monday). We've been over this trail before.<br />
Once again we see Lydia's cabin, the magnificent salmon, beautiful scenery, waaaay too much underbrush.<br />
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Salmon!!!</div>
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This time I <b>count the bear scat: 26 piles in 8 miles</b>. And a few of them are fresh. VERY fresh.<br />
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Even though the rangers had assured us a week ago that this area has never had a bear-human encounter where the humans were injured, still, with all that underbrush… Well, we are sure to sing and talk to the bears every time we hike around a corner or into a brushy spot so we won't surprise a furry fellow.<br />
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I know the trail is in here somewhere…<br />
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By 1:00 we arrive at Huckleberry Springs. I vote to stay for the night and finish the last 8 miles in the morning. And yet, something seems to nudge all of us toward continuing our hike.<br />
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Ugh. I have two -- maybe three -- solid blisters by this time.<br />
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I'm not willing to discuss more hiking until I've had a good long rest. Maybe in an hour.<br />
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Rest time at Huckleberry Springs! It is so amazing. While we are playing in the water, we discover about 20 huge salmon right there in our swimming hole!! Who needs to swim with the dolphins? We are actually swimming…well wading…with the salmon. Kind of. We get within 15 feet of them before they flick their huge tails and muscle on up the river. "Stupid humans," we can almost hear them muttering through their gills.<br />
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Blister care</div>
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Salmon!</div>
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After a good rest, play time in the water, dry clothes and dry socks, we heave our packs back on and begin hiking again.<br />
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I don't want to be the whiner so I don't say much about my feet, my blisters, my aching legs. At this point it is a matter of will, of the mind commanding the feet, the legs. We stop every hour for a brief rest. I add moleskin to the blisters. We remind each other to drink water, to stay hydrated.<br />
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Dorothy says she's sure the campsite is not too far ahead. I want to believe her but I don't want to be disappointed. What options are there? We've hiked this trail before. We know there aren't any camp sites after Huckleberry Springs until we come to Big Creek; we know we have committed ourselves to hike <b>16 miles</b> from the camp site we left at Granite Meadow.<br />
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And then, almost suddenly, we come to familiar landmarks. The Big Creek trail junction. The bridge leading into the Wilderness boundary. <i>The side road that leads to Big Creek camp site!!!</i><br />
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It is an epic day for the four of us 60-year-olds. My pedometer has logged 34,267 steps in one day.<br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">16 miles</span></b><br />
Our pack weights range from 35-50 pounds<br />
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And even though we are exhausted, even though we should be too tired to do <i>anything </i>when we drop our packs, we get busy -- set up the tents, pump fresh water through the filters, cook our suppers.<br />
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Because WE CAN DO THIS.<br />
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We are 60 years old, and we can backpack for 60 miles.<br />
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We spend the night next to a sweet little creek (Big Creek).<br />
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<b>Day 8: Tuesday, August 19</b><br />
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The next morning, stiff and sore, we inhale a little "vitamin I" (ibuprofen), and head out for the last 4 miles of our adventure.<br />
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We are back to hiking on the unimproved road. Easy terrain, plenty of room to stroll next to a companion.<br />
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So fun! We see a few more salmon. Were they there on Day 1? Are we better at seeing them now, or are there more salmon in the river, heading upstream to their spawning beds?<br />
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Someone mentions that the river definitely seems tamer now. The landscape feels less remote.<br />
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And then…right about HERE, we finally see <b>A BEAR!!!</b><br />
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He is across the river from us, and he knows we are here. He turns and heads up the river bank before any of us can grab a camera.<br />
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He is so beautiful, so black, with movement so smooth and so obviously belonging to the wilderness.<br />
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Every single one of us sees him. He is wonderful, and he is gone.<br />
