The thoughts of writer John Rezell, who will write about anything, anytime, anywhere. So pay attention.
|Posted by johnnieraz on November 28, 2020 at 2:35 PM||comments (0)|
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[Thanks to webs.com for showing the link ... NOT!]
By John Rezell
It hit quickly, without warning.
Driving up the Santiam Canyon I expected to see the results of the Beachie Creek Fire that raced down the highway on Labor Day and the days to follow.
Still, the first signs struck me like the bolt of lightning.
Suddenly buildings that were there this summer, aren't there now. Many are replaced by a pile of scrap.
I ventured up the canyon wondering if there would be any opportunity for us to journey up Thanksgiving weekend and cut a Christmas tree, which has been our family tradition for years.
The first sight of damage turned my stomach upside down. And so it continued. For mile after mile after mile. The trip ripped at my heart. The video tells it all.
|Posted by johnnieraz on November 24, 2020 at 10:20 AM||comments (60)|
By John Rezell
When I made that final decision to click on PUBLISH and share some of my deepest heartfelt thoughts with the world in my ebook A Bucket List of Thank Yous, a sense of relief and fulfillment washed over me.
That caught me by surprise because more than anything, I expected fear and uncertainty to gang up on me. Do I really want to tell the world about my first girlfriend?
Then I took a moment to scroll through my list of Facebook friends to determine whom I would send a personal note to about the book, a more modest manner of saying Thanks.
As I scrolled through those familiar faces and names that have slipped in and out of my life, I realized how many more individuals have had brief, but everlasting influences on me.
They almost fall into categories, or eras of growth.
Unfortunately, I have no grade school friends on Facebook. We moved from my childhood home in fifth grade, leaving behind all the kids who had early influences on me — things that still resonate today.
There’s Lisa, who had a crush on me from first grade on and I enthusiastically returned the favor. The brightest smile at Maple Tree and one of the sharpest, smartest kids around. It would be years before I understood how she shaped my perception of race, helping me realize I’ve never really noticed, much less let the color of people’s skin guide my impression of them.
There’s Bobby, my best friend’s cousin, who taught me the basics of throwing and hitting a baseball as well as catching and kicking a football.
Junior High/High School
Who wasn’t a mess at this age? And who knew it would only get worse in high school?
I lucked out to meet one of the most amazing guys on this planet when we moved to Brookfield, and Jack remains one of my best and endearing friends. From carving our initials into the huge oak tree over the pond to rooming together in college, he has stood as the example of who I want to be when I grow up. If I ever grow up.
There are many others from high school, who will pop a post on Facebook that makes me smile immediately — not because of the post, but the fond memories of how they made me feel back when finding a way to feel upbeat and good on any day was job 1.
But there are a number of individuals from high school who did make my Bucket List of Thank Yous, and you can read why.
Maybe it’s just me, but it’s hard to think of many people who DIDN’T make an imprint on me if we spent more than some passing time with each other. But isn’t that what college is all about?
Whether they were living in the same dorm, working on the student newspaper or that lone familiar face in a new class, they broadened my perspective on life.
My college professor and mentor made the list. He’s been a motivating factor in my career ever since.
I went from working for large newspaper companies to small, often family-run, businesses. I got lucky and worked with some tremendously smart, creative individuals who challenged me in so many ways that it was simply impossible to NOT grow.
I learned from great bosses and crappy ones. I found lifetime friends among coworkers whom I only know because we shared the same name signing our paychecks.
Only one boss made the list, but her impact on me continues to this day — and every day that I write.
This is a massive group. If there is one category that rises to the top, it must be the countless athletes I covered throughout the years. These individuals often shared their lives with me. We discussed their inner most thoughts, their angels and their demons. They offered unabashed honest (in most cases) to someone who, on some instances, they only met minutes before.
That simple act of opening up to me always humbled me. I would listen to athletes pour out their souls and think that, really, no way would I return the favor. But through my memoirs and this Thank You book, well, I’ve found the courage to do just that.
Of course, two athletes grace my Bucket List. But the flood of memories that accompany each athlete’s face fills my soul and reminds me of the power of living and breathing in that world of athletics, where the goal is simple: Every day find something, some way, to make yourself better and grow.
Hey, that’s how this book was born.
|Posted by johnnieraz on November 21, 2020 at 1:10 AM||comments (0)|
By John Rezell
I'm fascinated with the question: How did I become who I am?
A Bucket List of Thank Yous represents part of my personal insight into some of those answers.
Without question, my parents were key.
Here is an excerpt with the letter to my Mom, who passed away in 2013:
Five kids. FIVE KIDS!
That never struck me much growing up, that I was but one of five children of Jane and Reiny Rezell.
Growing up in Milwaukee, and later Brookfield in Wisconsin, I spent most of my hours being a handful on my own. I didn't have time to contemplate the fact that my mother juggled five kids — four of us boys.
It didn't really hit me until I started a family of my own, and had two daughters. Then the daunting task of raising five kids became the stuff of legends for me.
As I began to ponder just how to be parent, I wondered about the ultimate question: How did they do that?
How did my parents get me to be who I am? How did they raise five, in my humble opinion, really amazing kids?
See, I love my life. I wouldn't change anything about it. Ever. I love who I am. I consider myself an obsessive optimist — always focused on the bright side.
I jump into bed each night, not roll in. I can't wait to see what tomorrow has in store. I love to face the next challenge. And savor the details of life.
How did they do that? This week I wonder, how did SHE do that?
