We’ve been getting a little rain. Not record setting rain, but real rain (and wind, our Thanksgiving gifts from the North Pacific) for the last week or so and there are a few more punches on the way, but that’s what we get this time of year.
Of course it wouldn’t be winter without a weather drama, and some of you have noticed that our friends at the NWS have been using the ‘F’ word when talking about the Chehalis River.
We’re fine, really. We appreciate your calls and emails, keep sending those happy thoughts, prayers, incantations, etc. our way, they’re working (no flooding here) and I’ll chalk that up to your good wishes. Look how powerful you are!
I am a little worried however about the fish; If this keeps ups up there is a chance that a couple of the smaller, weaker ones may drown.
The next iteration of increased rain and wind is scheduled for tomorrow (Monday) with the ‘chance of showers’ at 70%. The rest of the week looks positively dusty, (rain chance at 30 to 40%) but I’m not too worried. The last blow was predicted for Saturday with heavy rain and high winds through the Chehalis gap. It was a little blustery (I’ve got a mess of the neighbors leaves to fish off the bottom of the pond) but nothing like the 60 to 70 mph winds predicted.
About Taxes.
Ronald Reagan famously announced that “Guvmint isn’t the solution, guvmint is the problem!” to rousing cheers. I have no interest in engaging that larger discussion, but I can’t say enough good about the National Weather Service (NWS), a little branch of the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA). Tax money well spent.
Perhaps taking on the task of administering the oceans and atmosphere nationally suggests a bit of hubris, but I have been mulling over an award of the Great Order of The Codfish Hug Assignment (GOtCHA) to the NWS for making it so easy for me to keep in touch with the predictions for our own personal meandering nemesis. People who live in proximity develop relationships with ‘their’ rivers. It’s always handy to have a neutral third party feeding you bits of information on the sly about your psychotic relationship partner. Enter the NWS Northwest River Forecast Center. Of course a forecast is nothing more than an educated guess, but I’ll take that over ‘wait and see’ any day, especially any day in November and December.
If you look at an aerial view of ‘our river’ you’ll see something that could give you a clue about the direction things might take under certain circumstances. Literally. The river wanders around getting from Centralia down to Grays Harbor. (that's our stretch of river)
If your river runs fairly straight from the uplands to the sea, you are less likely to find it in your back yard (or living room) than if it’s course describes a series of arcs and ox bows. These meandering stretches indicate that there is not a lot of elevation change in those reaches. The river channel here is less defined, less deep and thus less likely to contain the river during high flows (Colorado river Grand Canyon aside). NWS can tell you what the flood stages are, and you can sort out how frequently and how badly your river floods. You can then figure out what the flood elevation of your home (or prospective property) is and make something like an educated guess about the likelihood of flooding, the probably frequency, and severity.
Or you can just fall in love with the place, ask the current owner if it’s ever flooded and perhaps enquire discreetly of the locals about flood history. Nothing like hindsight to second guess your decisions.
Here's a snap of My River Page at Porter. Porter is downsteam from us, not too far as the crow flies, but of course the river meanders between here and there so maybe better to say not too far as the heron flies.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
On the Front Lines
There is a war raging, and I am veteran of multiple tours.
As I continue to move down range I notice more and more of my comrades felled by the invisible, relentless, insurgent enemy that is time. Each time this happens it leaves me with a sense of being exposed or uncovered. I need my colleagues to buoy my façade of bravery. Marching forward is always easier in a crowd. Real bravery is charging ahead even when others won’t or can’t. Add in the melancholy that comes with losing compatriots that have helped get me through my battles and life at times can seem a lonely affair, even in a crowd.
When friends die, for whatever reason it reminds me that life is a little like walking through a mine field. In my early years I danced a jig in the mine field, played hacky sack in the mine field, I ran with scissors through that mine field. Like juggling with bowie knives I dared death, thinking it a no lose situation: If I died young I’d have that fantastic James Dean legacy: ‘live fast, die young’, and if I survived, at least I had fun in the early laps and cheated death in the bargain. ‘Later’ could deal with itself.
