Steps in the Wilderness
Late this summer, I took a seventy-six-mile hike with three friends along the Pacific Crest Trail. It’s not the kind of thing I normally do. In fact, I’ve never done anything remotely like that before, haven’t even done an overnight camping trip in at least twenty years. But these guys, professional colleagues that I admire, asked me to join them, and it seemed like something I ought to do. So I started wearing a pack with some books and bricks as I walked my dog up and down the hills around my house and did weekly hikes up Mount Pisgah. I got a bit stronger and all the obstacles I imagined would crop up to keep me from taking that week away from work and home didn’t happen.
So there I was at the Willamette Pass trailhead with a forty-pound pack on my back taking that first step that Confucius told us all journeys start with—and then another and another and another. Using my suspect mathematical skills, I figure it took me around 166,000 steps over those seven days to get to McKenzie Pass.
I carried a little book (little because we tried to keep our packs as light as possible) of Ralph Waldo Emerson’s essays from which I read my first night in camp, “The health of the eye seems to demand a horizon. We are never tired, so long as we can see far enough.”
My eyes were treated to some healing horizons, dramatic views of the Rosary Lakes and Charlton Butte and the Wickiup Plain and Opie Dilldock Pass. One night, I slept outside the tent and watched the stars come out around the South Sister. I don’t know that I’ve ever seen further than that. Man, we live in a beautiful state.
But all those steps did make me tired—and sore. It was hard. My conditioning made the trip possible, but not easy. So, while my spirit rode the horizons of august peaks, towering treetops, sparkling blue lakes, and resplendent heavens, my feet—my body—lived step by step.
It was that combination of the stunningly spectacular with the literally pedestrian that left me deeply enriched and thoroughly fulfilled at the end of that hike. It was great and I made it.
As I write this, we’re caught in the worst worldwide economic crisis of my lifetime; we are in the last days of a presidential election in which change became the theme of both candidates; we are fighting two expensive and open-ended wars; and we face ongoing energy, environmental, and health-care crises. A USA Today/Gallup poll in early October found that only 7 percent of Americans are satisfied with the way things are going in the United States. We can’t go on like this.
We’re in unknown territory, a wilderness of sorts. Are we ready?
I’m not sure what bricks and books we could load into a pack to prepare us for the times ahead. But we can pull out that open-minded critical thinking (which I learned—and is still taught—at the University of Oregon, among other places) and try to carry it up a few of these long hills that stretch out in front of us. Look for new horizons to rejuvenate our vision. And start walking. It won’t be easy, but we can make it. It just might be great.
Good Times
I read Corey DuBrowa’s article on Steve Perry and the Cherry Poppin’ Daddies [“Dropping In,” Summer 2008] in Oregon Quarterly with great interest. Great article! The Daddies were my [favorite] band in my college days. My friends and I saw them dozens of times. Our favorite spot was a little place in Eugene called Good Times. At any rate, your article brought back lots of memories. I'm glad to see that Perry is doing so well. Thanks!
Travis Bishop ’93
Sherwood
Passing Lane
Guy Maynard’s lament regarding I-5 drivers [“I-5,” From the Editor, Autumn 2008] brought a knowing frown and a smile to my face as well as a tear to my eye. As a resident of Eugene from 2002–2006 with a best friend living in Port Townsend, Washington, and many other interesting places to visit meant driving way too many miles of the I-5 corridor. Each trip I would shake my head in dismay; thus the memory brings a frown. California, Oregon, and Washington state license plates prevailed but it appeared the Oregonians were the worst offenders of owning that left lane. It became a game to determine which state was the most frequent offender. I thought about writing of my feelings for those left-lane drivers, and the notorious darters in and out of traffic who move ahead of those holding court in the left lane instead of complaining about it. Maynard deserves credit for raising awareness of these very inconsiderate, dangerous, discourteous, egotistical, controlling, and oh-so-tiresome habits of some motor vehicle operators.
Now, having traded I-5 for I-95 commuting, I smile acknowledging that we don’t have too many drivers in the Washington DC metro area who claim the left of two lanes because there are usually four lanes of traffic, very heavy traffic. One cannot deny poor driving habits exist in the east and west, but controlling the flow of traffic by staking a claim in the left lane on I-95 is rare.
My tears are for the special few and dear friends I left in Eugene. Memories of those left-lane drivers and the obnoxious, careless, rude, and “self-absorbed,” as Maynard accurately describes them, who flitter in and out and around traffic bring unresolved tears of frustration. Perhaps if there were a sales tax in Oregon or funding had not been cut in public service areas there would be more manpower enforcing the law to drive in the right lane, pass in the left lane, and then move back to the right lane. The revenue that could be generated by ticketing violators might allow expansion of I-5.
Carol Wille
Dumfries, Virginia
I was struck by the editor’s column [“I-5”] on the vagaries of driving Interstate 5 in “the good old days’’ and as it now exists. I well remember old Highway 99 that took the driver through Salem, Harrisburg, and Junction City. I also cherished driving I-5 when it just opened with virtually no traffic. You will appreciate the following story: I joined the UO track team in the fall of 1963. The first thing Bill Bowerman did was take all of the long-distance runners on a six-mile road run on I-5 heading north from the Coburg Road overpass. The idea was to find out how the incoming freshman class could do up against the veterans. I was thrilled to be running with the likes of Dyrol Burleson, Keith Foreman, and Archie San Romani and vowed to stay with the lead pack to the finish (I did!).