If I think back, one element of growing up jumps to the forefront: You could not exist in Jane's house if you were grumpy. No moping. No sulking.
If there's one word I heard more than any growing up, it was simply this: SMILE!
If you weren't smiling, you weren't living. Not really living.
I wasn't an unhappy kid; I just made the mistake of walking around now and then without a smile on my face.
So she would say, SMILE! And I did. My eyes would sparkle. My face would crack. My spirits would soar.
When I did, the world transformed right before my eyes. No matter what obscure thing I might be doing — or lost in thought about — suddenly had a meaning. I learned to appreciate every moment.
I think about that every morning as I ride my bike to work. I attempt to smile at everyone I pass. Say hello.
Now most of the time it's nothing more than a passing greeting. But every now and then ...
I'll pass someone who, even though they haven't made it to work yet, is having a crummy day. It's written all over their face.
I smile. I say hi.
Their eyes sparkle. Their face explodes into a smile. I can see that I made a connection. Made a difference.
I smile and say quietly, "Thanks, Mom."
I've traveled all around the country, and many parts of the world. I've lived in Wisconsin, Iowa, California, Colorado, Texas, Tennessee and Oregon.
As I chased every challenge I could uncover, my parents were always behind me, 100 percent. They never questioned me. They supported me.
We always knew that. We always knew no matter what, Mom and Dad were there if we needed them. It's easy not to fear failure when you have that safety net. It makes life a thrill.
There is no more brilliant example of that than when I had to go to Las Vegas to help my brother Tom.
I called my parents and filled them in on the situation. Without hesitation, without missing a beat, Mom said, "We want him to come home."
We WANT him to come HOME.
She didn't say, if he wants to come home, we'll be here,
She didn't say, whatever he decides, we'll support him.
She said, We want him to come home.
That was 20 years ago. My brother straightened out his life, and lived with my parents. For the past 13 years, he lived alone with my mother. Taking care of her. This past year has been tough. A real challenge.
Tom came home. Made it a home. And kept it a home.
For that, my brothers and sister are forever in his debt. Words can't express how we feel about him. Our pride. Our love.
Tom couldn't put into words how he felt. He asked me to. He said, "I'll always remember Mom for who she was."
What Tom is saying is that he doesn't necessarily want to remember this past year. The decline. The hardships.
That's understandable. It's phrase you hear a lot in these situations.
I went home last month to visit Mom, and say goodbye, while she still had a pinch of life left.
It wasn't easy. It was a challenge. I wondered how I would react when she would ask, "Which one are you?"
Then again, I remember even at her peak, she could be looking right at me across the room and yell "JIM TOM JOHN JOE BARB...GRRRR..."
Then she'd get around to whomever she was yelling at. So I was a bit prepared.
I spent a few days at the hospice with her. One day at lunch, with all the aides in the lunchroom, they began asking about Mom. About who she was.
I told them: Five kids ...
Then, they told me about who she is. She's the sweetest woman. So easy going. So calm. Always talking.
I thought, yeah, that's my Mom.
Later, we sat together. She looked at me. She asked, "Which one are you?"
I smiled. John, from Oregon.
Her eyes sparkled.
A smile crept across her face.
I knew I made a connection.
Five kids. FIVE KIDS.
That's amazing. Thanks Mom, we love you.
|Posted by johnnieraz on November 19, 2020 at 5:30 PM||comments (63)|
By John Rezell
I'm thrilled to say it's official: My latest ebook A Bucket List of Thank Yous has been published and is available on many ebook platforms including Amazon.com, Barnesandnoble.com, iBooks and Smashwords.com.
The book is a compilation of Thank You letters I've written to individuals who have made a major impact in my life.
But my goal isn't just to celebrate them. My hope is others will use the book as a vehicle to thank those who made great impacts in their lives.
The book honors my late Father, who was an extremely creative guy, but had difficulties writing. If you have trouble writing or putting your feelings into words, just send that special person a copy and refer them to the letter that best represents your relationship.
I've written letters to my Mom, Dad, Junior High and High School friends, my college mentor, bosses, and others.
It's super affordable so you can buy as many copies as you like (and help out someone who lost two jobs to Covid ).
|Posted by johnnieraz on November 14, 2020 at 1:45 AM||comments (0)|
By John Rezell
The true magic of Mother Nature springs to life while I spend countless hours outdoors, hiking and biking. Vast breathtaking vistas, deep breaths of fresh air and overwhelming silence transport my mind to a magical place.
There, I often ponder my greatest question in life. No, it’s not the meaning of life. It’s simply, how did I become the person I am today?
When I probe deeply, I vividly remember people. I see faces, and relive specific examples of how those individuals left a lasting impression upon me. How it helped create me.
Of course, my two greatest influences were my parents.
My Dad’s artistic talents awed me.
As an architect, he could draw anything, often sketching funny notes to crack us up.
He took up watch repair because of his fascination with mechanics, and combined it with his woodworking skills to make amazing clocks.
Later he began to whittle, and created a world of tiny characters that showed off his offbeat humor — like the doctor who operated on a woman holding his big saw next to that woman whom he put back together backward, the lady lifting the front of her dress to show her behind and back of her legs and feet.
Eventually he dabbled with working on leather, too, creating belts, wallets and even beer bottle holders for your belt.
But my Dad couldn’t write very well.
So, when I showed a penchant for the written word back in grade school, my Dad jumped at the opportunity to encourage me. He paid me for anything I would write — a penny for every five words.
