Greenwood/Elk columns

April 5 ~ July 26, 1990

April 5th.

Today, as I write this, it is April First. Daylight savings time has arrived and the sun just came out. Boy, now I am confused. For the past week I thought it was August. Fog. Fog. Fog.

Well, now that we can see, what can we see?

For one thing, we find the Ab diver migration is in full swing.

A prodigious population of poly-clad, porcine featured persons are parking their pick-ups on the perimeter of private property and then proceeding perpendicularly down through the poison oak and out onto the pebbles. There to plunge into our Pacific pond to pursue the private parabolic shaped snail and perhaps pry a pair of three loose for that precious protein and possibly a pearl. Thence, proceeding to pack up and pound the pavement back to Petaluma...

Sunday, I stopped by the Community Center to see how the Rummage Sale was going. Things looked sparse until I was informed that the day before had been a feeding frenzy and the sale had been pretty much wiped out. Very successful. Everyone was pleased.

I poked amongst the remains and found a gaudy tie nobody in their right mind would buy. It will make a nice birthday gift for my friend Ed McKinnley, and a hard bound copy of Hunter S. Thompson's book, "Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail "72".

The ladies pointed out a bikini for sale, hanging on the wall, but when I finally talked Prue Wilcox into modeling it for me it was very obvious there wasn't enough material there to justify the 75 cent price!

The Civic Club had post cards for sale at the rummage sale and will continue to have them for sale at various other locations in town. They were made from old time historic photos of Greenwood/Elk back during the logging era. They should sell like hot cakes.

I finally have the results of the 97th Annual Saint Patrick's Day Raffle. Actually, Mary Berry gave it to me over a week ago but I misplaced it.

1st prize. The cedar chest. Dave Skilton, Elk

2nd. prize. Microwave oven. Prue Wilcox, Elk.

3rd prize. Portable TV. Dorothy Bloyd, Boonville.

4th prize. China set for eight. Hildrun-Uta Tribess, Elk.

Auction. Afghan. Dagmar Piper, Point Arena.

Picnic Basket. Dagmar Piper, Point Arena.

Amy's Apple Sauce. Matt Piper, Point Arena.

Door Prize, 17 dollars. Eddie McKenzie, Elk.

Congratulations.

Okay. Permit me to grump a bit.

Not only do we have to look at that award winning eyesore above the Navarro beach during the day but last Saturday night I noticed, while driving down the Navarro grade, they how have put up strong outdoor lights on the ocean side so we can admire their ostentatious pile by night. Who are these people?

"Lawyers from L.A."

Oh! That explains it.

The Roadhouse Cafe travels to Greece this weekend.

Finally. You all come on down to the north end of Greenwood Beach, Thursday, April 10th; say around 6:30 PM. and watch me turn a year older. I'm the grumpy guy, over by the illegal beach fire, roasting my weenie. Bring your own.

April 12th.

I did a cram course reading of "Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail '72", prior to traveling over the hill to Ukiah for the Board of Supervisor meeting concerning the formation of Elk's Community Services District.

Upon arrival, the first thing I noticed was, if you weren't paying attention you could get clipped! The door on the left was the Supervisors chambers, the door on the right was Precision Haircuts.

A good turnout of Elk residents, 11:00 AM on a sunny Tuesday, sixty miles from home. I counted around forty five folks.

After about an hour of presentation and discussion, pro and con, the proposal was voted on and approved.

The bad news is that the folks who came to protest were once again told that they were talking to the wrong group. First LAFCO told them that they couldn't hear them, now the Supes told them the same thing. Their recourse now, as I understand it, is to take their concerns to the newly formed Community Services District governing board who will take their input under advisement while working out the final funding.

The ill feelings generated would not have happened if LAFCO or the Supes had done their job.

The good news is we finally have a Community Services District.

I arrived home the other day to find my answering machine smoking. It seems I struck a nerve with last weeks column.

First message; The neighbors, next to what I had called and "awarding winning eyesore", called to say that the owners of 'that' house are "wonderful people", "they don't live in L.A., they live in San Francisco" and that they themselves "are getting used to it". They didn't know about any lights.

Next was the 'arch-tech' himself. He didn't like my "Yellow journalism", wished I'd get my facts straight and any lights in question belonged to the neighbors.

Well, okay.

The fact is. It is an award winning house to some and an eyesore to others.

The fact is. If it was to be built again, it most likely would not be built in it's present form. The coastal commission's ongoing local coastal plan has become involved in reviewing drawings of 'highly visible dwellings' along the coastal shelf since September of 1885. (The plans for this house was approved prior to that.)

The fact is. I could see all three stories lit up from the top of the down grade of Highway One on the north side of the Navarro river, easily over a quarter mile away.

And the fact is. There is language on the books concerning lighting along this coast which states:

"Where possible, all lights, whether installed for security, safety or landscape design purposes, shall be shielded or shall be positioned in a manner that will not shine light or allow light glare to exceed the boundaries of the parcel on which it is placed. And:

No lights shall be installed so that they distract motorists.

The last caller made a curt request for my mailing address.

Meanwhile.

If you were wondering what that ship was doing, out beyond Greenwood/Elk's three mile boundary, that was peristroka in action. It was a Soviet factory ship, processing fish caught by American drag boats. An agreement is in place now called 'Joint Venture'. the Russians get the fish, the American boat and crew get work.

April 19th

The Greenwood Civic Club took in a total of $2,003.90 at the rummage sale. The club wants to thank everyone who helped make it such a success.

Earth Day Benefit at the Greenwood/Elk Community Center. Saturday April 21st. 8:00 PM. A non-alcoholic family event with a variety of non-alcoholic beers, sodas, fruit juices and extras.

Adults $5.00. Teens $3.00. Under 12, Free.

Featuring: Norman deVall speaking on Ocean Sanctuary and Forest Forever. Peter Talbert of Global Walk '90 will be speaking about Global Walk '90 and doing environmental comedy. There will be three bands, all under the stage lights donated by Matt Roland.

The bands are:

Gene Parsons and Band.

Philo Hayward and the Shuffle Band.

Word of Mouth.

Read our Lips: "Celebrate and love your Mother Earth."

No Bushlips - No off shore Oil! All proceeds go to Ocean Sanctuary - Forest Forever Media Tour and to the Forest Forever and Ocean Sanctuary efforts to preserve our coast.

The 21st Annual World Championship Great Arcata to Ferndale Cross Country Kinetic Sculpture Race. Memorial Day Weekend.

Points of timing, first day;

Start. May 26th, Arcata Plaza, at the noon whistle.

Time out/time in at the top of deadman's drop.

Finish, Eureka, preferably before dark.

Second day, May 27th;

Start. Eureka, exact location and time to be announced.

Stop, arrival at Fields Landing, bottom of freeway off ramp.

Start. Roll. Splash, into Humboldt Bay from Field's Landing \tab ramp.

Time in/time out after exit from Bay.

Finish. Foot of Table Bluff.

Third day, May 28th.

Start, Table Bluff. Time to be announced.

Stop. Point Drizzle.

Start. Point Drizzle. Roll. Slip, or flop into slough and Eel \tab River.

Stop. Main Street, Ferndale. Finish line.

It is "All For The Glory".

The original concept of the Glorious founder, Hobart Brown, was to build a Sculpture to go camping in that did not use gasoline, only people power.

This would then be the true all terrain vehicle of the future. Those pilots who follow in this tradition by creating such sculpture and successfully completing the race with people power alone, and doing so with in the structure of highly stringent and demanding ACE requirements, deserve the highest of honors... The ACE AWARDS.

The esteemed honor of the ACE is not bestowed on everyone. These Knights of our time will receive a set of Wings with the word "ACE" attached. This is a symbol of Appreciation, Honor, Glory for the struggle, Hard Work, and Completion of this World Champion Event. The award can only be won in the World Championship race, and Kinetic Etiquette demands that all rise when an ACE enters the room and hence forth will be addressed as "Professor".

