July 16 - 22

July 16, 2005

Bradley arrived late yesterday afternoon looking tan and healthy, but tired from the traffic on I-5. He said it was a nightmare getting out of Portland. His stress seemed to fade quickly, though, as he took in the sights and sounds of old Dutch Henry Homestead, a place he’s known his whole life. I showed him around the garden, where he was surprised that the apple trees were bearing very little fruit compared to previous years. Maybe the dry winter?

We had a nice dinner at the upper house—chicken kabobs I’d been marinating all day, along with a shepherd’s salad I made with fresh cucumber from the garden and corn and tomatoes and red onion. Bradley brought with him a bunch of shad he caught and had canned. Mixed up like tuna salad, it makes a great appetizer dip. We ate lots of that, too. Then it was cribbage and Cubanos. When Gus and I left around midnight, Bradley was up 2 to 1 and gloating a bit.

He put me to work this morning, the two of us splitting a big pile of logs by the upper house, with more in store for tomorrow. I like chopping wood, working wedge and axe and maul. It’s meditative and satisfying. But I was feeling it in my back and shoulders. Recently I tweaked that little muscle between the shoulder blades. Did it wheeling a too-heavy wheelbarrow. And every now and then it sings, off-key.

Bradley dug up a hammock for me and set it up on my deck, so I can recline and swing out there in the breeze and survive these hot days of summer. Here he is trying it out:


After a break for lunch, we packed up some knapsacks and Bradley grabbed his fly rod, and we made a bushwhack along a trail Lang cleared last year down to one of the creeks. Bradley was hoping some Chinook salmon might be milling about in the mouth of the creek where it dumps into the Rogue. Most of the trail was a good, easy walk along a gentle slope. But the poison oak was very bad. Gus got covered with it, and I fear that we did, too. We were almost to the creek when we encountered a huge fallen fir blocking the trail. Every other fallen tree had been cleared last year by Bradley’s friend and his giant chainsaw. This was a new fall. We couldn’t figure out how to get Gus over it. There was no going down and around the tree, because it was a steep slope there. And to go up and around meant a bushwhack through lots more poison oak. Finally, I just heaved Gus over the giant trunk of the fir. It was either that or turn back. He landed on all four feet and was fine. Then we were at the creek. Sure enough, we could see a big salmon in the shadows near the rocks at the mouth. Bradley let loose with the fly rod, making some expert casts (against a strong wind). I was most impressed.

The orange fly zipped through the mouth again and again, but the salmon didn’t go for it, and we didn’t see it again. Meanwhile, I took Gus down to the creek and got him to swim a bit in the hope of washing off some of the poison oak oils. I rinsed my own hands, too.

It was about 100 degrees by the time we set off up the river trail toward the swimming hole. There we set up my stashed umbrella and chair and went for a dip. Bradley didn’t bring trunks, so he swam bare-ass, scaring all the rafters, who must have thought he was some wild man raised by the bears. And in a way he is.

For dinner it was more of the shad and one of Bradley’s regular dishes: delicious marinated pork ribs done up on the grill, along with spuds and onions and cheese. And this time he made cabbage with bacon. Dessert was some Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia which I’d driven back from Grants Pass on ice. Very good action indeed. Back at the cribbage, I gave him a drubbing, winning four games straight and bringing this series to 5 games to 2. “I know you’re going to brag about this on the blog,” he said. Now I have.

July 17, 2005

More chopping this morning. When all was said and done, we’d split about a cord and half, maybe two, some of the rounds tough with knots. Good, hard work. Then it started to get real hot. Bradley said he wanted to shove off around 1:00 or 1:30, so I invited him to have lunch before he left. I made shad melts (like a tuna melt, but with a can of Bradley’s shad). I bought five cans for my own consumption. By the time he left, the temperature was 106! Here’s a picture to prove it:

Needless to say, I’ve had several cold showers and even swam in the pond, where out in the middle it was nice and cool. Gus enjoyed that, too. I’m hoping it cools down tonight. This afternoon I woke from a nap with a sheen of sweat on my forehead. Can’t stand that. If it’s too hot tonight, I may even sleep at the upper house, where it seems to have better cross-ventilation. We’ll see how it goes.

I’m not at all looking forward to these 100+-degree days. There’s very little humidity, but hot is hot no matter how you slice it. And it doesn’t agree with me, Portuguese blood and all.

Bradley and I were discussing my prospects for the fall—how to get the full extent of my stay here (when the fishing will be at its best) and find an apartment in New Jersey. His feeling is that I should take a Jet Blue flight to New York in early or mid-September, leaving Gus in a kennel for a few days in Grants Pass. I could find an apartment, then come back and stay till around October 20th. Then take a week to drive back and have a few days to move my stuff in the apartment. I could prepare for school while I’m still here, putting lessons together for the first few weeks of my return. I think it sounds like a good plan, though I hate the thought of leaving Gus in a kennel. But I’m sure he’d be fine. Hell, he might even like being around all the dogs and people. The place where I got him groomed is also a kennel, and the folks there seem nice. If I don’t do this plan, I’m looking at leaving here much earlier and then having to stay in hotels with my car loaded up with stuff and with Gus while I search for an apartment. I think if I line an apartment up in advance, I’ll have greater peace of mind when I leave here. More on this later.