I wrote all sorts of stuff — some short stories, poems and essays. That led me to start my own sports magazine that I distributed to a few relatives and neighbors, hammering on a typewriter hard enough to get through five copies of carbon paper to write stories about games in our Electric Football League, the Green Bay Packers and Milwaukee Bucks.
My Dad confided in me that he struggled with any type of writing. He agonized over putting together a sentence or two.
When I graduated from college with a degree in Journalism, he reminded me of that. He said the ability to write is a God-given talent, like being musical or athletic or artistic, as he was.
Without question, my Dad had a major influence on my life. So did my Mom. And so many others, too.
A few years ago when I began writing my trio of memoirs, I began to pen Thank You letters to the individuals who have made a significant imprint on my life.
Now I’ve created a compilation of those letters in a small book, A Bucket List for Thank Yous.
The primary purpose of my Thank You letters is to honor those who have made a significant impact in my life.
But almost as important to me — to honor my Dad and help out those who might be like him — is offering this book or an individual letter to those who can’t write well. Those who search for a voice and a way to thank others.
If you have someone in your life you want to thank, but have never been able to find the words to say it, send them a copy and tell them which letter best describes your feelings or relationship.
As we endure this challenging year of 2020, we have the Thanksgiving season to reflect on our lives and offer thanks.
EDITOR'S NOTE: At this point the ebook is available on Smashwords.com. It will soon be available on a number of websites including Amazon.com, BarnesandNoble.com and iTunes.
|Posted by johnnieraz on November 7, 2020 at 1:35 PM||comments (36)|
By John Rezell
Just maybe, that extra hour of 2020 made all the difference in the world.
Just maybe the end of Daylight Savings Time became our saving grace.
At least that’s the way it feels Saturday morning as a swell of unbridled optimism erupts from my soul.
Instead of waking up to darkness and despair — thanks to that extra hour — a soft, scintillating sunrise brightens my eyes and mood.
Slices of sunshine radiated bursts from colorful orange and yellow maple leaves as they shimmer on gentle morning breezes, warming my heart from the chill of the second surge that appears to be a precursor for a winter of discontent.
Of all the statistics that define this unsettling year that tests the resolve of optimists — even obsessive ones like me — one rises to the forefront to dominate my dreams for our future:
In the face of overwhelming despair — in spite of all the negativity, 150 million voices rang out across this land singing loudly, “We the People” care.
It matters not for whom or what we shouted, but simply that we did. That our cries to be heard signal a resolve to fight, not surrender, in these challenging times. My hope is we fight for compromise and become relentless in our search to come together.
While the other numbers that have monopolized our psyche in 2020 continue to cast a chilling effect on us — that more than 9.5 million have been infected and more than 234,000 have died — those numbers pale in comparison to the hundreds of millions who have been affected by the fallout of this pandemic.
Slowly the pandemic’s impact gnaws at our essence, having taken away our sense of normalcy and dashed so many dreams along the way.
Yet the beauty of dreams is that they can persevere on the thinnest thread of hope. As long as you believe they will survive.
Dreams fuel our souls. They rocket us to unimaginable heights in the best of times. They sustain us in the worst. I'm a dreamer of the highest magnitude
What this year has done more than anything is expose us for who we really are. When our true selves rise above all our facades, we see our strengths and our weaknesses.
When our essence is revealed, we can only embrace its honesty.
Me? I'm a dreamer of the highest magnitude.
As we forge ahead, our truths will guide us. But as we do, we always must reflect on how we made ourselves into who we are today,
Time for Thanks
We did not make this journey alone. What better time than now to thank those who helped mold and shape us along the way?
We have lost far too many of those people who influenced our lives this year, and most without any chance for one final moment to let them know how thankful we are for their impact on our lives.
I’ve written a collection of Thank You letters to the people who have had molded me into the father, husband, brother, son, teacher and friend I am today.
I hope to publish this small book of Thank You letters in the coming days to allow encourage and empower anyone to send a Thank You to those who have made you who you are.
I offer the letters for those who are not proficient writers, people like my dad, who inspired me to pursue talents he didn't have.
So let's embrace this time of change.
|Posted by johnnieraz on October 31, 2020 at 1:20 AM||comments (1)|
By John Rezell
Don't get me wrong, I certainly enjoyed having warm, sunny days well into October this year. Whether that is Global Warming or just a sweet gift from Mother Nature in an otherwise wild year, time will tell.
It did, however, have one rather negative impact: Hunting for Chanterelle mushrooms.
Typically as soon as the weather turns cool and the rain begins to fall, you can head into the forest for harvest. It's important to get out before the frost, although most Chanterelles stay more than a little hidden under a warm blanket of moss and fir needles. We usually have a nice wide window of opportuity, maybe 4-5 weeks.
This year, with little rain throughout the year, once it did begin to get a little wet, the hunt became challenging.
I spend most of the year on the trails. I'm not a bush-whacker or explorer, which is probably why I haven't had a search party out in my dishonor. Come Mushroom Season? I'm off the beaten path.
Years ago I learned the true value of having my black lab Ridgely in the woods with me, and it isn't for protection. No, she'll run back to me like a little baby at the slightest hint of danger.
She is priceless in knowing how to find our way back exactly the way we came, if it comes down to that. It never does. I'm very focused when I'm off the trail, and generally work my way up and around a creek that I can always come back to and follow back to the road.
Our first ventures to the new spot we uncovered last year found that it was slim pickin' at best. Still, we managed to find enough for a week's worth of delightful dishes (I love them on pizza more than anything).
Exploring more in that general area didn't pan out much. Still, whether or not I find anything, a couple of hours of hiking up and down steep ridges knee deep in ferns makes for a good workout.