Youthful ignorance is the cocoon that shielded me from the cold reality that if I survived that ‘dancing in the mine field’ period I would have to pony up for those long past-due bills that come from abusing the body (the mind, friends, and family). In those days it never occurred to me that there was more to know than all I knew. I thought I knew it all.
A few safety alarms went off, but I ruthlessly ignored them; A few young and wild co-conspirators were felled early by drug overdose or suicide (cirrhosis of the liver, is that suicide?) and then there was that early harvest referred to as Viet Nam. Somehow, I stumbled through the minefield unscathed. Whether by luck or divine intervention, somehow I did not just devolve into some old stoner with a gray pony tail and bad teeth. Sure if I had it to do over again I’d …. well, you’ll never know.
But now, as I trudge down range through the mud, across the flowery fields, over the mountains, and across the creeks that are the landscape of aging, every so often a mortar falls and takes out a friend. Even the loss of friends that don’t go back to that ‘dancing in the mine field’ period is felt acutely. Friendship can be hard to come by and its loss cuts deep.
I knew Bob Magyar but not as a close friend. He was a compatriot, someone who would have volunteered to come to my aid if I were in need and asked for his assistance.
Like me, Bob was a back-of-the-packer, never fast or slow, but ever steady. His life was proof that you need not look only to those at the front of the pack for inspiration. He helped me early on in my rando career to better appreciate the nobility of perseverance. This gift, these gentle lessons by example will stay with me as I contine my march down range. He's no longer marching or riding along side, though he will be missed he will not soon be forgotten.
He suffered in silence over the last year and a half, I had no idea of his plight, and in fact aside from prayers and emotional support there is little I could have done to help him in his private battle.
So now the ranks are once again thinned and I, and the rest of us are just that bit more exposed. We have one less stalwart fellow traveler. In his passing we can take some comfort in recalling Bob's wry wit, his depth of knowledge, and willingness to share. This example of a life well lived inspires and torments: felled not as a result of careless dancing in the mine field, but just another inexplicable casualty.
Thanks, Bob for the camaraderie and for the timeless reminder that, though the road may turn up and the weather may come straight ahead, how I deal with these challenges is my choice. I will try to always remember that unique mix of understated humor and steadfast commitment that kept you going when others may have pulled to the side of the road.
As I continue to move down range I notice more and more of my comrades felled by the invisible, relentless, insurgent enemy that is time. Each time this happens it leaves me with a sense of being exposed or uncovered. I need my colleagues to buoy my façade of bravery. Marching forward is always easier in a crowd. Real bravery is charging ahead even when others won’t or can’t. Add in the melancholy that comes with losing compatriots that have helped get me through my battles and life at times can seem a lonely affair, even in a crowd.
When friends die, for whatever reason it reminds me that life is a little like walking through a mine field. In my early years I danced a jig in the mine field, played hacky sack in the mine field, I ran with scissors through that mine field. Like juggling with bowie knives I dared death, thinking it a no lose situation: If I died young I’d have that fantastic James Dean legacy: ‘live fast, die young’, and if I survived, at least I had fun in the early laps and cheated death in the bargain. ‘Later’ could deal with itself.
Youthful ignorance is the cocoon that shielded me from the cold reality that if I survived that ‘dancing in the mine field’ period I would have to pony up for those long past-due bills that come from abusing the body (the mind, friends, and family). In those days it never occurred to me that there was more to know than all I knew. I thought I knew it all.
A few safety alarms went off, but I ruthlessly ignored them; A few young and wild co-conspirators were felled early by drug overdose or suicide (cirrhosis of the liver, is that suicide?) and then there was that early harvest referred to as Viet Nam. Somehow, I stumbled through the minefield unscathed. Whether by luck or divine intervention, somehow I did not just devolve into some old stoner with a gray pony tail and bad teeth. Sure if I had it to do over again I’d …. well, you’ll never know.
But now, as I trudge down range through the mud, across the flowery fields, over the mountains, and across the creeks that are the landscape of aging, every so often a mortar falls and takes out a friend. Even the loss of friends that don’t go back to that ‘dancing in the mine field’ period is felt acutely. Friendship can be hard to come by and its loss cuts deep.