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And then we hike around a corner and see the car in the distance. And some trucks.<br />
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After 8 days of solitude, we are surrounded by Forest Service guys, here to work on a project, to put a gate across the road we couldn't have driven anyway.<br />
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<b>Post Script:</b><br />
After about 30 minutes in the car, we are back into cell range. My phone rings. My daughter, Maleena, says my mom is ill and on her way to the hospital.<br />
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Now we know why we all felt the urgency to hike 16 miles yesterday. Time to come back to our real-world lives.<br />
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Two weeks later, Mom is out of the hospital and better than ever.<br />
<b>Two weeks later, I, too, am better than ever.</b><br />
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One last post…coming soon...to summarize our route for future hikers.<br />
<br />Kathy Hayniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08128459743012799948noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-334178106329725361.post-38363825517650749132014-08-31T16:17:00.001-07:002014-08-31T16:20:28.945-07:00North Fork of John Day River: Silver Butte day hikeSunday, August 17, day hike on Silver Butte Trail 3025 - round trip 8 miles<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
HAPPY 60th BIRTHDAY to MARK!! Sure do love this guy.</div>
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It's Sunday so we decide to be like Moses and go "up to the mountain." The Silver Butte trail, just across the river from our campsite, beckons.<br />
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<span style="text-align: center;"> Looking down across the river to our campsite.</span><br />
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It is a steep climb from the outset.<br />
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Steep climbs bring wonderful views!</div>
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It isn't long before we have climbed higher than the surrounding mountains.</div>
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Some places along the trail are almost like tunnels through the new growth of young firs and the underbrush. I am disappointed, a little. If this were mature growth we would have a better view.<br />
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We stop on a grassy knoll for our devotional. Mark teaches Sunday School at home, so he shares the weekly lesson. A little bird that says "tock tock" seems to be listening in, fluttering from branch to branch. Everything is so peaceful and quiet. Somehow it is easier to feel close to God's grandeur out here in this wilderness solitude.</div>
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After resting and sharing our thoughts, we head to the "top" of the Butte.</div>
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Actually, the trail still continues on. I explore it for a bit more while the group settles in for lunch, but it is obvious that I'm not coming to the end, so I turn back. Later, when I have the map in hand, I realize that the Silver Butte trail actually continues another 1-2 miles to Road 5225. </div>
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No matter. We have hiked our 4 miles for today, and after a lunch rest we had back down to camp for a total of 8 miles on our day hike.</div>
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Birthday surprise! Ken notices something shiny on the hillside, about halfway back to camp.</div>
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It's a birthday balloon for Mark! We count as a tender mercy from a loving Heavenly Father who knows just where we are and what day it is…and arranged to have a balloon from some little girl's birthday party--who knows how long ago or how many hundreds of miles away--land on our hillside and wait for us to find it today as a special acknowledgement of Mark's milestone birthday.</div>
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Back in camp we relax and appreciate our beautiful Sabbath surroundings. </div>
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After dinner, of course we have birthday cake…embellished with some of the local delicious huckleberries, naturally.</div>
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Then we head to bed. Tomorrow we will load our packs and head back down the North Fork trail.</div>
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Kathy Hayniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08128459743012799948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-334178106329725361.post-87222350595151513142014-08-31T15:31:00.003-07:002014-08-31T19:08:47.822-07:00North Fork of John Day River: Day hike to Tub Spring CabinSaturday, August 16 - day hike on trail 3034 - round trip 8 miles<br />
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Saturday brings our first FULL DAY of SUNSHINE!<br />
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After breakfast we pack our lunches and head out for a day hike on trail 3034, the trail that follows the North Fork of the John Day River.<br />
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This is the same trail we hiked in on four days ago, but the river looks different here. It is narrower, shallower, and wilder.<br />