This is a truly zany and fun filled event.

April 26th.

Well, there we were, thinking we were on vacation when everything changed. I suppose things like this happen but not to us, never had.

It was spring break and another run to the desert. Get away from the fog; see how the rest of the world was getting along. Ed and Suzanne McKinnley, in their truck, Lolli, I and the dog in the VW. bus.

First the gonzo run to Bakersfield and the Basque restaurant, then up Kern River Canyon for the night at Miracle Hot Springs; big disappointment. They were all torn out because of liability insurance, we're told.

The next day on over Walker Pass and down into Owens Valley and up to Coso Hot springs; can't enter the area, Naval Weapons testing area. Continue on to Dirty Socks hot spring and find the wind blowing clouds of salt into the air. Forget that. Continue on towards Death Valley and the town of Keeler.

We have been in contact with the current owner of Cerra Gordo, site of a former huge silver mining operation and are invited to 'come ahead'.

Up the gravel road we go. Fourteen miles later we arrive at 8,500 feet elevation and the mine site. Buildings built in the 1800's, early 1900's. General store, hotel, tramway, miner shacks, abandoned equipment and a cold wind. We talk to the owners and then go hole up for the night.

The next morning Ed and I explore the area but it starts to snow and we all decide to head for lower elevation and a hot spring we see on the map.

Miles of medium to bad gravel roads get us within ten miles of our destination. We arrive at a soft spot in the road, covered with deep dry talc. We get out and walk the edge, planning our attack. Back to the vehicles and Ed gives it a try while I wait with come-a-long and forty foot chain. He makes it and then it is our turn. We make it too and then continue on. Soon we come upon a worse spot. Get out and look. We decide to turn around and check out a different approach. Back through the soft spot and on around. Finally we find a better way to the hot springs. Some campers are already there. We park and set up and finally are soaking in beautiful, clear, warm water. Heaven.

Our second evening an unusual light rain falls but it is warn and feels good. We finish Ed's excellent grilled chicken, slathered with Nook-Mom sauce, grab our towels and head for the hot spring. With-in ten feet of the pool, Lolli slips on some wet clay. We hear a crack as she hits the ground. It can't be, but it is. Something broken in her lower leg.

Folks from the pool come over and offer help. One man is a retired chiropractor, one woman is a nurse on vacation. Soon a plan emerges. A cardboard box for a splint. Duct tape to hold it all together. A bench top for a stretcher. At eight in the evening, Lolli, in the back of the bus, Suzanne along side, we head for the nearest hospital, Lone Pine, three hours away.

The hospital confirms it. Both bones broken in her lower leg. They stabilize the leg, give us the X-rays and off we go to Fort Bragg, the long way around. Mojave, Bakersfield, Williams and home.

So there you have it. Spring Break 1990. No pun intended. Lolli is fine and plans to see you all at her birthday party, May 12th. Thanks to those wonderful folks at the hot spring, the doc at Lone Pine and the great staff at the Fort Bragg Hospital.

Meanwhile, here in Greenwood/Elk;

The Earth Day Boogie was a great success. Lots of folks turned out.

Roff Barnett is building a home for Kevin Joe, up by the sub station. The first new home built in town since the sixties, if you don't count Kendrick's replacement of their house that burned down.

Kate Dougherty's book, 'Elk Poems' is out. Published by Pygmy Forest Press. Congratulations Kate. Check it out.

Jane Matson celebrated her 75th birthday at the Little River Inn.

May 3rd.

Baseball Commissioner, "Baby Doc" Edison, is working himself up into a lather again. Early morning phone calls, crap in the mail, stuff in my drop box at the Elk Store.

Here is the latest missive:

"Baby Doc proclaims: I will allow bunting this year in the Pepper Martin Softball Game. The reason is that Pepper, who played third base for the Saint Louis Cardinal's 'Gashouse Gang', hated players who tried to bunt on him. In picking up the bunt, instead of throwing to the first baseman, he would fire at the runner's head as he ran down the line. They rarely bunted again.

A special "head-hunters" award will be given this year to the Elk player who dents the most skulls in the Pepper Martin spirit of fair play.

As to the rumor that Pepper's 92 year old mother will come to our 'Field of Dreams': A limo has been hired just in case - and 92 Elk Mothers will be there to greet her. It's shaping up to be a great Pepper Martin - Mother's Day extravaganza, what with 'head hunting', Mrs. Martin, and a bar and barbecue. And to think,

ALL PROCEEDS GO TO THE ELK CHILL-DRUN'S SUMMER PROGRAM . Starting time, 2:30 PM. Sunday May 13th.

Seems to me that Baby Doc; inviting 92 mothers to come see him encouraging their children to get their heads knocked off because of some dubious trophy...well, this I gotta see. Already I think I smell tar and feathers. Bill, you better keep your foot off the brake.

Remember my prediction: "Erna in Africa. Coming soon to a theater near you"? Well, it's finally gonna happen.

Yes friends. May 19th, at the Community Center, right here in downtown Elk, just up Lousia Street.

Pre-viewing festivities will consist of a pot luck and social hour starting at 5:30. The lights will dim around 7:30 when Erna settles down and flips the switch on her slide projector. I just hope there is a guest narrator. I have things to do the following day!

Just to be a little more specific about the new house for Kevin Joe, for history's sake, it's to the west of Ella Russell's house, facing the Greenwood/Philo road.

I hear on the news that down in L.A. there is going to be a buy back program for cars over 20 years old, "Get those polluters off the road".

I still think that one car, operated for 20 or more years causes less pollution than buying a new one every couple of years. They don't grow on trees you know.

And as long as I have my foot in my mouth... I think the world is doing just fine. Now us humans, well...we have incredibly huge egos.

I have been reading Mitchner's Alaska, you know, where he starts off with the tutonic plates moving around and the coming and going of ice ages. Well, those events are still continuing and we haven't affected their schedule one whit...maybe speeded up an ice age, maybe not, but they come and go...with or without our help. They're slow but relentless.

Also, I finished McPhee's book about the control of nature. How in this century we have decided that the Mississippi river must stay in one channel, how the mountains above L.A. must stop tumbling down on the real estate developments. How lava flows have to quit coming onto developer property. Ha!

Oh yes, the world is doing what it does and will continue to do for millions of more years. How we ride along; enjoying the view or shooting ourselves in the foot, well, that's up to us. Mother Earth could care less.

May 10th.

So, what is this? I'm sitting in the Roadhouse Cafe, trying to enjoy my breakfast when in storms "Baby Doc" Edison who thrusts a crumpled up piece of paper at me and places a brand new baseball hat on my head.

Bribery. Payola. A buy off, plain and simple. Right there in front of out of town tourists.

"Bill! Bill! Can't we do this sort of thing somewhere out in the woods?"

When I got home I adjusted the fit of my new hat and carefully unwadded the note which reeked of tobacco fumes. Two thirds of one side was covered with Bill's cheap black ball point scrawl, smeared in places with what tastes like jam and scotch. No one can read Bill's printing but I copied it down, letter for letter and leave it to you to decern some possible meaning. Here it is:

"Fiwal burps from Baby Doc XXXXX ow the Pepper Martsw Sofiball game. 'I have sewt his mothev round - trip plawe ticlcets from Tulsa, Oklahomnr to Elk, but her aithritw might prevewt her fron coming. Due to mass hystevia, gwadecl ? on by a rabble-rowsing press, the heacl huwter's awarcl will be cawcelled. Ed Bird will servc Margarilcs at the barcqwe (roast Baby Doe) altcr tlc game awd Ron Bloomquisl has oflercd to donatc 100 jugs ol Big Red foc thc childdrcn. Vorm Dwvall pormiscs to prcscnt the Pcppcr Mwtin,ccwards whew evry-owe is totally iwtoxic6tcd. Happy Mothcrs..."

Goodness. Did that say they are going to serve roast baby doe after the game?

ROAST BABY DOE??