I knew Bob Magyar but not as a close friend. He was a compatriot, someone who would have volunteered to come to my aid if I were in need and asked for his assistance.
Like me, Bob was a back-of-the-packer, never fast or slow, but ever steady. His life was proof that you need not look only to those at the front of the pack for inspiration. He helped me early on in my rando career to better appreciate the nobility of perseverance. This gift, these gentle lessons by example will stay with me as I contine my march down range. He's no longer marching or riding along side, though he will be missed he will not soon be forgotten.
He suffered in silence over the last year and a half, I had no idea of his plight, and in fact aside from prayers and emotional support there is little I could have done to help him in his private battle.
So now the ranks are once again thinned and I, and the rest of us are just that bit more exposed. We have one less stalwart fellow traveler. In his passing we can take some comfort in recalling Bob's wry wit, his depth of knowledge, and willingness to share. This example of a life well lived inspires and torments: felled not as a result of careless dancing in the mine field, but just another inexplicable casualty.
Thanks, Bob for the camaraderie and for the timeless reminder that, though the road may turn up and the weather may come straight ahead, how I deal with these challenges is my choice. I will try to always remember that unique mix of understated humor and steadfast commitment that kept you going when others may have pulled to the side of the road.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
It's Winter
Forget about what the calendar says, today we are experiencing winter.
Freezing fog; that temporary white flag announcing a brief lull in early winter's assult. Like a blanket over the land, the fog and frost dampen all sound, only the raucous Jays break the silence as they annouce that the feeder needs filling and the suet cake has once again been 'liberated' by the racoons, those masked raiders of the night.
It's not all that cold, over night temps in the high 20's. Confronted with scenes such as these I feel a little wimpy going on about the cold. But hey, it's all relative, and compared to last week, this is cold.
We were out in the shop last night fixing up our own little 'spinning studio'. I say we, but it was the IT staff (Mrs C) who made sense of the jumble of cables and the collection of old, out dated, but still functional black plastic electronic gizmoboxes. My job was to seek and find, to fish these various 'components" out of their worn and wavy cardboad coffins, and to lift that ancient electronic boat anchor of a TV (gawd those things used to be heavy!) up on to the work bench. I arranged the trainer and cleared a shelf for setting up the collection of remotes, water bottles, towels and tissue boxes, the assorted accoutrements for a successful ride, er 'session'. Much futzing and faffing later ... et viole! No more excuses.
I put in a Spinervals tape, ... yes that's right tape, as in VCR. It worked. I got those jumpy, snowy scenes, and that diagonal line that rolls up through the picture. Eventually things settled down and those preppy triathalon wannabes came into sharp focus, responding in perfect unison to coach Troy Jacobson's every command. So 1999.
Then I unwrapped and played for the first time, a CD that has been laying around here for I don't know how long. It was Robbie Ventura; racing a criterium while giving coaching tips. A full 35 minutes of on board camera work actually riding the race. this guy is truly an animal, he not only raced, but narrated (between gasps) as he rolled through lap after lap of 25 to 35 mph racing. Robbie has nothing to worry about from me. But the equipment worked and I'm sure I will be out in the 'studio' for a few short after work rides between now and spring.
Truth is, as much as I bad mouth the tour de nowhere, I've ridden the rollers and the trainer recently and my head did not explode. But I wasn't properly set up; Just listening to the buzz of the local C&W radio station, barely audible above the static is not enough to get me much farther down the road to nowhere than about an hour at a time. Maybe I'll set a few PR's on this new, more challenging course now that I'm better equpped.
It was just starting to freeze so everything was soaked going to crunchy,
and the air was thick with chilled moisture (soon to become frozen moisture). The steam rolling off the pond made it look like one of those pools in Yellowstone in winter.
It gave me pause. Cold as I was I thought about how much colder I'd be if I was naked and bobbing around in there with the fish. Obviously they are better adapted but sheesh, how cold they must be! I'm sure they could feel the pond bleeding it's warmth into the dark night.
This morning, the water temp has dropped two degrees over night, down to 42 degrees. The water fall is running but the fountain is frozen. I am dissapointed to have this problem in these temps but this is our 'learning' winter.
