Silverton 2 June 2024

Up briefly at 5:30, I heard hooting and went to the big windows to see this bulk carrier slowly gliding by, hooting every minute or so to let others know he was coming. Commerce must go on!

We dis-occupied this lovely place, loaded the car, thanked our host, and hit the road less traveled (Oregon 202) heading toward family in Silverton.

Rainy day, not much traffic on this windy back road through thick forest. Pretty.

In Gilbert & Sullivan's Princess Ida there's a character, King Gama, whose song I found myself singing as we traversed this section of . . . well, forest to the south, un-forest to the north,

If you give me your attention, I will tell you what I am:

I'm a genuine philanthropist — all other kinds are sham

Each little fault of temper and each social defect

In my erring fellow creatures, I endeavor to correct . . .

Sienna and I have develop a theory of mandatory self-correction when we find ourselves being critical of the common practices of people and cultures around us, and I'm here to acknowledge that I am not completely sure of my ground on clearcutting. 

It's an economical thing: we still believe here in the US that one of the major benefits of ‘Being Amurricun’ is everyone gets to own a house. We have managed to build an astonishing number of houses since this postWWII notion caught fire in our cultural consciousness.

Sustainably harvesting super-long-lived trees like Redwoods – taking one tree at a time with an eye to optimizing the biomass and carbon uptake of a stand, no matter the costs (helicoptering the stem out, carefully crafting access roads to respect the forest and watershed, etc, all expensive propositions) should be required. Clearcutting a stand of trees that reach their optimal carbon uptake and biomass increase after about one thousand years makes economical sense.

Fast growing trees like the firs in the forests of Oregon and Washington probably reach peak mass increase and carbon uptake after 150 years or so, and we still have plenty of building to do, so I begin to see that clearcutting, while rude and destructive in the near term (on the order of 20 years or so) may be justifiable.

We do need to know more about companion planting, the effects of and on mycelia and forest critters in general, and those “Demonstration Forests” imply an unsupportable wisdom that silviculturists really can't claim. In our Caspar forest, Jackson Demonstration State Forest, it's well known to knowledgeable forest people that what's being demonstrated is the best practices from 1955.

One of the major lessons of travel is that it's never wise to judge a culture you visit by your own culture's standards. When awakened by the muezzin early in the Kuala Lumpur morning, grumbling about the noise is not sensible. Moving to a house on the verge of the country in search of peace and then complaining to the forest rangers about how loud the songbirds are in the morning – ”and you should DO something about that!“ – is just plain stupid. And I hate being stupid. King Gama again:

I love my fellow creatures — I do all the good I can —

Yet everybody says I'm such a disagreeable man!

And I can't think why!

On the run-out from Highway 202 we passed through this idyllic valley. These horses got a good job, despite the rain. (You can't see the white horse under cover.)

A couple of highway changes, over the pass 1,642 feet high over the Coast Range, and out into the Willamette Valley, we saw houses and acres and acres of winter wheat, safflower (I think), vineyards, and tucked in little homesteads.

Zipping along at 55 miles per hour about 5 miles north of Yamhill on route 47, with the inevitable tail of impatient Oregonians behind us, BAM! We hit a deer. It must have been running diagonally from behind me, because I didn't see it at all until it was almost on us. I had a moment to think, 'she's gonna veer' and a took my foot of the gas pedal, but too late.

She hit the front (or I should say, the front left corner of the car hit her) nearly straight on; her body filled the windshield as it flipped up and over the top of the car. I was sure for a moment she'd be coming right through the windshield, but it held, and after the grey soapy cloud of her oils and the rain cleared off the windshield, the car continued without a grumble.

A few turns and a minute or so later, we both heard noises from the left front of the vehicle when we hit a bump or turned right, and it was clear we had not escaped unscathed. Rochelle noticed that I no longer had a left rear view mirror. As soon as we found a safe place to pull over, I discovered that my door wouldn't open, and when we got out and looked, we saw that the front left corner of our sweet ride is pretty badly crunched.

Specifically (and mouse over for the numbers)

1. The left headlight cover is shattered and the lenses that focus the LED headlights were loose in their chamber
2. The hood is crumpled and appears to be sprung. The windshield wipers, luckily not wiping at impact, are okay. I did not try to open the hood.
3. As noted, the driver's side mirror assembly is missing its mirror and the front faring. I discovered that I am completely reliant on this mirror to drive safely.
4. The side panel is crumpled and its connection to the bumper broken. It appears to have been bent backwards so that the driver's door won't open properly. The door appears to be okay. There is a small tuft of fur in a corner of the panel.
5. The bumper is hanging loose, and the fog light cover is gone. The bumper appears to be firmly attached elsewhere and doesn't seem to threaten to come loose.
6. Underneath the side panel, the mud guard is loose, and that, I believe, is the source of the rubbing noise when the car's weight is on the front left wheel. There does not appear, after 40 miles of driving, to be undue wear on the front left tire, and I have no reason to believe the wheel alignment is off or the frame bent . . . but I'm not a mechanic.

A few miles down the road, after a certain amount of rubbing and complaining from the hurt front end, we arrived at our intended lunch spot, The Horse Radish in Carlton. Our sweet server asked if we were having a nice day despite the weather and we revealed our recent fatal encounter with the local wildlife.

“Oh, you poor things!”

Apparently she told her colleague who brought me my Blackberry Cider and said “Terry told me about your accident, and you must be shaken up.”

“Nowhere near as shaken up as that poor deer,” I suggested.

“Well, anyway, this is on the house, and we hope you have a good lunch.”

And we did. Luscious Eggs Bene and a gorgeous little salad.

Forty-something miles later, we're at Chuck (Rochelle's brother) and Mona's in Silverton, where R's older brother's wife also lives, and so while I navigate the insurance reality, she has family to catch up with.