Bill! Bill!, this time you have gone too far. I personally think the town psychologist, Doctor Del Wilcox, and the Elk Ambulance, equipped with straight jacket and six strong volunteers, should be standing by for the start of the Annual Pepper Martin Softball Game, next Sunday, May 13th at 2:30, out behind the Elk Garage at what our poor lost soul calls his 'Field of Dreams'.

How could Mother's day have lowered itself to this?

As long as we are on baseball. Coach Ed Bird handed me this note:

"Take me out to the gall game, take me out to the park, Greco Park, that is, where admission is free and hot dogs are $1.00. No lockouts, no strikes, no millionaires on the field. Just some enthusiastic kids who love the game, playing some heads up baseball. There are 21 kids from Elk participating this year and Elk has its own minor league team, the Tigers, coached by Gary Poehlmann and Gary Moran. Ed Bird coaches the league champion Giants with 7 kids from Elk and 5 from Manchester. Games start at 5 PM at Greco Park in Manchester and Bower Park in Gualala. Schedules will be posted at the Elk Store.

I saw John Gilmore in the Elk Store Saturday evening. He told me he is playing the piano at the Greenwood Pier every Saturday night. A real treat.

The new evening cook is 'doing dinners' at the Roadhouse Friday and Saturday's. Jane Schriber tells me that next week will be 'Southwestern'; Salmon or Swordfish with Ancho-chile Sauce. Tenderloin of Pork with Apple and Red Chile Chutney. Chili's Rellenos with Red Chile Sauce topped with Mexican Crem and Jane's special Cornbread.

Oh boy! Where's the fire extinguisher?

Last week an urchin boat rolled over just north of Saint Anthony's Point. proving once again, you can't put ten pounds in a five pound bag. I watched a second boat attempt to right it for several hours as the day wore on. I understand it was finally towed to Albion and re-floated.

I hear our old friend, the 'feller-buncher' is back. I have some friends keeping an eye out for it and I will take some photos of it for your enjoyment if indeed it is around.

But I must say. Why is it that we are up in the air about our local logging when we voted in Reagan and Bush?

The administration is encouraging the corporations to produce more and more while here in the trenches we end up fighting among ourselves. I think we are picking on the wrong end of the problem.

Meanwhile. "Erna in Africa" looms closer.

May 17th.

The long awaited day. The day that Pepper Martin's Mother is supposed to arrive in our humble little town for the Great Pepper Martin Baseball Extravaganza.

"Baby Doc" Edison, Greenwood/Elk's Baseball Commissioner, tracks me down in Mendocino, where I am recovering from Lolli's huge birthday party. It's nine in the morning.

Ring. Ring. Hello?

"Hey. Pepper Martin's Mother left Tulsa, Oklahoma at 4:30 this morning. She is flying to San Francisco. Cary Bisagna will escort her to Elk and she will arrive at the playing field at 3:30 PM."

Yeah. Right. I went back to bed.

At 2:30 PM, I arrive back in Elk at Bill's 'Field of Dreams' and take up my usual spot beside the remains of a fence. High thin clouds, weak filtered sun light, and strong Pacific wind is blowing in towards home plate. About twenty short outfielders are facing a gang of batters, hunkered down, out of the wind, behind the back stop. I move over behind a pregnant mother to cut the wind and enjoy some radiant body heat. This is going to be a long afternoon.

Pepper Martin's 92 year old Mother, coming to Elk. This I gotta see. If it weren't for that, I'd call it a day and go home.

The short people play on. I get up and go buy a beer.

Finally their game is over and the teenagers and adults start choosing up sides.

All of a sudden a horn starts honking out beyond left center field. A red Mercedes convertible drives onto the field. It arrives at the hollow we call a pitchers mound, while "Baby Doc" screams, "It's Pepper Martin's Mother! It's Pepper Martin's Mother!

Gob's of short people gather around, surrounded by the more skeptical adults, while a 'nurse' helps elderly 'Ms. Martin' out of the car and over to the special chair provided for the occasion.

Baby Doc keeps screaming, "It's Pepper Martin's Mother!"

Eventually, the adult version of the game wobbles back on track and the short people start thinning out from around 'Ms. Martin', and her 'attendant nurse'.

I saunter over to get the gist of what she is saying to the few remaining wide eyed kids...

"I hate the game. Pepe didn't leave me diddly squat!" "Now mother", says the nurse, "be nice to the children."

I look at her closer and think to myself;

Mother, what big teeth you have. Mother, what strong stubble you have on your chin.

Mother, what fat strong fingers you have. Mother, what a flat hairy chest you have peeking out over that Cardinal nightshirt you're wearing.

Mother, what hairy legs you have under that ratty pantyhose.

But, Hey! I've never seen this 'mother' before. I don't know where Baby Doc dug this one up but, whatever, she is definitely the hit of the afternoon.

I wander off and hunker back down behind some mothers to ponder this turn of events. Finally my musings are interrupted when someone hollers, "It's over!".

I get back up and follow the crowd over to the waiting barbecue and margaritas. Baby Doc announces the awards:

The Abalonies won the Greenwood/Elk. 6 - 2.

The golden spittoon went to Johnney Gallo, our first two time winner.

The Pepper Martin underpants went to A. J Barrett, some hot shot out of Willits, for his outstanding flying leap into the weeds after a high right field hit.

Ms. Martin hoarsely announces, she wants to give Baby Doc an award and when 'she' has every ones attention 'she' promptly drops her skivvies and hands them over to Bill.

I have seen enough and go home. Thank God. The Pepper Martin Baseball Extravaganza is over for another year.

May 6th, Rhonda Poehlmann gave birth to lovely Meg. This is our second Elk baby of this year. Lewis Martin foretold all in his guest column, "The pregnant ladies of Elk" last Christmas.

The Highway One Jazz Choir is hitting the road for its sixth season, performing in both Elk and Gualala. Under the direction of Carolyn Steinbuck, the group of sixteen singers, accompanied by drums, bass and piano will perform songs from the 1920's to the present; a base of old jazz classics, spiced with some current experimental pieces, many written and arranged by choir member, Dick Gray of Sea Ranch. This season's program will also include songs by two acapella groups, the Shirilles, six singers performing a "Mystery Medley", and The Barbershop Quartet.

Performances will be at 8 PM on Friday, June 1st at the Greenwood Community Center, in Elk, and on Saturday, June 2nd at the Gualala Community Center. Admission is free with donations accepted to help cover expenses. Come for an evening of pop and jazz and hear some of your old time favorite songs and enjoy some new jazz harmonies and arrangements!

PS. Elk participants; Carolyn Steinbuck, director. Carolyn Carleton, singer. Dean Pederson, drums.

The regular school board meeting, which comes to Elk once a year, will be held June 7th, at 7 PM, at the Greenwood Elementary School

Erna in Africa. May 19th. Community Center 5:30 on. The posters around town look great. Maybe it will be worth it after all!

And finally; The Philo Yacht Club Regatta. This Sunday, May 20th, under the bridge at Hendy Woods. Noon o'clock on. See ya there.

May 24th.

What do you want? A Community Services District? Protection of our town water source?

Both?

Guess again. In both cases we are up against Louisiana Pacific.

L.P. holdings comprise 30 percent of the proposed Community Services District. Now, with the reduction of the acre acessment to five cents, their bill would amount to only three percent of the generated revenue yet, that isn't good enough. They want out!

In my opinion, L.P. does not want to be included at all, even if it is a penny an acre because if they are included in the Elk Community Services District, that will possibly set a precedent and open the way for other districts to do the same. L.P. would rather sue and tie up the formation of our district than allow that to happen.

Even though 82 percent of Elk's residents petitioned for a service district. Even though LAFCO and the Board of Supervisors approved it, L.P. is in a position to deny us the much needed funding for our Volunteer Fire and Ambulance Department. Tuesday evening, the 22nd, at 7:00 PM, in the Community Center, is the time set for final hearing of protests of the Community Services District. I expect L.P. will be there.