Two years ago I attempted to find my first golden spot that I went to for 2-3 years straight. But not visiting it for two years or so made it somewhat unrecognizable, since the forest grows quickly around here. My very first favorite area I uncovered is now pretty much impassable.
Having come up somewhat empty in my attempts in the Cascades, I decided to head back to the Coastal Range for my first true golden spot. I was pretty sure I ventured much farther into the woods on the forest road that ever before, and after rolling back and forth, I decided to take a stab at a creek crossing.
Heading up hill at about a 60% angle proved to be killer. Eventually it leveled a bit, but we were striking out. Although Ridgely loves to eat Chanterelles and will find one when it is completely under her nose, she has proven to be worthless in just sniffing out a bunch.
Then, we found a few. Then a few more. Ridgely started leading me up an overgrown logging road and slowly this area started feeling a bit more familiar. We found some more, here and there. Golden beauties just popping out of the forest floor.
We were on a tight schedule, so I only had about 20 minutes left. As we started back down the hill, I felt 50-50 on whether or not this was my favorite spot or not. Seemed like it was, but then in some areas it didn't. I decided to make a little bit of a sweep along the mid-point of the ridge before diving down to the creek.
It paid off with a big batch for my famous Oregon Chanterelle, Hazelnut and Blackberry stuffing for Thanksgiving.
We did go out again. Much to my surprise, there were still plenty in my good old spot (that I know have specific directions for so I won't lose it again).
Plenty leftover that should last until Christmas dinner. Yummy.
|Posted by johnnieraz on October 17, 2020 at 12:30 AM||comments (18)|
|Posted by johnnieraz on October 10, 2020 at 12:00 AM||comments (17)|
By John Rezell
After climbing a gravel mountain road for more than 90 minutes enduring countless cow encounters on the open range, the trailhead sign finally appeared at the end of the road.
You call this a trail?
With no signs that any humans have trekked here recently, if ever, I started pushing my mountain bike up the muddy cow path.
The map at the campground showed that this trail would connect with another near the base of Council Mountain peak, and I would ride the second trail back down to the road to the campground.
I never imagined the ride would play out with an endless line of cows wondering what I was doing in their 'hood.
The cow encounters pretty much worked the same way. Big mothers would stand their ground and stare at me, freaking me out that they might decide to be overprotective to their calves.
Meanwhile the calves would either follow mom's lead, or go ballistic.
The calves would run up the road, or up into the woods, in a panic. For about 20 feet.
Then they would turn for a standoff. Only to scoot again.
By the time I reached the trailhead, I figured I out-climbed the cows. Judging by the trail, not so much.
After pushing my bike up the trail for 45 minutes with short bursts of rideable terrain, I zipped around a corner to startle a gang of about 10 cows, who scattered into the woods.
Just about then I realized that, if a gang like that decided to head off the beaten path, I would have no idea that I was following a renegade trail.
Another hour in, that became a moot point when the trail just, well, disappeared amongst a plethora of cow paths.
I explored a number of them, all eventually turning to dust.
Oh, I did find a trail sign, knocked down and leaned up against a tree at the junction of a couple of paths. Neither went anywhere.
The views were tremendous. I just turned around and headed back down the way I came.
That was all fine and dandy, until I came upon that gang of cows.
This time they burst into the woods. I continued down, and heard loud cracking and crushing of trees.
To my right, I could see a mini-stampede through the forest. They were trying to cut me off at the pass!
I hammered a little harder than my handling skills would typically allow, and I managed to beat them to the cross-section.
After five hours, I made it back to camp only to find three cows breached the campground fence and were grazing at the entrance.
Holy Cow, what a day.
|Posted by johnnieraz on October 3, 2020 at 3:15 PM||comments (29)|
By John Rezell
My true belief is that people think too much. We spend too much time with the past or future flooding our brains that we sometimes miss the value of the present. This is especially true when messages come our way.
Take my latest ride. I have this wonderful course that's great for 4-5 hours of riding. It's more Gravel Grinding on logging roads than anything, and of that time I'll spend less than an hour on a paved road with traffic.
Mother Nature seemed to be in a sharing mood, giving me entertaining views of a huge wild turkey running across the road (seriousy, standing straight up it was at least 4 feet tall) not to mention a tiny, yet very perturbed bird chasing a grand red-tailed hawk that soared easily ahead of its nuisance as it swooped into the woods.
I yearned to add another serious hillclimb to my menu, given my Covid-19 unemployed inspired fitness. As I turned to chug up toward the top of the mountain, I saw three piles of Cat Scat in the first 100 yards, and quickly decided to save my climbing for a more appropriate spot.
Then, in the same place that I saw an owl glide silently over my head four years ago, I saw another. This time the owl swooped and perched in a tree, not 30 feet from where I paused to savor the view. I've seen owls flying in the wild before, but never one perched. And never one that turned its head 180 degrees to look me square in the eyes.
Mesmerized or a moment, it moved me deep inside, as most nature encounters do. As I reached for my cellphone, the owl moved on, across the road, into the woods. Before I remounted, another zipped past in playful pursuit. This one stopped across the road, some 50 yards into the woods, but where I could get a clear silhouette view.
About an hour later, after some lunch, I decided to add a paved 3-mile climb to satisfy my need to push. About a minute into the ascent, I felt a burning sensation on my right index finger. As I lifted it to examine, I see a Honey Bee perched on the tip. I whip my hand around and look again. Now I see some bee innards as well as a stinger lodged in my finger.
