James McGillis - Teacher, Writer,
Shaumbra              *   *   *    *   *   *
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   _WELCOME. I AM JAMES MCGILLIS._ 
   [30]To
 view the  Moab
Live webcam, plus other live webcams
from  Southern Utah, click on the webcam
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  To ensure easy return visits, please
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  On the  Moab Live
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  To view or purchase Moab Jim
[31]
 original artwork and gear, please visit
MoabJim.com. 
-------------------------
  Ave. of the Giants, Humboldt, CA
[32]August
1, 2010 
A COASTAL REDWOOD FOREST EXPERIENCE
 Driving north on U.S.
Highway 101 in Northwestern
California, enticing road signs abound.
See the “Trees
of Mystery” in nearby Klamath,
or divert to Old Highway 101 and
experience the “Avenue
of the Giants”. The Trees of
Mystery is an ersatz tourist trap with
an energy bridge to the land of Paul
Bunyan. The oversized scene became
complete when they installed an overhead
tramway and a giant statue of Paul
and Babe, the blue ox. On the other
hand, the Avenue of the Giants is a real
place featuring not much more than
redwood trees. 
 In this case, the trees are Coastal
Redwoods, indigenous to the Northern
California Coast and nowhere else in
the world. Most tourists who happen upon
Humboldt
Redwoods State Park do not realize
that it is the largest contiguous old
growth redwood forest in the world.
Comprising 51,000 acres of redwood
enclaves, interspersed with dry brush
and bisected by the South
Fork of the Eel River, this is a
place of contrast.  
 Entering Avenue of the Giants from the
south, one exits Highway 101 near Phillipsville.
In order to enjoy the unique scenery of
a Coastal Redwood forest the motorist
has no choice but to slow down. If you
try to speed-tour the redwoods, you will
find yourself tailgating others who may
wish to enjoy their redwood experience
at a slower pace. Many motorists who I
observed were unwilling to slow down,
roll down their windows, and take even
one deep breath. Many, it seems are
unable or unwilling to enjoy unique
scenery at a leisurely pace. 
 Many redwood trees are over one
thousand years old. Most humans are less
than one hundred years old. In order to
bring one’s energy into alignment
with that of a redwood forest, one must
therefore slow down by a factor of ten.
In order to let harried travelers pass
you by, be prepared to pull aside often.
The only alternative is to keep up the
competitive racing game that most
motorists play each day on the highways
of America.  
 If you do elect to detour from The
Redwood Highway, plan to stop early
and often along the thirty-two mile
Avenue of the Giants. Once you commit to
traveling on The Avenue, if you race
ahead, you will travel too fast to see
the quiet alcoves and turnouts available
to the slower, more discerning motorist.
If it is your choice to speed, please do
slow down where people are walking along
the highway. Even as you try to
speed-tour the redwoods, remember to
respect your slower and more deliberate
brethren. They are not lesser humans.
Perhaps they have learned to take a deep
breath and then enjoy nature in ways you
may not.   If you do stop along the way,
be prepared to be a magnet for others
who do not know where to stop or how to
enjoy a forest experience. As soon as
possible, turn off your engine, unplug
the ear buds from your iPhone and let
the rear-seat DVD spin to a stop. Listen
to the stillness and peace of the forest
environment. Only then will you receive
your invitation to enter the realm of
the forest dweller, which all humans
secretly crave. As early
humans sought shelter under the
canopy of the forest, they absorbed
instinctual memories. Embedded
in our human DNA, those instincts
guide us back to these sacred spots. 
 We live in a world dominated by three
dimensional time-space reality (3DTSR).
Most people believe that 3DTSR is the
only reality. Stopping long enough to
let the fast-paced energies of the
highway subside is a challenge for most
tourists. Don’t we have to be
somewhere soon? What will happen if we
cannot make it to our next stop before
dark? Should we stay and enjoy this
unique forest experience or just
“beat it” down the road?
Although it feels unique to each
individual, each motorist feels the same
struggle. Each wants to enjoy the
forest, but to do so quickly. The
pressure is to absorb what we can and
then move on down the highway. 