At the same time L.P. wants to pass a timber harvest plan to 'shelterwood remove' close to three hundred acres of our watershed within one half mile of our town well.

The town is rallying Monday night at 7:00 at the Community Center and will present its case at the California Department of forestry on Wednesday morning at 10:00.

Do you think L.P. will allow the formation of our Community Services District and the next day back off on their planned cut of our watershed. No?

I don't either. I think they will attempt to do both. Gut the Services District and gut our watershed.

Unfortunately, this column deadline is just before these two important meetings. Next week I will relate the results and see how close my predictions were.

And, as if this all wasn't enough; it looks like Baby Doc's "Field of Dreams" is on the block. Rumor is that a local person (Kendrick Petty), is attempting to buy the twenty acres that includes the town's ball field. The question is. Will he allow the ball field to remain, sell it to the Community, or develop the ball field into condos?

Erna in Africa happened in spite of an unexpected rain shower. The turnout was impressive, the pot luck was a success. The strange thing being the 'zoo' in front of the screen (severe short people infestation). Still in all, the slides were excellent. Well done, Erna.

We are sorry to learn that Peter Lit was in a bad car accident recently. We all wish him well.

Peg Frankel has been quite sick, down in the city, but is expected to return to Greenwood/Elk soon.

I saw my first three Pelicans, last Friday. Welcome back.

I am told that that ship, off our coast is a sub tender, assisting in burying the fiber optic cable between Point Arena and Hawaii.

I went over to Hendy Woods, under the bridge to observe the Fifth Annual Philo Yacht Club regatta. I started to record all the events in journalistic fashion but soon the events caught up with me, so, if you weren't there...too bad, and just as well. It was swell. As Sean Donovan said, "Philo is the cultural center of Mendocino County". They definitely know how to party!

May 31st.

Last week I predicted L.P. would defeat the formation of our Community /services district and beat back our opposition to their timber harvest plans just up Greenwood Creek. I'm pleased to announce I was wrong on both counts, maybe.

Last Tuesday evening, May 22nd, the Community Services Board received the final protests, both verbal and by letter, to the proposed district formation. It would take 146 protests to be over fifty one percent of the land owners and 126 to be fifty one percent of the registered voters. A combined total of 22 protests were filed, falling far short of the required amount.

The Community Services District, after five years of struggle, has finally become reality.

The meeting got off to a slow start with about 30 folks present. Soon various concerns were being aired and at times it got quite lively:

"Why do I have to pay so much and those guys so little?" "Why should I have to pay when the district has never done anything for me?"

"Why should the folks in town have to pay so much when it's to every ones benefit, tourists included."

"Well, there wouldn't be any tourists here if it wasn't for your Bed and Breakfast establishment.!

Etc. Etc.

Even Mel Matson woke up and got into the fray.

L.P. didn't want to pay because they are already covered by the CDF fire district. Attorney Maggie O'Rourak pointed out that we are forming a Community Services District, not a Fire District and that's different.

Finally, it all petered out and the deed was done.

I sensed a collective sigh of relief. We all knew the goal was worthwhile but the bullet had to be bitten, it was just a matter of how big a bite each one had to take. In the end, the services provided closely reflect the assessment costs. Everyone was only mildly ticked off.

On June 4th, LAFCO should put their final blessing upon the Elk Community Services District.

Wednesday morning found a group of us up bright and early to form car pools and trudge over the hill to Ukiah, to attend California Department of Forestry's review of the proposed amendment concerning 205 acres, one half mile up stream from our town well. Twenty five of us walked in carrying tape recorders, video camera and reams of documents. Before we could really get to our main points, it was discovered that improper notification had occurred and CDF decided to deny the amendment.

With a sigh of relief, we filed back out, went to lunch, then scurried back home.

The next morning we find that L.P. is going to refile. No little pissant town is going to deter them.

Well, probably not, but it's worth a try.

There is an interesting book called the Water Code.

Originally it came into being as the 'law' to enforce water rights for Los Angeles in their successful effort to divert water from Owens Valley (Remember the movie "China Town"?).

Well, possibly the sword cuts both ways. L.A. implemented tough laws that enforced the regulating and monitoring of the water that comes into the Water District. You can not pollute or imperil a town's water source. If you do, you can be held liable, fined and even have a lean placed against your property.

So, Saturday, May 26th, the re-formation of the Greenwood Watershed Association came into being (It existed once before). The association will be looking into water rights, laws protecting watersheds, right of entry to locate and record possible violations, damage assessment and so on.

Meanwhile, the rains came.

Our town water monitor, Jane Matson, reports we in town, received 6.11 inches between May 21st and May 27th. Our total for the recording period is 27.59 inches. Last year at this time it was 31.35 inches.

Hard to believe but the drought isn't over.

Elk baby number three arrived last Friday morning around 3:00 AM. Can you believe it, George the fourth!

George and Ann Lawrence are relieved and happy. I hear it is the largest baby the local mid wives have ever delivered. 11 pounds, 9 ounces. Goodness!

June 7th.

I know some of the long time locals think we new comers are kind of silly, working ourselves up into a lather about the Greenwood Creek Watershed. I was reading through some second hand New Yorkers, the other evening, and ran across something that, to me, hit the nail on the head:

Excerpt from the New Yorker. October 9, 1989.

"The City Council of Irvine, California, recently passed legislation restricting the use of chloroflurocarbons within the city limits. This legislation will cause hardships for local businesses and raise the cost of some consumer goods for local people, and these sacrifices will not be rewarded by any special environmental benefits to the citizens of Irvine. Everyone in the world, and for generations to come, will benefit, but only by an infinitesimal amount, and the citizens of Irvine no more than anyone else. From a realist's point of view, Irvine's action seems almost unnatural; it's idealistic, even quixotic, for little Irvine to take responsibility for the sky. And yet, on an emotional level the action seems exactly right.

Every since global issues have overtaken our world, the price of political awareness had been a feeling of helplessness. The technical aspects of these problems and the formidable expertise that is brought to bear on them generate confusion in us all, but even children can sense through that confusion the inability of our trustees to effectively take responsibility. Governments become enveloped by an aura of pretense. Leaders seem to fear that if they admit that a situation is lethal and out of control they will lose the authority, and yet in not admitting it they lose authority anyway.

It may be that authority - power to take responsibility - can at this point be recovered only on a local level, and that this is why local politics has acquired new significance. In any case, the action in Irvine - or in Suffolk County, New York, or in Vermont, where related actions have been taken - does not have about it the quality of confusion that afflicts so many government action on global concerns. Irvine's step does not come anywhere near solving the problem of ozone depletion, but the Irvine City Council did not claim that it would: so large is the sky and so small is Irvine that the relationship of the city to the problem is automatically acknowledged as that of tiny beings to something utterly beyond their control. In this acknowledgment, true scale is recovered, and, with it, effectiveness. The problem of the environment are beyond the power of Irvine to solve, but because the city took responsibility where it could, it is no longer helpless. It examined its own contribution to the destruction of the ozone, asked, 'If not us, who?' and heard the answer...

'No one.'"

Two huge Air Force 6X6 diesel semi-tractors arrived in town May 31st. Seems the government had a surplus sale in Hollister, CA. and Greenwood/Elk's Volunteer Fire Department could have one if we took 'em both! The 'keeper' is a 1969 monster with 89 original miles on the odometer. The other one will be used for spare parts. The idea, according to Fire Chief, Bob Matson, is to remove the fifth wheel and mount a huge water tank. Our friends, the California Department of Forestry, delivered both trucks to our humble town on their flat bed trailers, free of charge!

The rain seems to have ended. In town we received around eight inches. During the same time period, Ed Bird, who lives at an elevation of around 1200 feet, got about 12 inches and Dan Dooling, up at 2700 feet reported over 17 inches!

I see in last week's Beacon that I am starting on my fifth editor during my three year stint as a column writer. Welcome aboard, Christiane. Good luck.