You can imagine the countless thoughts that could come to mind as I belted out a string of inappropriate language. Yet, my first clear thought was this as I looked at the heavens to my Guardian Angels, always on watch. "If you didn't want me to climb that hill you could have let me know some other way because this hurts like )*@$%*@#(%&!!!
I spun around and headed for the nearest market. Bought a cup and filled it to the brim with ice and topped it with a little lemonade to get my money's worth. Then I plunged my finger into the ice.
For the next two hours, instead of pounding home with a strong pace and flying down hills at dangerous speeds, I sauntered at 5 mph, riding one handed with my right index finger in ice.
Just when I planned to ditch the ice and hammer home, up and over a paved hill that I'd hit 35 mph easily on the backside, something felt weird. I checked my back wheel, and found a significant crack in my rim. One that, had it completely blown at 35 mph could have spelled disaster.
I looked up again and said, OK, I get it.
Life can be interesting, if you pay attention.
|Posted by johnnieraz on September 26, 2020 at 12:15 AM||comments (29)|
Wild Oregon Huckleberries
|Posted by johnnieraz on September 19, 2020 at 12:10 AM||comments (63)|
Fire damage on Highway 242 from a 2017 fire. Copyright photo by John Rezell
By John Rezell
Three years had passed since I last drove up the Aufderheide Byway. On my way to score a Labor Day campsite, it was my first look at the area since a fire swept through in 2017, halting my annual journey to harvest Huckleberries.
My insides wrenched looking at the once lush forest reduced to towering bare sticks with blackened edges.
Ridges resembled the pointed teeth of a dog's hairbrush.
This once breathtaking drive now moved me for other reasons.
I've thought a lot about that drive the past few days since major fires have decimated Oregon. It wasn't my first taste of fire damage to hallowed grounds. I'm pretty sure it won't be my last.
This week, as two of my favorite areas have been scorched, I realize it will be different.
As of Monday's count, eight Oregonians have lost their lives in these fires.
It's one thing to stomach the sense of loss related to Mother Nature. It's another when the loss is human.
I'm not sure how I'll react when I have the opportunity to return.
And yes, I will return.
I'll continue to head to the mountains with a quarter tank of gas to fill up in the small towns along the way to ensure those outposts remain in business.
I'll stop at various markets to buy supplies I don't necessarily need to support them.
I'll stop for breakfast, lunch or dinner, too.
As we drove home Labor Day, unaware of a tidal wave of flames that would eventually follow, we saw an empty business still up for sale. We tossed around a few ideas of how we could revive it, and enjoy the serenity of mountain life.
Looking at the fire reports, I doubt that building stands today.
It probably went up in flames, just as our thoughts of someday heading to the hill for good.
The view of Highway 22 from the Stahlman Trail just north of Detroit most likely doesn't look like this anymore. Copyright photo by John Rezell
|Posted by johnnieraz on September 12, 2020 at 3:40 AM||comments (5)|
Waterfall on the Breitenbush Trail that most likely doesn't look anything like this anymore. Copyright photo by John Rezell
By John Rezell
In this most distressing year of our time, Mother Nature’s Oregon havens offered solace — our saving grace.
Escaping into the Cascades restored our inner peace.
Towering Douglas Firs, Ponderosa Pines, Hemlocks and others reaffirmed our sense of resilience, having endured and survived hundreds of years longer than any of us mere mortals.
Breathtaking mountain peaks stood majestically as reminders that lofty pursuits not only inspire, but lift our limits and boundaries.
Labor Day Retreat
Rolling up Highway 22 eastbound out of Salem in search of an elusive Labor Day weekend campsite, I continually paused to take mental inventory of the beauty of Santiam Canyon and our seemingly endless opportunities to savor Oregon’s outdoors.
I had no idea how precious those memories would become.
My first reflection surfaced at Fisherman’s Bend, where I’ve pulled over on my way home from memorable hikes farther in the Cascades to flick a few fly casts into the Santiam River in hopes of striking a rainbow catch for dinner.
Pangs of sadness gnawed a bit as I passed the Little Santiam Recreational area, knowing deep within the forest in rugged terrain making it nearly impossible to fight, yet that same isolated landscape somehow keeping it somewhat contained, the Opal Wilderness burned.
Ridgely on the Little Santiam River Trail with a view that lives only in our memories. Copyright photo by John Rezell
Noting the Campground Full sign at Detroit Lake and the floating docks crammed with boats, I smiled at the popularity of this quaint oasis.
Our summer season began with a Memorial Day weekend hike on the Breitenbush Trail, forced to drive deep into the forest in search of some solitude, or the closest we could find.
Every spot to pull in a camper or pitch a tent appeared taken — Oregonians and our adventurous spirits on full display.
In early June we would christen our new camper at Riverside Campground. We hiked some local trails and took the short drive up to the Santiam Exchange, to hike Clear Lake and venture a bit down the McKenzie River corridor.
With the forests packed for Labor Day weekend up the Santiam Canyon, I continued down the McKenzie, again, reliving countless adventures along the way.
We eventually scored a campsite up the Aufderheide Scenic Byway and reminisced about another amazing summer where nature had rekindled and refreshed our souls over and over, despite the craziness erupting around the world.
Return to Reality
Monday we drove home, down Highway 126, into Eugene, and home. Having moved from Eugene four years ago, it had been a long time since I ventured along Highway 126.
Driving down through Blue River and Vida memories flooded of countless trips that began more than a quarter century ago with our first visit on vacation, and accelerated just 15 years ago when I wrote about new experiences as an outdoor columnist.