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Today's hike brings many surprises. There is frequent evidence of the mining activity in the area from the late 1800s.<br />
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The cables and remains of a derelict cable trolley that crossed the river.<br />
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More piles of rocks like the ones we saw yesterday, but instead of being adjacent to the river, these are nearly 100 feet above river level. Could they be from mining? We cannot imagine a natural process that would have resulted in these piles, and yet we also cannot imagine using hand labor to haul them so high above the river.<br />
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Part of the mystery is solved around a bend in the trail when we come across the historical marker for Gutridge Mine. Now we know that this is more mining evidence, but we still do not know why (or how) they hauled the rocks so far.<br />
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Soon we encounter what looks like a blaze mark in a tree, but there is more to it…<br />
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An old mining claim sign.</div>
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It feels like we've hiked about four miles, and all of us are ready for lunch, when we come to a river crossing. No bridge this time, so we settle in to enjoy the view.<br />
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But as we look more closely through the trees…<i>what is that??</i> Why, it's another cabin roof! We lament that it is across the river. No water shoes with us and we don't relish hiking 4 miles out in wet boots...<br />
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After lunch, Dorothy and I can't stand it. We both decide to wade the river barefoot, with the help of Mark & Ken's hiking staves, so we will have 2 each for balance.<br />
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We don't trust ourselves with the cameras - we might fall! - so sadly, we don't have any photos of the cabin itself. Meanwhile, the boys amuse themselves with taking photos and videos of our slow progress across the river.<br />
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The cabin was the BEST ONE YET! I figured we could find some photos online, but I have not had any success yet. So sad.<br />
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The cabin was labeled "Tub Spring." Historical markers indicated that it was a relinquished mining property that dated to 1895. More signs outside the cabin pointed to "Whisker Peak" to the south and "First Gulch" to the west.<br />
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This is how I described the cabin in my hiking journal: "The cabin is in good condition - walls sound, roof not too bad. The walls were criss-cross logs with notches cut in the ends. Inside, Dorothy and I found a rough handmade bed attached to one corner, 2 tables attached to walls, a screened-in box attached to the wall - I think for food - and a set of shelves attached to a wall. Misc items - saw, scythe, other tools on wall, large galvanized tubs. Some modern litter (whiskey bottle, spray can of insect repellant, broken lawn chair). It was not trashed, and it was so easy to imagine that I had just walked into Lydia's cabin in <i>The Jump-Off Creek.</i> This cabin was larger than hers would have been, but in the same region and time period. There was even a hand-made ladder up in the rafters."<br />
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Wow. Wow. Wow. It was <i>so cool</i> to explore this cabin!! And then we made our barefoot way back across the river.<br />
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As we hiked back to camp, the sun was hot and the river pools were so inviting. Finally we couldn't stand it any longer. "Our clothes will dry," Dorothy said, and that was all it took for the 4 of us to enjoy a little "swimming hole."<br />
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We also explored a lovely beach campsite just 1/2 hour hike away from Granite Meadow.<br />
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(Ahhh…that glorious blue sky…)</div>
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And still, in spite of my worries, no sign of any other campers!! (Spoiler alert - we did not see anyone for the <i>entire eight days</i> that we were in this amazing wilderness area.)<br />
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Again we relaxed and thoroughly enjoyed our afternoon and evening in camp.<br />
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I did a little laundry. (Wash clothes in gallon ziplock bag, a few items at a time. Wring out. Rinse 2-3 times in the same ziplock bag. Do not dip the ziplock bag in the river. Bring water from the river in a bucket and pour it into the ziplock bag. Keep the soap out of the river!!)<br />
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Then hang up the laundry and sit back and relax!<br />
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Another beautiful, peaceful evening in Granite Meadow.<br />
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Night falls over the North Fork of the John Day River.<br />
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<br />Kathy Hayniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08128459743012799948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-334178106329725361.post-54893560380811057692014-08-31T14:16:00.002-07:002014-08-31T15:37:48.571-07:00North Fork of John Day River: Granite Creek day hikeFriday, August 15 - day hike on Granite Creek trail - round trip 8 miles<br />