June 14th.

Since this is a time of intense interest concerning what we call our redwood forests, I would like to share with you a journey made by a fellow journalist through the original coastal redwoods of Mendocino in the spring of 1892. Her name was Ninetta Eames. She left Ukiah via stage coach, heading for Greenwood, then down to Point Arena and back up to Fort Bragg.

I am indebted to Bob Fisher of Mendocino for providing me with the copy, taken from The Overland Monthly, Volume XX Second Series, published 1982. I have taken the liberty to shorten some passages but will present them in series starting this week.

Ninetta Eames writes:

"Our first night out was spent in Anderson Valley, a narrow strip following the Navarro River seventeen miles on its seaward way. On the north and south are unbroken ranges of high mountains. The cradled valley between has many opulent orchards and fields. Now and again one see through luxuriant foliage the funnel-shaped top of a hop kiln, or the similar roof of a fruit-evaporator. Several of the hop-plantations are skirted by redwoods, and these groves make ideal camps for the pickers gathered here in the fall. When the day's work is done, it is said, the young folks dance in some stately sylvan hall, while close at hand, in one of Nature's grandest cathedrals, their elders hold prayer and praise meetings.

The seclusion enjoyed by these Anderson Farmers has its disadvantages. They must haul their produce thirty miles, over rough mountain roads, to reach the nearest market. The majority of them have lived here for years, patiently awaiting the day when the ax shall sound in their magnificent forest, and the smoke of mills ascend from the streams. The most feasible outlet for the valley is through the redwood wilderness on the Navarro. In fact, the logging railway from the mouth of this river is steadily heading this way. Twenty or thirty miles more of track, and the road will be open to navigable waters.

Before sunrise we were again under way, striking straight for the barricade of western summits climbed by rank on rank of redwoods. These early rides in a spring dawn have a charm all their own. The world is at its best and freshest, and nothing could be more exquisite than the soft outpouring of cool, scented air.

We crossed a mountain stream called Indian Creek, where there were cozy nests of homes with luxuriant gardens and orchards. Along its flashing current our road made a winding passage through the rich brown of tree trunks and out cropping rocks mottled with moss, with borders of white trillium, ferns and lilyed flags.

Never do I behold these matchless trees without an instinctive outstretching of my arms in greeting! We had now entered their peculiar domain, for the redwood is exclusive, always keeping near the sea, and not being found outside the Coast Range and the Sierra Nevada's. A mountain covered with these kingly trees is inconceivably sublime; and no words can depict the solemn impressiveness of a deep gorge filled with the gigantic upright shafts. There is something, too, almost super-natural in their profound silence. Birds and all manner of small furry creatures shun the perpetual twilight found here. Only monster slugs make viscous trails over the mottled leaf needles underfoot in the vast soundless aisles.

These Coast Range redwood, Sequoia sempervirens, are only second in size to their renowned brothers of the Sierra. The finest specimens are in Mendocino and Humboldt, and are all the way from ten to twenty-four feet in diameter, with clean, columnar trunks running up to a height of three hundred and even four hundred feet.

Of all the trees in the rich forest of California, not one has the industrial value of her coast redwood. Its popularity is steadily on the increase, in spite of the expense and the ingenious means required to render it marketable. There are today all of 900,000 acres of redwoods still in Mendocino, though the timber next the ocean is cut off to the average depth of eight miles.

Here and there we passed the camps where Portuguese or Russian Finns were at work splitting the beaded boles. The mountains resounded with the echoing blows of their axes. The hands of these burly woodsmen were mahogany stained from the juices of the wood. A man gets twelve to fifteen cents for making a tie, according to its size, and boards himself. The ties are hauled to Greenwood, six or eight horses being used for a load, which usually consists of two wagons coupled together, each piled with seventy-five to a hundred of these split timbers."

Next week...on to Greenwood.

The valve has been turned on and the Elk County Water District's new steel water tank is two thirds full.

Our Community Services District formation has hit another snag. It seems that LAFCO, whose mandate is to help communities like ours, rather impede the process for reasons that are not clear.

June 21st.

Part two in the series, "Staging in Mendocino", by reporter Ninetta Eames. Written in 1892 for the Overland Monthly. Ninetta is riding with stage driver Jim Crow, on her way to Greenwood. We pick up her story with the driver speaking...

"Here's my regular passenger!" and the driver slowed down his mud-spattered horses.

For a moment we did not see the drift of his remark. Then two tiny figures took shape in the shadows, standing motionless beside a hydra-headed stump. The girl wore a prim hat and carried a tin pail and a book. Though it was barely seven o'clock, she was evidently on her way school. She and the boy looked ghostly in the obscure light, and neither smiled nor responded to the driver's kindly salutation.

When we stopped, the sister spoke a few words in Russian to the bareheaded boy, and then hastily climbed into the vacant back seat. There was something so unchildlike in her pinched, solemn little visage, that one could not help fancying that the burden of the dumb, sunless forest oppressed her young life. Indeed, the chill of the place was so invincible that the cheer of an occasional patch of sunlight can hardly be imagined.

An hour or so later we came to a diminutive school-house where the "regular passenger" got down, and soberly joined a half dozen other children, - the total number of her schoolmates. Close by was a low-roofed, untidy building, where we stopped ten minutes to change horses. The long morning's ride had so sharpened my appetite that I begged a morsel of food of the pretty school ma'am who boarded here. She led me back to the fire in a rude kitchen, and hospitably served bread, butter, and dried peaches, on my lap. Nothing ever tasted so good. When the familiar "all aboard" brought me hurriedly to the front steps, it was with the last thick slice in my hand.

At Soda Creek we paused for a drink of the cold, effervescent water. A young girl came running out of a modest dwelling, and asked the driver to take a bonnet she had just trimmed to a lady in Greenwood. After much good-natured raillery, she pinned the paper parcel on his back to insure it from getting jammed, and the amiable fellow carried it thus to the end of the journey.

As we approached Greenwood the grandeur of the forest disappeared, for we had reached the "chopped out" district. The presence of innumerable blackened stumps, and the tall, charred spires of pines and the Douglas spruce, contrasted vividly with the fresh green of new growths clustering about the parent roots. In some localities once covered with redwoods the ceanothus, locally termed the "blue blossom," has literally possessed the soil. For miles we drove through a continuous cloud of these delicate honey-sweet blooms.

A gap in the hills revealed the blue plain of the ocean, not a white-cap in sight, and scarcely a wrinkle on its burnished surface. Farther still a dim sail was discernible, and just off a rocky point a vessel in the cove was taking on lumber. In the bottom of a willow trimmed gorge, Greenwood Creek poured its crystal fountains. Just before it reaches the sea its waters are confined by a dam, in which was an enormous jam of logs. Before the rains the river-beds far up their source are rolled full of logs, to be brought down to the mill in high water. In this manner all these coast streams are made of incalculable service to the lumber man. When the river supply is disposed of, steam is called into requisition, and the logging train in now an indispensable adjunct of California lumbering. The Greenwood railway extends six miles back to the timber, a branch line crossing Elk Creek on a splendid iron truss bridge.

The mill at Greenwood is a new plant, and shows an immense expenditure of capital. It is equipped with the latest improvements in machinery, and when both sides are in operation turns out daily ninety-thousand feet of lumber.

Below in the boom a man was leaping from log to log, steering three or four at a time on to the carriage, which is drawn up the logway to the platform by wire cables run by steam power. A donkey engine was hard at work lifting the "sinkers." These heavy butts of redwood can only be kept to the surface by making them secure to lighter logs. The most valuable lumber in redwood comes from the "sinkers", as the grain is finer and harder next the roots of the tree, and takes a smoother finish.

A village is sure to grow up around a large mill with the saloons usually out-numbering the dwelling houses. The array of empty bottles stacked alongside a Greenwood street is appallingly suggestive. The company's store is a comprehensive affair, including all manner of necessaries which are purchased by the employees. By this means a fair percentage of the wages paid out finds its way back to the original pocket. This is not at all a bad arrangement, but when the same source provides the whisky and beer, the contemplative mind is troubled with doubts."