 When compared to our human lifespan, we
know that redwoods are by nature
eternal. If we do not take the time to
see them now, we have the reassuring
belief that they will be here next time
we pass by, and the time after that, as
well. If you do slow down and stop among
the redwoods, you will see the last of a
dying breed. We can measure their death
in centuries, not days, weeks or months,
yet die they must. What we see is both
the largest intact tract of Old Growth
Coastal Redwoods and a relict
forest, isolated from others of its
kind by miles of grasslands and
chaparral. If we wish for this forest to
thrive, we must stop and appreciate it
at a pace befitting the redwood pace of
life. 
 Over the years, vehicles have hit
almost every large redwood that stands
near The Avenue. Whether it was a
Model-A Ford or a Maserati, the tree
always won. The soft bark of a redwood
acts like a shock absorber for the tree.
Given that a coastal redwood can grow to
enormous size and height, no
high-powered sports car is going to
uproot or topple one of these forest
giants. In an earnest effort to protect
the redwoods and errant motorists,
reflective metal road markers demarcate
almost every roadside tree. 
 In this redwood forest, one must accept
his or her solitude in short stints.
Seemingly, another SUV is always right
around the corner, speeding toward your
location. Vehicle speed is an indicator
of the connectedness or disconnectedness
its occupants currently feel. Why stop
to smell the redwoods? From the flight
deck of his or her luxo-cruiser, the
speedy driver can experience it all in
fast motion. 
 If not to experience the forest with
one's own senses, why come to this
ancient forest at all? Anything less
than bodily entry into the forest is a
synthetic experience. With more than a
century of motion picture magic behind
us, we accept almost any recorded video
as part of our 3-D, time-space reality.
Many 3-D IMAX movie houses are located
in national parks, adjacent to museums
or other natural wonders. In a redwood
forest, those humans who retain their
ancestoral forest memories can help
their unconscious counterparts to
reclaim their own natural heritage. 
  By  James McGillis [33]
at 05:23 PM | Environment [34]
| Comments  (0) [35]
| Link [36]
-------------------------
 Port Orford, OR - Of Bears & Deer
[37]July
8, 2010 
A FRONT YARD IN CEDAR TERRACE ESTATES
 In late May 2010, I began an extended
visit to Port
Orford, Oregon. My mission was to
finish cleaning and preparing my
mother’s former home and property
for rental. Although Port Orford
straddles U.S. Highway 101 in Southern
Oregon, it is remote from any sizeable
population centers.    Seventy miles
north are the twin cities of Coos
Bay and North Bend, Oregon. With a
combined population of under
thirty-thousand, full services are
available there. Eighty miles south of
Port Orford is Crescent
City, California. With a population
of less than eight thousand, it has full
services, but with a small-town feel.
Other population centers on the Southern
Oregon Coast include Bandon By
The Sea, Gold
Beach and Brookings,
each with fewer people than Crescent
City.  
Interstate
Highway I-5 is the nearest
Interstate Highway to Port Orford. It
runs north and south through the
interior of the state. From Port Orford
to I-5 in Grants
Pass, Oregon is one hundred
sixty-five miles. From Port Orford to Eugene,
Oregon is one hundred sixty-seven
miles. Reaching either road connection
to I-5 takes over three hours.   Because
of its remoteness, I planned to stay in
Port Orford until I finished packing,
cleaning, staging and preparing for
rental of the 1900 sq. ft. home and its
1.72-acres of mixed
coastal forest. Deferred maintenance
on the property and my mother’s
preference for natural surroundings
meant that I had work to do, both inside
and outside the house.  
While at the property a month earlier, I
had rehabilitated
the driveway with a new coating of
gravel. Since the driveway is almost one
hundred yards long, I strove to keep the
“country road” look,
conserving a strip of moss and grasses
down the middle. Upon my return, it was
time to see if rainfall had sustained my
greenery. Had any grass filled-in where
I had raked gravel off its delicate bed?