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Friday morning we luxuriate in a leisurely morning in camp.<br />
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Mark scares the fish for a while, and Dorothy paints in the meadow.<br />
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After lunch we head southeast out of the meadow on the Granite Creek trail. Another beautiful bridge takes us over Granite Creek. Later on there is a dicier bridge with a horse ford next to it.<br />
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We pass the Lake Creek trail but do not take time to explore it. The Lake Creek trail connects to Road 1010 in about 4 miles - it could be another access point to the Granite Creek Meadow campsite.<br />
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Easy to see why the creek is named "Granite Creek." </div>
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Granite is one of the indicators for gold in the area.</div>
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After about 4 miles of hiking we come to a road. Exploring it for a bit we find HUGE MOUNDS of river rock - oh my goodness! It looks like they go for miles. The remains of former mining activity.<br />
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The road must be access road 1035. We rest and snack, then retrace our steps for a lovely day hike that totals 8 miles. Coming in from this access point would provide another way to reach Granite Meadow in only 4 miles.<br />
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The cabins are always intriguing to us. This one looks like it sees current use; the roof is sound. Perhaps someone maintains it for summer or hunting season use? Access it from the road by horse? It is across the river (and down a steep slope) from our trail, so we just look and take photos. It appears to be empty today, and it is definitely within the wilderness boundary.<br />
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I am a little worried that we'll meet other campers coming in. It's a beautiful Friday afternoon, and the weekend weather forecast is good.<br />
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(I even worry a little about encountering a group…what if they are on horseback, with guns, and there are more of them than us? Will we have to relinquish our beautiful meadow campsite??)<br />
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But all is calm and undisturbed when we return to camp, and we enjoy another beautiful afternoon and evening of solitude in Granite Meadow.<br />
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<br />Kathy Hayniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08128459743012799948noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-334178106329725361.post-30974425128999494812014-08-26T18:46:00.000-07:002014-08-26T21:01:31.133-07:00North Fork of John Day River: Base Camp at Granite Creek MeadowWe are thrilled to arrive at our lovely meadow at the end of an <a href="http://kathyhaynie.blogspot.com/2014/08/north-fork-of-john-day-river-backpack_25.html">8-mile hike on Day 3</a>.<br />
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The campsite is large, with wonderful amenities.<br />
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It has a fire ring with benches and stumps for sitting. It has a simple table.<br />
Wow! We don't have to sit in the dirt to cook!!<br />
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It also has a beautiful meadow to enjoy, and plentiful huckleberries and chokecherries.<br />
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Water access is awesome. We can easily get water to filter for drinking and cooking, and we can also splash and fish.<br />
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Evening brings gorgeous sunsets to the west.<br />
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Oh, we love our beautiful campsite so much. And perhaps the nicest feature of all…<br />
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…what's that tucked behind the trees???<br />
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Yes!! It's a primitive outhouse!!!!<br />
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The floor and roof are sound, and oh, how we enjoy having our very own "facility" for the next few days.<br />
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We decide that this is a great spot to set up camp for the 4 nights. In addition to all the wonderful features right in camp, there are three different trails that lead out from this spot.<br />
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So far we've backpacked 20 miles, and we'll be retracing our steps on the way out, for a total of 40 miles.<br />
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To reach our goal of 60 miles, we will take 3 different day hikes, each 7-8 miles total. I'll post more about those day hikes soon! Each one had its own special features and discoveries.<br />
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But for now, I'll leave us securely tucked into our tents, ready to sleep after a long day of hiking.<br />
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Sweet dreams!</div>