Next week...off to Point Arena.

June 28th.

Laurie Graham had a baby boy last week, June 20th around 4:30 PM. Ryan makes it number four for our little town this year. Next up, Jane and Will Lewis with Reeby waiting in the wings...

It now looks like the approval of our Community Services District will have to be put to the voters on the November ballot. We already had a petition with eighty two percent of the area in favor but, here we go again.

Now on to Part Three of the story by Ninetta Eames, who is traveling around Mendocino via stage coach. Having reached Greenwood, she is now heading down the coast to Point Arena. The year is 1892...

"The coast of Mendocino is extremely rugged, the sandstone cliffs having an elevation of one hundred to five hundred feet, with jagged caverns, arches, and detached rocks burrowed out by waves. For a hundred miles the road is along this sea-wall, and here one experiences the very poetry of staging. No heat or dust even in summer, - only a great salt freshness blowing in from the shining highway of the ships; and on the other hand, the eternal mountains. We counted two steamers and four schooners in sight, beside the spreading canvas of a vessel far away to the north.

Shortly after noon we made an abrupt curve around the Greenwood bluffs above pale green floating beds of kelp. The dense forests traversed in the morning were visible only between wide openings in round, grassy foothills. We saw a puffing engine dragging a long train of loaded flat cars around the poppy-tipped cliffs. A few days before twenty of these cars, piled with logs, went over the embankment into the surf.

Following us south were fields with grazing cattle, and emerald stretches of uncut hay. The larger portion of this Point Arena country is given up to dairying, and delicious and wholesome is the butter made from these blossoming pastures. All the downs and meadows are sown to flowers. There were acres of purple violets, asters of blue and gold, daisies, cream cups, nemophilae, plae-edged poppies, clover blossoms and dandelions, all heading so evenly they made a smooth mosaic of incomparable hue and pattern.

Then there were knolls and sweeping hollows, where one sees the effectiveness of grass, pure and simple. And such grass as it is, sweet and juicy, and full of the virtues of dairy products! It is delightful to watch the Jerseys eat it. They wrap their tongues about the succelent bunches with a sound that is truly appetizing.

This feed is kept green three fourths of the year by constant cool winds and fogs: afterwards, corn fodder is fed to the cows, and great mangel-werzel beets and Belgian carrots, pulled from the plowed fields next the comfortable homes.

The butter from this section finds its principal market in San Francisco, though hundreds of pounds are also disposed of at the lumber settlements. The business is mainly in the hands of Americans, the most of the dairies being owened by old residents who came here in the fifties. Many of them make use of all the new appliances of machinery for seperating the cream and working the butter, and the utmost care is taken as to cleanliness and the proper packing of the rolls.

There are thousands of acres of available agricultural and pasture lands around Point Arena, though much of this is still unoccupied, unless one excepts the desultory sohourning of half a hundred Diggers. The lumber interests of the place are now confined to the making and shipping of posts, staves, shakes, and railroad ties, which are brought down a seven-mile flume, and loaded on vessels by means of wire cables. As many as thirty-five hundred ties are thus transferred in a single day. The same ingenious method is employed in the shipment of cordwood, hides, tanbark, and potatoes, the other leading product of the country.

One comes upon the town (Point Arena) quite unexpectedly. A turn in the road, and you are bowling down the incline of the main street, the pleasant dwellings tilted back against windy hills putting up their shoulders to the sea.

The drives hereabout are delightful, that to the light-house being usually the first proposed to visitors. This handsome building stands on the northwest extremity of a flower-enameled promontory jutting three miles beyond the mainland. From the dizzy tower one has a memorable view of the ocean, with its curving margin of white, broken cliffs, the numerous islets off shore, and fronting this fair sea picture the green dairy farms rolling back to a dark ridge of mountains.

Some of the nearest rocks are clambered over by writhing sea-lions. these animals are semi-annually killed off for their oil, and are a profitable investment to the man that owns the rocks.

The road to the Indian rancheria is a particularly romantic one, and a more picturesque site for a primitive village could not have been chosen. On a grassy swell just out from the woods hiding the beautiful Garcia River are built the rude huts of the natives, with their circular sweat house in the midst. A few squatty figures were packing homeward heavy burdens in baskets strapped to their backs.

This remnant of a decaying tribe lives by hunting and fishing, and doing odd jobs about the farms and dairies. In the fall of each year they join the hop pickers on the Russian River, and are considered better hands than either the whites or the Chinese. In spite of poverty and excess of vermin and filth, these Diggers are as carefree and happy as children."

Next week, North to Cuffey's Cove, then on to the mill at Navarro.

July 5th.

Having visited Anderson Valley, Greenwood, and Point Arena, Ninetta Eames now heads back north towards Cuffey's Cove. We pick up part four of her story, Staging in Mendocino", originally published in 1892...

"Fording the Garcia, our north-bound stage was driven up the gravely lanes at a rollicking pace, sometimes plunging down grades quite frightful to contemplate. Of these, the Mal Paso, is the largest and steepest and it's legendary history the most exciting. The pioneer settlers came into the country through this almost impassable gulch.

"It was off that split," said the driver, "that my grandmother lost her life. She was overturned, an' her neck broken. The rest of the wagons was took to pieces an' let down by ropes. My folks was the first to begin stock raising here. That was before they commenced taking out lumber. The Morse family came in by sea on a chartered schooner. They landed in the sand at Fish Rock, an' Gran'ma Morse an' the three children had to foot it ten miles across a rough country before they reached camp. The old lady is still living at Point Arena, an' is hale an' hearty."

For some distance on ahead a white church showed stately on the treeless brink of the high gray cliffs. On coming nearer we found it was not so isolated as it had first appeared. There were, in fact, several dozen dilapidated, tenantless buildings scattered over the same bench, their windows broken and roofs fallen in. Stacked about were rotting shakes and ties, and the remains of chutes and tramways, with all the other belongings of a once flourishing lumber port.

The church, standing with its back to the sea, was the only modern feature of the place, unless one excepts a neatly fenced graveyard alongside, with its freshly painted crosses and headboards. Nothing more forlorn and desolate than this deserted village can be pictured. The driver volunteered the following scraps of its history;--

"This is Cuffey's Cove. There was once millions of feet of lumber shipped from off them rocks, an' such loads of potatoes! You must have heard of the Cuffey Cove potatoes, for in them days they had a big name all over the State. The first man that come here was Nigger Nat, an' after that the men called the place "Cuffey" as sort of a joke. That was nigh on to forty years ago. Oh, yes, Nat's living still, an' pretty near as young as ever! Likely 'nough you'll run across him fishing up on Big River. He's mostly there this time o' year."

Ten miles beyond Cuffey's Cove, and Navarro is reached. At the mouth of the river two vessels were being loaded with lumber directly from the wharf. This is done by means of two chutes, each sixty feet long and on opposite sides of the wharf, so both vessels can take on loads at the same time. By this double arrangement two hundred thousand feet of lumber is transferred from flat cars to the schooners in a day.

The main town of Navarro is huddled on a sand flat which is nearly on a level with the tide. After some days of country fare our accommodations at the superintendent's home seemed the acme of luxury. Indeed, it was an occasion when one is tempted to believe that soft living has its spiritual advantage, so inexpressibly restful was the Sabbath spent here.

All the previous night it rained; not in persuasive showers, but a sheeted downpour that set the river to boiling, and sent all hands up stream at sunrise. Such a heavy freshet so late in the season had not been known in twenty-five years.

And how the logs came tumbling and crunching down the turbid flood, here and there thrusting up a defiant butt with the water streaming off like a mane! The men worked like beavers, some in boats, other along shore, and those more venturesome on the heaving logs. With their long pike poles they steered the renegade logs into course, and broke up jams in the sharp bends of the stream. It was desperate work at times, with a spice of real danger, but withal wildly exhilarating.

