Lessons

       What was I doing in Japan? Gaining insight; something new and different to do. With no definitive course plotted, I wandered, wondering how it all looked from another('s) perspective. (Did you know the Asian brain actually functions differently than a European brain?) I've not always been fascinated as much as simply intrigued by the Asian people; the obvious ancestral differences, their stoic resolve, etc.

       They're hard workers to be sure, but those you can find on any continent. They're this and that, but again, one can and does see this in most any people group. Just what makes them unique in the realm of humanity? Perhaps an observation gained during one of my sojourns will give some insight.

       The opportunity to work in Japan came to me one spring day as I was finishing a winter season of Ski Patrolling. A friend, Mike Murray, had been offered the chance and had declined; my name came up and I eventually found myself on a Trans-Pacific flight, prepared for three months of building log homes. A year later I went back, and it was during this second trip that the observation I'm thinking of occurred.

       Takeo Ogi-san was almost 20 years my elder, a polite, energetic, driven man with a nervous sense of humor. He took three days off a year; one day he spent with his wife, another was spent with two sons; I never did learn what he did with the third. His English was marginal, encompassing mostly building and design; my Nihongo was even more marginal. He lived on a small plot of land in an old log home near a town called Edogawa, by lake Biwa or Biwa-ko (depending on which map you reference), north of Osaka. I stayed in a building out back which was small though comfortable and bordered a field of rice paddies.

       Our daily schedule, which we never deviated from, went something like this: a rare breakfast and be on-site by 8 a.m.; work until midday, then a break which might include lunch if I complained enough. Generally, we'd be home by 5 or 6 p.m. although 8 was not unusual. I would grab a quick shower, a cold beer and meet Ogi-san in the main house for a communal evening meal.

       By the time I got in the house, Ogi-san would be well into a bottle of something, and not always saki; Scotch and Bourbon were also favored. In America he would be called an alcoholic; not so in Japan. Alcohol there is viewed as a medicine of sorts, something to take the edge off a hard day. And boy, did he take the edge off. Said it helped him sleep. He would also have a big cauldron of steaming vegetables of some sort going, besides the standard rice, and usually some type of mystery meat; I never cared to know. We would eat like kings and laugh like paupers well into the night, conversing on a broad range of subjects over pen and paper. More than once I had to help him to the steep ship ladder that led up to his sleeping quarters, waiting anxiously at the bottom until he cleared the top.


       Sitting at dinner one evening, something caught my eye on the muted T.V. in a corner. An older Asian craftsman was standing among rows of mature, cultivated trees (Japanese Maple), of which the bottom 10-12 feet had been de-limbed, and were wrapped in what I eventually discovered to be rice paper. The man had tears in his eyes as he emotionally conveyed what I could not understand. As I asked Ogi-san for an explanation, the man began to unwrap one of the trees, revealing the inner Cambrian layer. Ogi-san explained that, earlier in its life, as the tree grew, it had been pruned and selected for its straightness. When it reached a certain age (tall enough to make a fairly uniform 10-12 foot post), it was carefully stripped of its bark; a braided, three-cord line was then laid around the trunk in a rising spiral, each spiral about a foot or so apart. The afore-mentioned rice paper was then applied, grafted in place of the original bark. And then, depending on the growth rate of the tree and the desired thickness of the final product, several years, often decades would need to pass. Eventually, when the tree was harvested, and the embedded cord removed, a beautifully braided impression was left deep in the wood. What makes this so remarkable is that this gentleman's grandfather had done this many years ago, when the tree was very young, knowing he himself would never see the end product; his selfless labor is why the man had tears in his eyes. This level of foresight is rarely, if ever, found in America; we have much to learn.

   
   

My Private Idaho

                                                         
                                         


        The dry, wool socks feel good after barefooting the mountain stream. Just deep and wide enough to deter most two-leggers, the water crossing gives the area I'm headed into a certain remoteness; it's one of the more unsullied places I've found here in N. Idaho.

       I will not disclose the location of this area, but I will describe it. The only access road cuts and winds through a long, dog-legged canyon, with high ridges on both sides. Narrow, heavily wooded sub ridges and dark defiles pour into the main drainage; most of the terrain is very steep. Hiking from the road to the main ridgeline can be demanding.

       But once the steep bottom portion of the climb is accomplished (approx. 1/4- 1/3  way up), one begins finding little nooks and perches; flat spots amongst difficult terrain, sure to invite a stop, a rest; a look around.

       One finds evidence of this happening in the spoor, sign, scat, and beds of creatures of all sizes. I am continually impressed by the variety of wildlife here.

       Higher still the ground begins to ease back, and larger benches and wooded bowls present; our forests this time of year are magnificent. Larch trees create pockets of fire sparsely coupled with mountain ash and birch or aspen; the ubiquitous vine maple. The high country opens up at times, revealing rocky outcrops and huckleberry amphitheaters.

       One also finds the source of water here; little swelling springs and gurgling brooks fed from underground shelves and pools. It's very clean and pure in taste.

       The highest ridges are usually exposed rock with the saddles typically a cluster of stunted jack pine, many permanently bowed and twisted from winter snowpack. One finds a quite different environment up here than down below, especially if you're exposed to the almost constant wind out of the W/SW. From around Portland and up the Columbia and out over the Palouse comes our weather, mostly.

       Almost constant wind. At times nature takes a breath and there's a calm. Some of my most peaceful, quiet days have been spent high in the mountain arena with the world at your feet, and not a breath in the sky. Solitary moments only achieved after much toil.

       Other times nature deals a sharp blow; what's the opposite of serenity? The weather can become so fierce as to be frightening. Weather and temperatures can change quickly, and one needs to be prepared for this at all times of the year. Sharp temperature gradients are harbingers for electric storms; at times, one can be hard put to find a safe place, hopefully out of the wind. Any weather is almost always accompanied by moisture. After an hour or so of hiking, I decide to stop for a rest.




       The sun crests the divide, it's rays penetrating the dark forest I'm sitting in at right angles, creating a wonderful array of avenues, halls, and shafts of light. Birds and wildlife become more active when you are still for a time, and I am entertained by their antics. My mind drifts, my body calmed by the sudden warmth of the sun.

       The other day my friend Dave Renner told me "thanks"; because of me he now thinks about things like water and air trapped in plastic water bottles and other airtight containers. Precious resources in high demand now removed from a finite supply already taxed. I cannot help noting things such as these.

       I feel our current assessment of "climate change" is a bit off base; far too shallow actually. And thus our proposals to change or fix things will be misplaced and prove to be less than effective.

       However one believes we got here, ever since mankind has existed on the earth we have taken and used and plundered and hunted and chopped things down. We move stones, turn over the earth, burn mass amounts of timber; all the while generating and disposing of copious amounts of human waste.

       We still do the same thing; it's unavoidable. And since we are part of nature, what we do, good or bad, right or wrong, is natural. It's how and how much we impact that matters. We have a collective quality of life due to strong people in the past following their own examples and convictions. The why is not the debate; the action is merely observed. We may or may not change the series of events unfolding before us, but we can adapt.