Kathy Hayniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08128459743012799948noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-334178106329725361.post-79595278958525033302014-08-25T21:17:00.001-07:002014-08-25T21:28:11.534-07:00North Fork of John Day River Backpack: Day ThreeDay 3:<br />
8-9 miles<br />
Huckleberry Springs to Granite Meadow<br />
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Thursday morning we say goodbye to our lovely Huckleberry Springs and prepare to head upriver again. Ken remembers that Granite Creek is somewhere up ahead, so we make that our goal.<br />
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It has rained during the night.<br />
Actually, it has rained, thundered, and flashed lightening during the night!<br />
Our tents were dry and cozy, but the lightening…wow!<br />
The light flashes penetrated the tent, penetrated closed eyelids…I could even see the flashes when I pulled my head inside my mummy bag hood and had a layer of sleeping bag over my face!<br />
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This morning the rain has stopped but the bushes are wet.<br />
We explored a bit of the trail yesterday afternoon, so we know there are some brushy places to muscle through.<br />
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In addition to the wet brush, there are several dead trees across the trail. Most of them can be navigated, but one of them is just too big. Dorothy and I crawl beneath and drag our packs behind us. The boys are more dignified, and climb off the trail a few feet to navigate a lower place on the log.<br />
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For most of the morning, though, the most difficult part of this section of trail is the brush. It can be tall grass, or thimble berries, or huckleberries, or willows, or ferns, or any combination of the above. It can be knee high, waist high, shoulder high, or above our heads. It can be hanging slightly over the trail or (almost) completely obliterating the trail. Trails like this make me so grateful for trails that are well maintained!<br />
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Even though I am hiking with rain pants to repel the water clinging to the bushes, even though I have new goretex boots, my clothing eventually succumbs to the inexorable forces of water + gravity.<br />
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My feet are soaked. My toes are sloshing inside the socks. Every step brings the sensation of <i>squelch, squelch, squelch.</i><br />
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When we stop for a break, I wring at least 1/4 cup of water out of each sock.<br />
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Sigh. My rain pants are wonderful, but they are 1" too short. Instead of riding over the top of my boots, they are <i>funneling water from the wet brush along the trail down into my boots.</i><br />
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After 3.5 hours of slogging along, we stop for lunch at Wind Rock, where we find the foundation of a structure…perhaps an old mining cabin? We know there are some in the area.<br />
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The rest of the afternoon goes more quickly. There are still a few brushy places, but the trail clears, diversifies, is much more interesting.<br />
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And although we don't know it yet, there are a couple of wonderful surprises waiting for us around the corner!<br />
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First up…SALMON! The rangers in Ukiah had told us we might see Chinook salmon heading to their spawning beds. There are at least 100 salmon swimming in this deep pool at one high overlook.<br />
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Not long after spotting the salmon, we round a corner in the trail and come upon an abandoned log cabin.<br />
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I can't soak up enough of the details. It reminds me so much of Lydia's cabin in one of the books I teach, <i>The Jump-Off Creek</i> by Oregon author Molly Gloss.<br />
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The setting is perfect - we are hiking in the Blue Mountains of Oregon, the same setting as the book. The cabin matches the dimensions of Lydia's cabin. Even though I know Lydia and her cabin are fictional, I feel as though I have found the home of an old friend.<br />
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By this time, we are pooped. Surely any campsite will do. We have been hiking all day, and my feet are still wet and beginning to blister.<br />
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We have made 13 water crossings across streams that feed into the North Fork of the John Day.<br />
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We have encountered numerous bear scat (poop) - so many that I have lost count.<br />
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When we take a break at a small campsite, I enthusiastically point out the two log benches - such nice amenities! When will we find another campsite this lovely? I am so tired…<br />
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The group decides it is not a feasible site. Too much bear scat along the trail. We push on, hoping to come to Granite Creek.<br />
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Finally, about 30 minutes later, we come to the largest stream crossing yet. Granite Creek!<br />
The North Fork of the John Day River bends to the left, and Granite Creek comes in from the right.<br />