After nightfall the men straggled to camp, exhausted, wet to their waists, but exultant; they had brought down to the boom more than four thousand logs.

There are from seventy to a hundred families at Navarro, including those on the "Navarro Ridge". For the most part their houses are small box-shaped buildings, with streets between scarcely wider than footpaths. In the diminutive square stand the church and a new hall. The expense of keeping up the former is defrayed in part by the company, and the remainder is subscribed by the men. The services are well attended, not a few of the congregation walking two and even four miles from the wood camps.

The pubic hall at Navarro is the latest pride of the neighborhood. It was build for the purpose of encouraging more innocent amusements among them than gambling and drinking. The drapery of the stage represents a faded view of Naples, and struck me as oddly familiar. It was in fact a portion of the drop curtain of the old California theater in San Francisco.

Navarro is one of the most active lumber districts on the Coast. When its great sawmill is in full blast, the pay roll of the company numbers eight hundred men. The majority of these are Russian, Finns, Swedes, Danes, and Norwegians, their overseers being American. These are robust, powerfully muscled fellows, who stand a tremendous amount of hardship and bad whisky. There is but little variety in their life, their hours being long and the work largely of the treadmill sort.

Common hands in the mills and logging camps are paid thirty dollars a month, the married men, who board with their families, receiving the additional sum of ten dollars. The company has a flourishing store and eating-houses, which the employees are expected to patronize. The cooks are usually Chinamen, who also fill the places of water carriers. They have not the physical strength to make good wood hands, nor the mechanical skill to serve in the mills. Unlike the generality of lumber towns, Navarro refuses to sell intoxicating liquor to the men. They get it in some way, of course, but necessarily in limited quantities. On a first occasion of drunkenness, a man is reprimanded by the superintendent. On a repetition of the offense the delinquent gets a preemptory discharge. The strict discipline is not without a salutary effect. Navarro can boast of a better class of inhabitants than is customarily found in a lumber settlement.

Altogether, there are more than a thousand laborers in and around Navarro, who get their livelihood out of the various branches of the lumber trade. From two hundred to three hundred of these are engaged in taking out split timber, the bulk of which consists of railroad ties. The rest of these men come under the head of mill hands, wood hands, and railroad hands.

There are thirty-five miles of unbroken wilderness running back from the Navarro landing, with an average width of two to fifteen miles. This noble forest is already penetrated by twelve miles of railroad built by the company."

Next week...an exciting ride on the railroad into the woods.

July 12th.

The Greenwood Watershed Association entry in the Mendocino 4th of July parade won a second place ribbon for patriotism. The beautiful watershed banner was designed by Mary 'Cloud' Anthony.

The Greenwood Watershed Association has announced it will file suit within the next few weeks against the California Department of Forestry, and the Louisiana Pacific timber corporation, to halt illegally approved logging plans on Greenwood Creek. L.P. wants to heavily log about 400 acres on Greenwood Creek and tributaries, and now has CDF approval for most of it, which was granted with out adequate study of the impact of such logging on Greenwood Creek and the Elk town water system, which has two wells at the mouth of the creek.

And now, on to our continuing story, written by Ninetta Eames in the year 1892. She is waiting to ride the logging train up the Navarro River and into the logging area.

"'We shall be in time to get the noon train,' the superintendent hurriedly remarked, with a glance at his watch.

As we hastened across the street we heard the spiteful shriek of a locomotive, and caught a glimpse of a long tail of empty flat-cars whisking around an angle of the glen.

The superintendent was not without resources.

"Jim," he shouted, "take us aboard your engine, and chase the logging train!"

A moment more, and we were perched on a queer little dummy which included boiler, tender, and a seat for passengers, all on four wheels. With an avenging whistle we darted forward, past the smoking mill and wide boom choked with logs; on, where the narrow track glinted like a silver-edged ribbon in the wet grass, and the laurels clasped boughs overhead.

Through a whirlwind of cinders there were fleeting visions of gaping woodsmen, girls in red calicoes, and a bewildering chaos of mountains, rivers, and trees. Every second we quickened speed till the landscape rushed by in dizzy circles, and the wind tore at our breath and clothes. It was magnificent riding!

On we flew, over bridges, rocking, bumping, and zigzagging around curves and chasms, all the while keeping our seat with difficulty. A minute later we sighted the rear car of the logging train, and black plume of smoke from the engine. Our locomotive sent up deafening whistles, while the superintendent frantically waved his handkerchief, and I took a firmer hold of the iron railing.

After what seemed a hopeless amount of signaling, we saw the train slow down; at last we had been seen or heard.

"What time did we make?" we asked when breathlessly alighting.

The engineer gave a satisfied grin,- "All of forty miles an hour."

Boarding the train we proceeded more leisurely up the canon, the entire way being full of interest. A deserted logging camp on our left made a melancholy picture. The shanties and ox stalls were empty, and the skid roads and landings almost obliterated by vegetation. Sections of old chutes clung dejectedly to the mountain side, and the whole place was eloquent of disuse and decay. We were now in the midst of a worked-out tract, the face of the country appearing as though a hurricane had passed over it. The mountains, scorched by fire, retained but a thinned-out array of spindling pines, their ragged branches blown stiffly one way. Everywhere in the heaped-up debris of bark and branch were the black, massive stumps of redwoods. Some of these giants had vainly perished, for their prostrate columns were split the full length in falling.

Later in the day while walking up the new track, we came to one of these splintered trunks.

"There ain't no 'scuse for it neither, but 'nfernal ca'lessness," he went on emphatically. "It's jes' this way. A chopper ought 'er know where a tree's to fall, and make a lay out. It don't take half an eye to see that it 'ud smash if that holler wa'n't filled in with brush an' stumps. A redwood is diff'rent from most other threes; it carries its bigness good. A tree like that 'ud turn out nine or ten sixteen-foot logs. How ole be they? Well, Noah's flood was little less'n six thousand years ago, an' it's the sup'sition them redwoods hez ben growin' ever since. 'Cordin' to that, it'll take the same time for the likes o' this to be stan'in here again."

The logic of the old foreman was unanswerable, and we gravely returned his salute as he hobbled off to inspect the gang at work in a side canon."

Next week...Work in the logging camp. How to drop 'em and how to move 'em.

July 19th.

A lot has been happening in our little town so I better catch up a bit.

A week ago, Thursday, July 12, a fire got started, about three miles up Greenwood/Philo road at Steve Greenburg's. Eleven Elk Volunteer firemen with three trucks, two CDF trucks from Point Arena, two CDF trucks from Boonville, one CDF truck from Woodlands, one CDF truck from Fort Bragg, two aerial bombers and a attack helicopter with eight brush crew converged on the acre and a half fire. I don't know where they all parked!, but all kidding aside, it came 'this close' to being big. The main house was saved with only three feet unburned perimeter around it. The studio, wood shed and one car are totaled and the redwood trees surrounding the property were just getting going.

The Community Center and Firehouse has a new steel roof well under way. I timed my arrival to coincide with the volunteer work crew departure. It looks swell, well, at least, it won't leak.

Cable Tee Vee has arrived in town, finally, and various folks are hooking up.

The specter of a microwave dish, mounted on a fifty foot tower at the switching station, here in the center of town has reared it's ugly head again. Local telephone folks say it ain't gonna happen but Sacramento telephone folks seem to think it will. Stay tuned.

The Greenwood Watershed Association has a suite against CDF that should be filed by the time you read this. The Elk County Water Board voted unanimously to back it as well as various local inns, Norm deVall and a lot of residents. A news letter up-date to residents will be forthcoming.

And now...part six in the continuing story by Ninetta Eames, "Staging in Mendocino," first published in 1892. She is visiting a lumber camp up the Navarro River.