On our first visit, the Vida Cafe introduced us to Oregon’s unforgettable berry pies. A fire closed the cafe for a time a few years back, but it endured and reopened.
We arrived safely home, savoring the comforting images in our minds.
Then, Monday night, both river canyons burst into apocalyptic blazes.
In a bizarre atmospheric twist, a blast of easterly winds — typically winter conditions — roared through the canyons.
In the case of Santiam, reports believe a tree downed a power line sparked the blaze. Riding gusts more than 50 mph, it exploded into a fiery tsunami.
On the McKenzie the cause remains unknown, yet the same fierce offshore flow created identical uncontrollable chaos.
Daylight never really won out on Tuesday, the heavy smoke from the Santiam Canyon fire keeping our Dallas skies to an eerie kaleidoscope of deep yellow, blood red and fiery orange.
The late afternoon sky in Dallas on Tuesday. Copyright photo by John Rezell
The first video to emerge online showed Fisherman's Bend smothered in an inferno. Reports continue to worsen, as of Wednesday 300,000 acres have been torched throughout the state, the vast majority up these two scenic byways.
It could have been the smoky tinge to our air that kept my stomach churning throughout the day and into the night.
But it wasn’t.
Detroit. Blue River. Vida. All destroyed.
Thousands of steadfast Oregonians lost homes and businesses, and must tap into their pioneer spirit and relentless resolve to endure and survive.
With huge slices of the best of Oregon gone, I feel the loss deep at my core and ache for those who lost more than a place to escape.
Some recent photos from the areas torched by fire:
|Posted by johnnieraz on August 29, 2020 at 3:40 AM||comments (68)|
By John Rezell
Whenever someone points out that cyclists come in all shapes, sizes and forms, I take a moment to reflect on it.
There are cyclists who ride for fitness.
Cyclists who ride for pure joy.
Cyclists who commute.
And, of course, cyclists who have no other wheel-powered choice in their lives than the bicycle.
I’m reminded of that last group whenever I pass a cyclist who doesn’t have a home, yet has a bike. I think back to a time when I lived outside of San Diego. A good friend of mine was working on a project for a college class. I went out with him, video camera in hand, to interview some homeless individuals.
You might imagine what some of their life stories sounded like. Real life tragedies. Yet, almost to a person, we heard the same sentiment. We don’t want pity, they said, but we do want acknowledgment.
I remember Jack better than anyone. When we approached Jack, and asked if he’d talk to us, he couldn’t stop staring in disbelief. Then he wouldn’t stop talking. The most painful thing, Jack said, is being ignored. Seeing people purposely look away, least they make eye contact.
Simple acknowledgment, Jack said, means everything.
I’ve tried to remember that lesson. Always.
Just after Labor Day 2008, as summer began to slip to memory, I got laid off. It would be more than two years before I gained full-time employment again.
While still unemployed back in 2010, I ventured past one of the homeless in Eugene. He had his bicycle and bike trailer pulled beneath an underpass, with the trailer up on a rock. He’d pulled off his tire. Needed to repair a flat. And find a way to pump it up. It’s a long ride to the nearest gas station with free air, he said.
I didn’t have a 20-inch spare on me, nor could my presta connection help his Schraeder valve. But I was, I had to admit, on my way to a bike shop. If he promised to sit tight, I’d return and help out. He said he’d wait.
I couldn’t tell him I was headed to exchange a pair of cycling gloves that were under the tree on Christmas morning. They were nice. Really nice. They fit. But new cycling gloves, given our employment status, became a luxury item, at least in my mind.
When I got to the shop, I exchanged the gloves. For a couple of spare tubes. And a portable pump. I gladly paid the difference.
Upon my return, of course, he tried to make a big deal about it. He thanked me. Pointed out at least 20 other cyclists had ridden right past, and just ignored him. I was the only one to even speak to him. He felt guilty when I told him to keep the pump.
Don’t worry about, I told him, I’d do the same for any cyclist.
|Posted by johnnieraz on August 27, 2020 at 5:45 PM||comments (1)|
By John Rezell
It's time for a break.
We have more important issues to attend to and think about these days.
I'll spend my Saturday mornings with an open mind, hoping to understand what others in this world face and finding ways to bring us together.
|Posted by johnnieraz on August 15, 2020 at 7:00 AM||comments (20)|
By John Rezell
As we wrapped around the final switchbacks on the western edge of Castle Rock, the fog lifted from the valley into a bright blue sky like a flock of sparkling stars returning to the Milky Way. Ridgely charged ahead, as she's apt to do, as curious as I was — wondering if we would be graced by the view or fogged in.
Once we cleared the summit and hiked to the eastern front, Mother Nature rewarded us in grand style. The Sisters peeked over a bank of clouds hanging like a sash around their middriff. We sat and soaked it in, this nearly perfect Saturday morning.
Oregon gets a terrible rap for its weather, which, Spoiler Alert, is fine with us. It rains, sure, but nowhere near the London-esque manner most people believe. I ride my bike to work every day, and only need to don rain pants a handful of times each year. .
From June until September, here in the Willamette Valley we see nary a drop of rain. Summers are magificent. The rest of the year, we never let a little rain bother us. Clouds, however, spend a lot of time hanging around here this time of the year.
So to have a chance to make one of my favorite hikes and be rewarded with my most cherished Oregon image, well, I just couldn't pass that up.