Man, it’s hot.

July 18, 2005

As feared, it was a hot night. When I checked the mercury at about ten o’clock it was still in the high eighties, and warmer inside the cabin. The bedroom was a little cooler, but too hot for my comfort. At midnight, by kerosene lamplight, I had my sixth cool shower of the day. With my skin still chilled from the shower, I finally drifted off with just a sheet over me. I just got up, 7:00 AM, and it’s already 65. I fear it’s going to be another day like yesterday, maybe worse. I plan to take Gus down to the river, despite the hot hike we’ll have to make back up. Our beach seems the only solution to the heat.

The poison oak showed up on my right wrist, a bubbly line of it—snuck under my sleeve, I guess.

This afternoon we spent five hours down at the river. I planted my chair and umbrella right by the shore so I could dip my feet. I read a bunch of chapters in Blood Meridian, Cormac McCarthy’s gory but great novel. I almost dropped from heatstroke on the walk back up. The mercury, when I finally made it back, read 105. And it was probably hotter than that in the cabin. I spent the evening out in the hammock hoping for a breeze, and I just watched a DVD, Novocaine, a Steve Martin movie Jim sent me. But my laptop feels as if it’s overheating, like me. I don’t know how much more of this heat I can take. It’s making me a bit crazy and grumpy.

July 19, 2005

Hell in paradise: another hot day. I remember back in April and May cursing the cold and rain and wishing for hot summer. Now I’d sell my soul for one of those rainy, misty, cool days. We humans are chronic malcontents. The morning was bearable, and I hung around till about noon starting work on a new poem, watering the garden, and creating a new crossword. By lunchtime it was almost 100 again, and so we packed up and went back down to our beach. More chapters in Blood Meridian, more swimming in the cool, green river. After a couple of hours there Gus suddenly went bounding up the path barking up a storm. I could hear him beyond the river trail, up on the slope yammering away. I knew right away he’d gone chasing after Mr. Bear. So I slipped on my old sandals and shirt and hiked on up to investigate. There he was, about ten feet from a huge bear, barking as if he was a match for 300 pounds of muscle and fat and 6-inch claws. Mr. Bear seemed entirely unperturbed, swinging his monstrous head back to whatever it was he was grubbing for. I called and called and then made as if I was hiking back home, and then Gussie came. But all our stuff was still at the beach, so I turned around and headed back down the beach trail. Of course, Gus went back to the bear. I walked back to my umbrella, calling him the whole time. And before I had my shirt off here came my boy, covered with a whole new assortment of burrs, splashing into the river. I can say one thing: he’s a fearless terrier. We cooled off once more and then packed up and sweated up the steep hill homeward. Back at the cabin, I was hungry, but it was too hot to get motivated to fire up the grill for my marinating chicken breasts. So I had a salad instead, along with some of the leftovers from the meal Bradley made. Then I got Gussie up on the grooming table for some serious de-burring. He wasn’t a happy camper. The heat has me going to bed earlier and earlier. There seems to be no point in staying up. There are too many mosquitoes to sit out on the deck and look at stars, and it’s too hot to sit in the den. So here I am, in bed, where I’ll read till I drift off into dreams of air conditioning and rain, snow and ice and clouds.

July 20, 2005

I was having my coffee this morning when I heard a big whump against the window in the den. Another crashed bird. Sadly, this one didn’t fare as well as the tanager. This time it was a woodpecker. One of its eyes was open, and I thought it might still be alive. I brought it up to the deck in the hope that it would come around, but it wasn’t to be. The crooked flight of destiny is held aloft by feathers none of us can know and few of us reckon fair or necessary. And the hour of the woodpecker had come round darkly in the brightness of this July day.

I gave the bird back to the woods from whence it came.