I found out later that Bill did not ask the Oregon State Police for permission to run the race—he just did it. We ran mostly down the center grass divide on a bright, clear, and relatively cool Saturday morning. Worrying about turning an ankle in the lumpy grass, many of us (myself included) ran in the fast lane on the freeway, stepping to the grass only when oncoming traffic appeared. Most motorists knew who we were and honked and waved or shouted “Go Ducks!’’ as they passed by. When we finished near a pond on the west side of the freeway, we were met by a blessed angel handing out soft drinks and sandwiches. This is where I first met my lifelong friend, Barbara Bowerman.
We virtually had the freeway to ourselves, and at the time we did not find it at all remarkable. Now I realize that this could not ever happen again, much like the track teams we had then. As my teammate, Bruce Mortenson, said to me at a reunion of the Duck track team last spring: “We were running in Camelot and didn’t know it.’’
Phil Hansen ’67, J.D. ’70
Larkspur, California
Editor’s note: See page 42
Oregana and Cressman
I noticed a brief article in the Autumn 2008 Oregon Quarterly in the Decades column that said the Oregana was published from 1910–1959 and again briefly from 1975–1980. I am guessing that it is no longer published. I would like to see an article about its history and why it was discontinued. No doubt publishing costs and student interest were huge factors.
I was also interested to see a picture of my anthropology professor, Dr. Luther Cressman, in your article “Dr. Dung’s Discovery” [UpFront]. As impressionable college freshmen, we were all fascinated that he had been married to well known Dr. Margaret Mead, author of Coming of Age in Samoa. He was an excellent instructor!
Thanks for an interesting issue.
Virginia Johnson Hosford ’55
Hood River
Touching Kesey
I’m accustomed to a fine quality of writing in Oregon Quarterly, but the piece by John Gustafson [“A Ken Kesey Legacy,’’ Duck Tales, Autumn 2008] was exceptionally good. I responded to it partly because, though I’ve known John for years, I’ve never heard him speak of his friendship with the Kesey family. Nor did I ever have any hint he could write with such sensitivity and emotional power. It’s a splendid piece, and I thank John and Oregon Quarterly for it.
George H. Bell ’53, M.A. ’57
Salem
I very much enjoyed and was deeply touched by the article on Ken Kesey written by John Gustafson for the Autumn 2008 issue. It is apparent from the article that Gustafson had a long and rich friendship with Kesey. I believe many of your readers would have great interest in a more extensive treatment of Gustafson’s times with Kesey and his family. I urge you to invite such a treatment.
Harold Hawkins ’62, Ph.D. ’67
Hyattsville, Maryland
John Gustafson replies: I so much appreciate the phone calls and e-mails from friends who read my essay. I hope that on December 21 some of you will hike up Mount Pisgah to see the winter solstice framed in Pete Helzer’s sculpture.
Village and Valley
Thank you for pushing the University to the front of my brain four times a year. My eighty-year-old mother still lives (alone) in a remote canyon in the Cascade Mountains. She was born there—or, at least, born in the closest hospital in the adjoining Willamette Valley. As canyon children, she and her brother Marvin were on easy terms with the wildlife, even the rare and reptilian, the “snake with legs” as she called it, an unusual elongated lizard, and the “rubber snake,” on whose back they could leave the imprint of their thumbs. The cougar, bobcats, deer, elk, bears, and their favorite snack, the steelhead salmon, were also well known to her: where they prowled, fed and rested.
Three thousand miles away, I live (not alone) in a cabin in the woods of Benson, Vermont, at the dead end of a dirt road. My neighbors are bobcats, deer, bald eagles, fisher cats, and (though the Vermont Agency of Natural Resources won’t admit it) cougars. I don’t split wood, but I stack it. Mama once chided me for choosing such an isolated place to live in as I “get older.” Older people, she explained, have a harder time getting around and doing things. So we struck a deal. She doesn’t tell me to move to the village, and I don’t tell her to move to the valley.
Lisa Chalidze ’80
Benson, Vermont
Moore Mystery
Although I am not a UO alumnus, I did work there from 1976 to 1982, and as a track-and-field fan loved living in Track Town, U.S.A. Thanks for the Kenny Moore article [“Intertwining Ovals,” Summer 2008], “The Church of Pre” [UpFront], and especially Kim Stafford’s fascinating story on Glen Coffield [“Our Man of the Mountain”]. The Moore story left a glaring question, though. He is shown wearing a T-shirt with a duck and crutches in three photos, yet at no point do you explain what the meaning or significance of the image is. What the duck is going on here?
By the way, our [California State University, Chico] own Scotty Baus had an off day in the 10,000 [at the Olympic Trials] due to stomach problems. He’s still really just a kid by distance running standards, so watch out for him in the 2012, 2016, and 2020 Olympics!
Jim Dwyer
Chico, California
Kenny Moore replies: Both the shirt and hat I wore in the photo were from the May 2006 reunion of old Duck track men and women thrown by Vin Lananna. They read, “Lame Ducks.” That group, of course, has a story. Years before, it was the name of the group of Nike employee Ducks who chipped in to help the UO track budget. Every year Phil Knight would match that sum. In 2006, Nike’s Geoff Hollister was one of the reunion organizers, and came up with the idea of awarding the apparel to all arrivals.