You can see the majestic Sisters from numerous locations in Eugene, but it's not as though they serve as towering sentinels watching over us. Which makes the fact that they have become my vision of "home" even more confounding. Whenever their peaks pop into view, something stirs deep inside.
There was a time when Holy Hill, cradled in Wisconsin's Kettle Moraine gave me that jolt. Later the Southern California sunsets across the Pacific and the stunning views of the Flat Irons overlooking Boulder brought me that sizzle.
These days, the Sisters offer me peace of mind. Home.
Something about this hike lures me to this viewpoint again and again, after the first visit struck me like a magical spell. It has been our Christmas hike on many occasions that snow levels allow it, and it's the place where I brought my sax to wail one final tribute to Clarence Clemons on his passing.
We had the mountain to ourselves this Saturday morning, Ridgely and I. Miles from our house, a few thousand feet above it, we spent the morning at home.
|Posted by johnnieraz on August 9, 2020 at 12:00 AM||comments (19)|
By John Rezell
I love surprises.
That's my motivation as I turn off the main road and head toward Paulina Peak. All I know is the sign says 4 miles to the peak.
An hour later the cold, crisp wind howling at 7,984 feet above sea level ices my sweat-soaked body. The views take my breath away, even moreso than the climb.
As I savor my accomplishment, the surpise factor elevates my enjoyment.
A woman with a mountain bike on her truck asks me about the climb. How long did it take? Was it tough?
I answer that it took an hour, almost to the minute. It was steep, but not brutal. I have no idea how much I climbed.
She pulls out a map and shows me. I've conquered 2,000 feet over four miles.
This fact lifts my spirits more. Why? Because it surprises me.
Again, I love surprises.
I love 'em so much, I create my own.
How do you do that, Raz?
Well, it's quite simple. I don't do much research.
Oh, of course I do research when I'm on the clock as a writer. I have to research a ton. Which, I assume, is why I avoid it in my off-hours life.
With Covid-19 wreaking havoc in so many facets of life this summer, my penchant for ad-lib adventure has been tested to its limits.
I'm pleased — and surprised — to announce we found great success.
We've lived in Oregon for 15 years now, and explored endlessly. Still, we'd never heard of the Newberry Caldera National Monument outside of Bend. I just happen to stumble upon it in search of a first-come campsite. Pure luck.
It's not that I'm against the concept of reservations for camping. It's just that I believe every campground should have some first-come accommodations for folks like me.
But Covid-19 prompted a lot of campgrounds to eliminate first-come sites this summer. Curse you Covid-19!
Yet somehow I stumbled on the Newberry Caldera and the Cinder Hill campground that is primarily first-come sites.
I stumbled on the Crater Rim trail, 23 miles that circle the caldera. Same for Paulina Peak and Paulina Falls. And the Cinder Hill Trail (photo above).
This scenario plays out time and again for us. We stumble upon experiences that we could have and probably should have known about. Instead they pop up as surprises, making the adventure that much sweeter.
|Posted by johnnieraz on August 2, 2020 at 12:45 AM||comments (0)|
By John Rezell
As these bizarre times march on and on, refreshing my mind and body with a heavy dose of Mother Nature has saved my soul. Again.
The challenge of finding a job in the best of times chips away at your psyche like a water torture, so remaining on the hunt since March tests my obsessive optimism to its limits.
Yet, Mother Nature welcomes me.
She embraces me.
She lifts my spirits.
She recharges my resolve.
Looking forward always prompts moments of reflection. When I look at the vast collection of outdoor adventures I see a mine of gold.
So I've relaunched this website with some thoughts of where we could go with it.
While I continue my hunt for the next grand adventure, hoping to return at minimum to substitute teaching soon, the time has come to experiment. Play around a little and let the creative juices flow.
So stop by every once in a while to see what I'm up to.
If you want to see what I was up to after shutting down this website for 10 months, check out my posts at ConquerMountains.blogspot.com
|Posted by johnnieraz on September 21, 2019 at 6:55 AM||comments (1)|
By John Rezell
It just flashed in my peripheral vision.
Only for a moment.
Just an instant.
But I knew.
Oh, how I knew.
Before I could flick my eyes to the left for a confirmation, it disappeared.
The hair on my neck leaped to attention.
A chill ran down my spine.
My gut fluttered.
I screamed a profanity.
And zipped on by.
I charged down a nearby logging road at a pretty good clip last Saturday when it burst into view. I’ll admit I didn’t see it long enough to know for sure. I just know what I know.
A cougar popped its headed above a bush just 30 feet ahead on the side of the road, then ducked away. I didn’t have time to think about it. Just react.
If I would have attempted to stop, I would have stopped right there, right at the spot. That didn’t appeal to me.
I know you’re not supposed to run from a cat, but really, I had no choice. Besides, it appeared to have the same reaction to seeing me as I did seeing it. We didn’t want any confrontations.
I kept digging, increasing my pace even a little more, constantly looking back, making sure. My entire body went on full alert. Fight or flight, without question.
I know cougars prowl this area. I saw one about 18 months ago. A big one. Really big.
About a quarter mile from this spot, where a river runs about 50 feet beyond the trees and bushes to my left, and a wide open meadow runs for about 500 yards to the base of a hillside clear cut some 20 years or so ago to my right, a hunter stopped last November and told me a cougar just crossed from the river to the meadow.
I carry pepper spray and a knife that I call my false sense of security. I figure my bike helmet might be my only saving grace in an attack, absorbing the impact of the cat’s first bite, maybe long enough for me to react somehow.
And then there are all the bones ...