The fish are locked in their winter torpor, and now we enter the long hard time for them. It's a new experience for them and for me, and I hope I've prepare them well enough that they safely make the passage to spring.
Hang in there fish, only four more months till breakfast.
Post Script;
I putzed around the place a bit, the fog burned off (the sun never came out)
the roads thawed (so did the fountain) and I went for a ride. Not out in the 'studio' but out on the roads. I'm so lucky: to know what I like, to be able to do it right off the back porch, and to still be able to get the big horse up over a hill or two.
What if I lived in Baghdad, or Mogadishu?
Really, ... blessed.
Freezing fog; that temporary white flag announcing a brief lull in early winter's assult. Like a blanket over the land, the fog and frost dampen all sound, only the raucous Jays break the silence as they annouce that the feeder needs filling and the suet cake has once again been 'liberated' by the racoons, those masked raiders of the night.
It's not all that cold, over night temps in the high 20's. Confronted with scenes such as these I feel a little wimpy going on about the cold. But hey, it's all relative, and compared to last week, this is cold.
We were out in the shop last night fixing up our own little 'spinning studio'. I say we, but it was the IT staff (Mrs C) who made sense of the jumble of cables and the collection of old, out dated, but still functional black plastic electronic gizmoboxes. My job was to seek and find, to fish these various 'components" out of their worn and wavy cardboad coffins, and to lift that ancient electronic boat anchor of a TV (gawd those things used to be heavy!) up on to the work bench. I arranged the trainer and cleared a shelf for setting up the collection of remotes, water bottles, towels and tissue boxes, the assorted accoutrements for a successful ride, er 'session'. Much futzing and faffing later ... et viole! No more excuses.
I put in a Spinervals tape, ... yes that's right tape, as in VCR. It worked. I got those jumpy, snowy scenes, and that diagonal line that rolls up through the picture. Eventually things settled down and those preppy triathalon wannabes came into sharp focus, responding in perfect unison to coach Troy Jacobson's every command. So 1999.
Then I unwrapped and played for the first time, a CD that has been laying around here for I don't know how long. It was Robbie Ventura; racing a criterium while giving coaching tips. A full 35 minutes of on board camera work actually riding the race. this guy is truly an animal, he not only raced, but narrated (between gasps) as he rolled through lap after lap of 25 to 35 mph racing. Robbie has nothing to worry about from me. But the equipment worked and I'm sure I will be out in the 'studio' for a few short after work rides between now and spring.
Truth is, as much as I bad mouth the tour de nowhere, I've ridden the rollers and the trainer recently and my head did not explode. But I wasn't properly set up; Just listening to the buzz of the local C&W radio station, barely audible above the static is not enough to get me much farther down the road to nowhere than about an hour at a time. Maybe I'll set a few PR's on this new, more challenging course now that I'm better equpped.
It was just starting to freeze so everything was soaked going to crunchy,
and the air was thick with chilled moisture (soon to become frozen moisture). The steam rolling off the pond made it look like one of those pools in Yellowstone in winter.
It gave me pause. Cold as I was I thought about how much colder I'd be if I was naked and bobbing around in there with the fish. Obviously they are better adapted but sheesh, how cold they must be! I'm sure they could feel the pond bleeding it's warmth into the dark night.
This morning, the water temp has dropped two degrees over night, down to 42 degrees. The water fall is running but the fountain is frozen. I am dissapointed to have this problem in these temps but this is our 'learning' winter.
The fish are locked in their winter torpor, and now we enter the long hard time for them. It's a new experience for them and for me, and I hope I've prepare them well enough that they safely make the passage to spring.
Hang in there fish, only four more months till breakfast.
Post Script;
I putzed around the place a bit, the fog burned off (the sun never came out)
the roads thawed (so did the fountain) and I went for a ride. Not out in the 'studio' but out on the roads. I'm so lucky: to know what I like, to be able to do it right off the back porch, and to still be able to get the big horse up over a hill or two.
What if I lived in Baghdad, or Mogadishu?
Really, ... blessed.
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