  By August 2009, Port Orford running
total for annual rainfall
was forty-seven inches. Early this
May, the running total for 2010 had
exceeded seventy-seven inches. With
daily rain throughout much of April and
May, grass had sprouted from the
composted-encrusted seeds I had sewn on
the driveway only a month before. At the
house-end of the driveway, the grass
between the two tracks was tall enough
to clip.   
When entering Oregon
via U.S. 101 North, Brookings is the
first town that you encounter in Oregon.
Brookings likes to tout itself as being
in the heart of the "Oregon
banana belt”, claiming that it
has warmer temperatures in the winter
than other towns along the Southern
Oregon coast. Locals in Port Orford
would scoff at anyone who claims that
Port Orford is part of any banana belt.
Although there is more than enough rain
to grow bananas, in April and May, local
temperatures often hover near 50 f. In
order to enjoy the Port Orford climate,
one must enjoy intermittent or sustained
periods of cool, damp weather.  
Black-tailed
Deer thrive throughout the mixed
coastal forest and wooded lots of the Port
Orford Cedar Terrace Tract. If one
is driving near sunrise or sunset, it is
wise to proceed slowly up or down 18th
Street, which is the entrance to
Cedar Terrace from town. As the road
leaves the City of Port Orford, the
two-lane road changes names to Vista
Drive. In midday and all night, it
is rare to spot a deer in the area, but
in the early morning and late afternoon,
the woods seem almost alive with deer.  
Often grazing in herds of five to ten,
Black-tailed Deer graze on almost any
new, green growth, including poison oak.
Only plants that have a distinct gray
cast are out of favor for nibbling. One
morning, I opened my front door to find
a herd of four females, led by a single
buck. Since it was early in the growing
season, the buck’s antlers
remained short and covered with soft
tissue. Rarely staying in one place for
more than a minute or two, this herd
disappeared into the extensive network
of deer trails that crisscross the wilds
of our front yard.  
In addition to well-worn deer trails,
there are many Black
Bear trails in the woods, as well.
Because of their propensity for hiding
in heavy undergrowth, one can easily
locate bear trails in the woods. Where
the undergrowth is the thickest, they
will use their bodies to clear neatly
trimmed "tunnels" in the foliage. Such
passageways are about four feet wide and
three feet high, which give you a good
idea of how large a bear is while
walking on all four feet. To follow one
of these trails, if one were foolish
enough to do so, would require crouching
down and clamoring head-down through a
blind alley. I wondered what would
happen if I had entered one of these
“bear tunnels” from one end
and a bear entered it from the other. 
 Speaking of bears is all that we can do
here, since sightings are rare in Port
Orford. Still, the bear-shaped
passageways all over the area hints
strongly at their presence. Wednesday
nights are the favorite time for bears
to visit the Cedar Terrace Tract. That
evening, trash containers stand along
the roads, seemingly ready for the
pickings. Early each Thursday morning,
Curry Transfer & Recycling (CTR)
trucks pick up whatever the bears left
inside the containers. Only a strong
splash of ammonia inside of the trash
bin will keep bears from dragging any
fragrant trash bags into the forest for
further inspection.  
Cedar
Hollow Drive and then back to the
house. In order to further enjoy the
solitude of a nighttime walk in the
forest, I carried no flashlight . In the
dark, I made my way by the feel of my
shoes on the gravel of the driveway.
With no moon to light my path, only the
feel of hard or soft material beneath my
feet kept me on course. I thought, "If I
cross paths with a bear, he will likely
be more afraid of me than I am of him".
One Wednesday evening, I took a
nighttime stroll down the long driveway.
I walked from the house to    The
next morning, I noticed something askew
in the open-top waste bin that sat near
the driveway. Overnight, someone or
something had tipped a heavy futon
cushion upright in the bin. Now, most of
its length stood above the side of the
bin. Upon closer inspection, I could see
several large, muddy paw
prints on the fabric of the futon.
Claw marks extended out from each print.
It was then that I realized that
overnight, a bear had visited my front
yard. While sniffing out a small garbage
bag, the bear had used one mighty
forepaw to lift the fifty-pound cushion.