"There can be no more picturesque scenes conceived than those daily recurring in a logging camp. First, there is the cutting down of the tree, which is always an absorbing matter to the looker-on. This is oftenest done in winter when the ground is soft, for the redwood is a brittle tree, and liable to split if it strikes hard. If the tree selected is marred in any way at the butt, the scaffold is built at sufficient height to bring the incision above the deformity. Usually two men work together at opposite ends of the platform, the one chopping right handed, the other left handed. When well through the bark, a ten-foot falling-saw is used to complete the job. This saw is much narrower than the regular crosscut saw afterwards used to divide the trunk into sections. It takes a day and a half to fell an ordinary-sized redwood.

The value of a chopper is in his knowing just where a tree will fall. To the untrained eye it appears perfectly straight, and it's 'lay out,' therefore, easily determined. But expert choppers sees differently, and makes his plans accord with the slight deviations from the vertical of that towering stem.

Before the sawyers begin on the prostrate trees a fire is kindled, to burn off the obstructing brush. During the conflagration the 'swampers' are vigilante at work, going about with buckets of water to prevent the destruction of valuable timber other than the redwood. There is no danger of the flames injuring the latter, owing to the great thickness of its bark.

A few hours and the fire has completed the devastation of what Nature was hundreds of years in building. The sawyers now fall to with a will, their sooty faces and hands making them look like colliers. Were it not for the previous burning, no work could be more delightfully clean than theirs, barring the stain of the fragrant juice, and the infinitesimal particles arising from the madder-hued wood, with flecks of leaf and bark.

The trunks are cut in lengths suitable for the market, the average being from ten to sixteen feet. When the barkers have performed their part, the under side of one end of the stripped log is sniped, causing it to bear a rude resemblance to the runner of a sled. This work is performed by the 'snipers,' or team crew, which consists of six men, including the bull-teamster and the chain-tender.

The logs are often on a side hill above the skid road, where the ponderous oxen travel up and down. When the question is asked as to how steep this road can be safely made, the answer is invariably the same,--

"Just as steep as the cattle can climb."

It is the part of the 'jackscrewers' to roll the logs within reach of the team crew. In fact, without the simple instrument known as the 'jackscrew,' the handling of redwood would be impossible. Even in exercising the utmost caution, there is always danger to the jackscrewers from the unexpected rolling of a log.

Good Judgment must be used in making up the load for the oxen, and the chain-tender's position is one of exceptional responsibility. The heaviest butt is carefully chosen to go on ahead, and all are joined by chains with dog-hooks driven well down on the under side of the logs. The chain-tender takes the precaution to wear cork heels on his boots to prevent him from slipping. If he be not a novice, he will bravely ride the front log, keeping a sharp eye to the water-carrier, whose duty is hardly less important than his own. It is the business of the water-carrier to go between the head log and the rear oxen, and wet the skids in the road so the logs will slip easier. A cup of water missing its aim will often cause the logs to jump the track. The skids are set five feet apart, and the Chinaman is supposed to throw a cup of water upon each one. He carries two buckets swinging from the ends of a pole, and it is surprising to see how long his supply of water holds out.

The six to eight yoke of bulls tugging at the long line of bumping logs is one of the most animated scenes in a lumber camp. These brutes are of enormous size, stolidly obedient to the 'Who haws' and 'Gees' of the teamsters, and surprisingly quick to get out of the way of a flying log. In a hard pull the faithful creatures fairly get down upon their knees to make it.

When the logs are brought to the landing or 'dump', the oxen are turned back up the skid road, and the jackscrewers roll the boles on the flat-cars, or into the stream, whichever is the most convenient way to get them to the mills.

Another common method of bringing the logs to the river is sending them in a box flume. This is an exciting spectacle. Each naked bole comes smoking down at a terrific speed, and makes a noble splash when it strikes the water."

Next week...back to the mill.

July 26th.

Katherine Grace Lewis arrived in our little community the 27th of June and I didn't even know until I met her at one of our favorite swimming holes last Sunday. Is she baby number five or six, this year? I'm obviously losing track! Anyway. She looks great and Jane and Will are doing fine.

The continuing story of Ninetta Eames, visiting the Mendocino Coast in the year 1892. She is now at the mill on the Navarro.

"The cars used for transporting lumber are strongly constructed flats, nearly square in shape, and each set upon four wheels. They are so arranged that by close coupling, a combination car can be made. When a load of logs is brought to the sawmill, they are slid up inclined timbers, by hooking around them wire cables which are worked by machinery.

Owing to the colossal proportions of the redwood, the machinery used in our Coast milling differs widely from that employed in the sawmills of other countries. All first-class mills here have double band saws, the circular saw being no longer in favor. One of the advantages of this exchange is the saving of the sawdust, which is utilized as fuel for the engines. There is endless fascination in watching the glistening steel slice up a mammoth seventeen-foot log as a knife would cut through cheese; nevertheless the friction is greater than it appears, for the saw must be changed for another every three hours.

The heap of refuse lumber thrown off by the slab elevator at the waste dump is kept burning continually. The mill and the wharf are lit by electricity, so pressure vessels are loaded by night as well as by day. A model sawmill includes under its roof a carpenter shop, a machine shop, a blacksmith shop, and an attic where the saws are kept and repaired.

The piling ground is arranged with strict regard to system and convenience. It has a capacity of ten million feet of lumber, made into eight hundred separate piles, distributed along four side tracks. Each pile has a neat sign-board on which is labeled the dimensions and quality of the lumber. The ground between is planked over, and the whole yard comes under electric light.

Since the year 1811, when a Russian colony commenced logging operations at Fort Ross, California's lumber interest has steadily increased. Today the output from this industry has reached a marvelous figure in the commercial catalogue of the State.

Another morning of crisp, white sunshine, and our stage was lumbering up the Navarro Ridge, en route for Big River.

There are two daily stages running up and down the Mendocino Coast, - one the regular mail line, and the other the "Portuguese Opposition." The respective drivers keep up a petty feud, which furnishes no little amusement to passengers. On the morning in question the Portuguese stage pulled out a few minutes in advance of us. Our driver, a bilious young man with a morbid view of things in general, and the whole Portuguese race in particular, interpreted this spurt of energy on the part of his rival as a fresh instance of insolence.

"Talk about the Chinese," he grumbled, "why, they're a whole blessing to a country compared to these good-for-nothing for'ners. There hain't no work in Mendocino City but's run by a pack o' Portuguese. Say, can't you help them plugs o'uourn along faster?"

The last in a loud voice, for his horses' noses were scraping the canvas cover of the "Opposition," and it was impossible to pass abreast on the narrow road.

A swarthy, pudgy-cheeked man thrust his head back at us with an exasperating grin. Our driver choked down an oath or two, and then yelled again: -

"Why don't you git out o' the road? I can't hold my team from running over you!"

Then to the passengers,-

"That idiot's hull four ain't equal to one o' my horses."

When we approached the staid little hamlet of Biggerville, there was a new grievance. Was the "Opposition" going to get either of those persons waiting to be taken aboard?

"G'long, Prince! Duke!"

Thus urged by their lordly titles and the snap of the lash about their ears, our horses bounded forward, and both stages reached the hotel together. The passengers turned out to be a couple of Chinese 'swampers' on their way to Fort Bragg. They unhesitatingly climbed into the Portuguese stage, already occupied by two of their countrymen; our driver meanwhile remarking, with a disgusted sniff, that he wasn't 'hankering' for no such load." With this parting fling he made the customary disappearance into the bar-room, from which he emerged shortly, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

A glance at the other stage showed the driver's seat still vacant, and we heard the clinking of glasses through the half open door of a near saloon. The opportunity was not to be lost. A moment later we were making a gallant exit from the sleepy town, the horses tossing their manes and widening their nostrils to take in the cool salt breeze, while the sharp blows of their hoofs sent up showers of flinty sparks. A half hour of the brisk trotting, and the "Opposition" was hopelessly distanced. At Whitesboro we found the village nearly deserted, its lumber exports being now limited to the shipping of ties and cordwood."

Next week...on to Albion and Little River.

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