But more than anything, it simply confirms what I’ve told my wife and daughter when they hike with me in the cougar area, nervous about an encounter. I’ve told them if a cat’s nearby, you’ll know. They ask, "how?" I just say you’ll know.
In many years outdoors, only a handful of times have I just known. Just known something is out there. Something close. Something dangerous.
For most of the past 13 years I’ve had my black lab Ridgely with me. My rule was simple. I don’t freak until Ridgely freaks. And she freaked a few times.
She’s 13 now. Too old to hang on the long bike rides and hikes. We still get out, but shorter adventures. Sure wish I had her with me last week.
I continued my ride, knowing I would have to ride past on the way home. A few hours later I did. On full alert, I felt nothing. Felt safe.
Of course a half mile later I found myself confronted again with Oregon wildlife. Have I mentioned I hate snakes?
A rattlesnake sunning itself stretched halfway across the road between me and home. I had about five feet in front of its head and three behind its tail of gravel. Frankly, I didn’t relish either choice.
I probably should have got video. I screamed at it for a few minutes. Tossed some rocks. Eventually actually hit it. It didn’t even flinch. No doubt saving itself for the lightning quick attack.
Eventually I opted for the same tactic. I rode back a ways, cranked it up full speed, and charged past its head. Again, it didn’t flinch.
Suffice to say my heart-rate soared the rest of the way home.
Oregon, never a dull moment.
|Posted by johnnieraz on September 15, 2019 at 3:00 AM||comments (0)|
The first Chanterelle find of the season. Photo by John Rezell
By John Rezell
There’s a magic to the universe. I’m can feel it.
Problem is, in my humble opinion, we often overlook, if not downright ignore it. We simply think too much.
I could spend the whole Saturday morning giving you mysterious examples in my life, but I’ll focus on the past month.
I’m talking about things like grabbing my cellphone to text my daughter only to have a text from her arrive before I could start typing. Or my uncanny ability to be at a stop light and out of the blue countdown 3-2-1 and it turns green. My older daughter says my accuracy rate with her in the car is about 95 percent, and frankly, it freaks her out.
I can’t count the number of times this summer my wife and I are sitting together when a thought pops into my head — often something we haven’t discussed in months — and before I can bring it up, she does.
And just the other day, driving home after dropping my younger daughter at the airport knowing I didn’t have dinner planned for my wife, I thought about stopping for a whole chicken at the grocery store — something we eat maybe twice a year when our day gets too crazy — only to arrive home and find out she stopped for a whole chicken to bring home for dinner.
I bring this up because living in small town (pop. 15,000) in Oregon allows me to spend countless hours away from the endless distractions that keep most minds occupied throughout the day.
I hop on my bike and in 20 minutes I’m in the woods, chugging up logging roads where I won’t hear a car or bump into another person for the next two, three, four or more hours. That’s a lot of time to not think, just be.
So Friday I headed out to one of Oregon’s sweet collection of mountain bike trails as I attempt to keep my well-toned fitness for another week until a major ride. I’ve spent more hours on my bike this year than I have for many, many years.
The good part is being able to head out for a four or five hours without killing myself. The bad part is being on a bike for four or five hours slowly becomes rather boring for me if I do it too often.
I pulled my mountain bike out of the Santa Fe only to find I have no rear brake. The hydraulic fluid, if there is any, won’t respond to my disc brake.
To get to this level of fitness means I do a lot of climbing. A LOT OF CLIMBING. More than most normal folks would consider sane (I’m not talking to you serious cyclists, but us average folks).
There’s something about being alone out in the boondocks, plugging my way up an hour climb, that I enjoy. And I do mean plugging. By no means do I set any speed records. I’m the tortoise. If there were others out there, say young fit hikers, they’d probably leave me in their dust rather than vice versa.
In any event, what comes up must go down, and I pretty much wear out my brakes every few months because I descend like a baby, born out of 13 years riding with my black lab when I had to descend at 5 mph as to allow her to survive for the next ride.
At this particular set of trails the consensus would be that you have to be an idiot to ride them without a rear brake. Then again, I’m used to doing idiotic things not to mention, as I said, descending like a granny.
So, I went for it.
Truth be told, I went for it because there were no other cars at the trailhead. I do have an ego.
After about 90 minutes of climbing and descending on the perfectly designed flow trails, well, I got bored. So I hopped onto the nearest logging road and just started climbing.
I hit the summit about 45 minutes later. Once again, bored. And then something hit me, out of nowhere.
Some rain has fallen recently in Oregon, and later on in late October or November, I heed that as a call to find Chanterelle mushrooms in the forest. I’ve never hunted this early, no matter how wet it might be. But, I’m in the Coastal Mountains, so what the heck?
I hide my bike in the brush and begin slipping my way in bike cleats down the mountainside with about a 50-degree pitch. I see an old logging road covered with brush, and know I’ve struck gold on one of these before.
But understand that over the past 13 years I’ve also spent the equivalent of weeks foraging in the forest coming up completely shut out. It’s never a sure thing, finding mushrooms, even at their peak.
Just 10 steps down the hill, literally from 20 yards away, a sliver of gold no bigger than an almond catches my eye. No way, I say out loud, somehow knowing it isn't a fall leaf.
Sure enough, upon further inspection it’s the edge of a Chanterelle emerging from beneath the fir needles. Since they are communal, there must be others. There are.
For the next two hours I hug this rich, steep, mountainside, filling a grocery bag with my precious gold. I’ll smother my homemade pizza with them tonight.
Ahh, just another magical day in the Oregon forests.