You’d think my day couldn’t have gotten worse, but it did as soon as I decided to make Bradley happy and spray Roundup on all the poison oak on Lang’s creek trail. A three-gallon sprayer, full, gets heavy after about a minute. The trail is nearly two miles long, some of it along narrow and rocky paths. My arms were aching after a quarter mile, but I persisted, spraying ever shiny leaf of poison oak within reach. I’d dressed for the occasion: long pants, long-sleeved shirt, bandana around the face, sunglasses, hat. And the terrible mistake of Bean boots, perhaps the worst shoe I’ve ever owned. Some dumb designer up in Maine fashioned those boots so that a seem rubs against your Achilles tendon. The soles are flimsy, the toes offering no protection. My feet were aching. Walking thus clad through the veritable jungle of that nasty stuff, plants which serve no purpose but to make us bubble and itch, I knew I’d be carrying some of it home with me. I made it all the way to the turn-off to the creek, and used up every last drop in the tank. On the walk back, about a quarter-mile from the cabin, I took a wrong turn and found myself scrabbling up and down the steep, mossy slope and cursing aloud. I was all dogged out by the time I got back and washed out the sprayer and turned my tainted clothes inside out. That one was worth a Master of Arts degree from the Dutch Henry Institute of Technology. Maybe Bradley will read this, feel grateful for my having endeavored to accept such a mission, and bring me a nice piece of fish next time he comes in. The good thing to come of this mission: in about three days that trail will be free of poison oak, making for a much nicer walk to the creek to look in on those Chinook.

Hot again: 104. After the spraying job, I didn’t have the juice in me to make the walk down to the river, so Gussie and I went for a swim in the pond, where I don’t quite like to stick my head under. Too many newts and protozoa. It felt good, though. Afterward, I had cold bath, then a hot shower and a shave.

When will it rain?

Jim called around 9:00 PM sounding much better. His hiccups were under control, thanks to a new medication. He sounded upbeat, but said he’s very weak. I think of him often out here. He’s been such a good friend over the years. It hurts to think of him so ravaged by cancer. Jim said he has the Grants Pass weather on his computer desktop, and he gave me a promising forecast. Rain, believe it or not, is supposed to fall in GP in the next day or so. I’m 50 miles from there, and the weather here is often different from there, but I can hope. He said it’s supposed to cool down over the weekend.

July 21, 2005

I’m sitting in the brown recliner watching the madrone leaves tumble down out of the big tree leaning over my car. The yellow leaves have carpeted the woods and road. I woke this morning to a few of clouds through the skylight, and I thought Jim’s forecast had come through for me. But the sky above Rattlesnake Ridge was as clear as it’s been for weeks. It’s cooler today, though, even comfortable. If only the day would stay in the mid-70s. I’m headed out to trim the tall grass in the road, a fire hazard, while it’s nice out.

For the second time in as many days Gussie ran down a black bear. This time we were at the pond, where we stopped after mowing the high grass along the whole length of the Dutch Henry road. Gus was in the water and I was getting ready to throw him a stick when I heard a loud snort. I peered into the woods behind me and then heard it again, and it was coming from above me. There, about twenty feet up in a fir tree was a young bear, maybe 200 pounds, and none too happy about our being there. I hoped that Gus wouldn’t notice, and I tried to get him to come to the car, but he heard the snorfling and went to investigate. Now the bear started climbing down and Gus spotted him and began his yelping. Again I tried to get him to come to the car. Nope. Gus was trying to ascend the tree as the bear was trying to descend it and in mere seconds they would meet. I got a bit frantic, started the car and drove a few feet, tooted the horn, called. Then the bear leapt to the ground. I thought Gus was done for, but the bear turned tail and ran, Gus in close pursuit. The last I saw the bear rounded the curve and Gus was running through the woods as if to head him off! I turned the car around and followed. I tooted and called. And then I saw a wheaten blur growing larger on the road and taking shape as my pal, burr-covered and panting. I opened the passenger door and he jumped in looking victorious, proud, and not a bit as terrified as I must have looked to him. “Good boy,” I said, because he’d come. “Good boy.”

Despite some clouds and a tiny sprinkling of rain, it’s been another uncomfortably hot day. I spent the afternoon napping, having a cool bath, and swinging in the hammock, where I wrote this poem:

One Day in July


All that I am
wrapped in a hammock’s sway

and time sounded
in the small turnings of sprinklers

and fat flies.
Green gone brown. Road dust

asleep for the least
wind or any cloud’s offering.

As easily as I lie here
I could die here for all that moves me,

grow fat as an apple
and fall in some patch of shade,

forgotten by all
I’ve forgotten and sweet as the legs of bees.

Out of this moment,
if ever I recall it, will rock the soft

pendulum of the human
I was, as naked and doomed and malcontent

as Adam still ribbed,
and mythic only to me. Who else

will remember
the bear I saw a few hours before—

standing in a fir
like a logger, its breath like an engine—

or know another seven days
of silence and a single droning plane?

And if the same
could be said for every man alone

seeing the strange
and ordinary and storing them like seeds

for the tender shoots
of memory, passing time with little else

to grieve,
then it’s no wonder God created Eve.



As if the episode at the pond wasn’t enough, after dinner tonight Gus chased down another bear. This one I didn’t see, though I heard it crashing through the forest. I tried my usual methods to get Gus to come back, but he wouldn’t hear of it. I even drove my car down to the turn-around and tooted the horn. When he got tired of barking, he came back to the cabin. I just hope one doesn’t take a swipe at him.