Oh, look at that lovely meadow! Maybe we can camp there.<br />
Will there be a bridge???<br />
The river is much smaller now than it was when we began hiking. I am so tired. I want to go camp in that meadow, and if I have to I will wade across the river.<br />
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But no…there is a bridge!!<br />
A lovely strong beautiful bridge.<br />
A bridge that leads across the river into a lovely established campsite.<br />
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Stay tuned…my next post will be about our wonderful base camp where we camped for 4 nights at Granite Meadow.<br />
<br />Kathy Hayniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08128459743012799948noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-334178106329725361.post-6729777927120401862014-08-24T22:01:00.001-07:002014-08-24T22:03:07.421-07:00North Fork of John Day River backpack: Day TwoWednesday morning we wake up ready to find our wilderness trailhead. I am becoming friends with my pack - I can actually find things when I need them, and I have a system for how to pack clothing, food, cooking gear, etc. Mark and I have split up the tent and rain fly / poles to share the weight.<br />
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Mark and I both chose Deuter brand packs at REI. They feel GOOD and fit well.<br />
His is a 65-liter capacity and mine is 60-liter.<br />
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We bought them back in May, and had hoped for an overnight shake-down hike prior to this big hike, but there just hasn't been time. Thank goodness the REI staff helped us adjust the fit really well, and they are working out well on their first hike.<br />
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We have decided to use hiking staves. We intended to bring two each, but one set was left at home, so we each have just one stave. It turns out to work really well for us. I know that some hikers prefer two staves, but just one worked well for this hike. I could switch off when my hand got sweaty, and I had a free hand to pick thimbleberries and huckleberries along the way! They help with balance, and make the trail easier to manage on the uphill and downhill sections of trail.<br />
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Of course we stop at the bridge into the actual wilderness boundary for a hiking portrait.<br />
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After rain during the night, our morning is much cooler than the day before, and we make good progress on this amazing and beautiful trail.<br />
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After about 4 miles stop for lunch at a lovely campsite. Surprise! It has a BED!!<br />
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It's a little hard to imagine someone hauling this metal bed-spring <i>four miles</i> into the woods. Even with abundant evidence of horse campers in the area (lots of "horse apples")…really???…a <i>bed???</i> That wouldn't fit on a horse.<br />
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We honor the mystery of the bed's presence by christening the site "Huckleberry Springs." After all, there are plenty of nearby bushes loaded with ripe huckleberries, and we enjoy sitting on the metal <i>springs.</i><br />
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Dorothy declares it a perfect site: good water access, a swimming/fishing hole, good space for tents, and a <i>bed</i>. Even though it seems early in the day to stop hiking, we ultimately agree to stay at Huckleberry Springs for the night, and settle into a fun afternoon of swimming, fishing, and rest.<br />
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My favorite fisherman</div>
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As always, we keep all food out of the tents, and hang it high in bear bags.</div>
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Even with no campsite amenities (i.e. - picnic tables, etc), we manage cooking quite nicely in our primitive "kitchens."<br />
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I used a flat rock to support our little stove and a log as a kitchen countertop.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx8YoljgUJ0YrRZQjfBQ249P0fUqxauo5lBU6EloSiz0wqYBA34LE8rgTQjb3Q_rspS9Et-fWgmeszfpDcbFvJPLWUtR3JSwp8zOxmvZnPOUpMRRhTfR4064c2OnxXX-XOXVgyvgH6Adp3/s1600/IMG_0765.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx8YoljgUJ0YrRZQjfBQ249P0fUqxauo5lBU6EloSiz0wqYBA34LE8rgTQjb3Q_rspS9Et-fWgmeszfpDcbFvJPLWUtR3JSwp8zOxmvZnPOUpMRRhTfR4064c2OnxXX-XOXVgyvgH6Adp3/s1600/IMG_0765.JPG" height="298" width="400" /></a></div>
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Dorothy & Ken enjoyed the "sofa."</div>
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Yum! Oatmeal with fresh huckleberries!<br />
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<span style="background-color: #fefdfa; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; text-align: start;">Day two of the 60x60 backpack trip along the North Fork of the John Day River.</span><br style="background-color: #fefdfa; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; text-align: start;" /><span style="background-color: #fefdfa; color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px; text-align: start;">August 13, 2014</span></div>
Kathy Hayniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08128459743012799948noreply@blogger.com1