  Soon, I found two of my small garbage
bags torn open, their contents strewn
around in a clearing behind the waste
bin. Having found nothing there to eat,
the bear deposited a scatological
calling card and then departed. Had
the bear watched me walk the up and down
the driveway the previous night? I consoled
myself by thinking that bears only come
out in the dead of night, when nothing
is stirring. Either way, that is the
last time I shall walk the driveway at
night, under a New
Moon, and without a flashlight.  
Over the years, my mother and my
stepfather had added on to their house
three or four times. Starting as a
rectangular box, including a one-car
garage, it blossomed into a 1900 sq. ft.
home. Now there are three wings in the
front, plus an attached two-car garage
and shop. Inside, I painted both
bathrooms and did touch-up painting
everywhere else. On hands and knees, I
cleaned away any carpet stains. I
cleaned the kitchen as if it were my
own, spending over two hours on the oven
alone. 
 After many days of cleaning, packing
and organizing the contents of the
house, I rested one morning inside my
travel trailer. From my vantage point
inside my coach, I saw a lone
Black-tailed Deer grazing voraciously on
the far side of the front yard. Not
straying far, she quickly trimmed any
adjacent foliage. From the quiet
security of my coach, I shot some
pictures of her activities.   Soon, she
moved off-camera to my left, but then
returned to the clearing. As I watched
in astonishment, a newborn
fawn followed her out of the forest.
Opening my door, I shot several more
pictures of the doe and her young fawn.
Tiny, with a trembling gait, the fawn
appeared to be only days old. Waiting
for the fawn to find and follow her,
mother led child out into the clearing,
and then back towards the forest. As I
continued shooting pictures, the fawn
stooped beneath its mother and nursed.
  After nursing, mother and child moved
toward the side yard, which affords
greater protection from prying eyes.
Still hungry, the fawn dutifully
followed its mother. As quickly as I
could watch and perceive, the bonding
between mother and child was complete. A
few minutes later, I spied the doe,
standing still in the forest foliage.
Likewise, she watched me from the shelter
of her forest redoubt.   Reflecting on
that amazing scene, I wondered if our
front yard was the birthplace of the
fawn. During the thirty years that a
house has stood on that lot, there were
never any dogs or other known predators
on the property. With my mother's quiet
lifestyle, the deer and the bears had
their run of a forest lot comprising
over 1.5 acres. Since this was their
shared home for so long, deer appeared
to be comfortable birthing, nursing and
grazing all over the property.   As I
departed Port Orford on June 17, 2010,
only the ten-cubic yard waste bin
remained as proof that I had done so
much work. Within the hour before my
departure, a large truck backed down the
driveway and then hauled the bin away. I
was ready to leave and the house was
ready for a lucky new tenant to come and
enjoy life in the forests of Cedar
Hollow Terrace. Soon after this
writing, Ms. Robin Banducci at Port
Orford Property Management leased
the property to a long-term tennant.   
  By  James McGillis [38]
at 12:07 PM | Travel [39]
| Comments  (0) [40]
| Link [41]
-------------------------
 Goodbye Arizona - We'll Miss You.
[42]May
20, 2010 
PHOENIX, AZ - LAUGHLIN, NV AND THE
MOJAVE NATIONAL PRESERVE
  In mid May, I drove the 400-mile
distance from Simi Valley, CA to
Phoenix, AZ. Although Arizona was my
former home, I now spend less time
there. With so much time between my
visits, changes to familiar landmarks
are easy to spot. One positive change is
the widening of many freeways throughout
the Valley of the Sun. From Goodyear to
Phoenix, motorists
will find construction all along
Interstate I-10. Additionally, the Interstate
I-17 widening project, leading north
from Phoenix, nears completion. 
  Sadly, the portion of I-17 between Anthem,
AZ and the Sunset
View Scenic Rest Point, near the Bumble
Bee ghost town still rates as one of
the most dangerous highways in Arizona.
On I-17 North, toward Flagstaff, speed
limits of sixty-five to seventy-five
mile per hour are common. Interspersed
on the road are sharp curves, steep
hills and many motorists predisposed to
speeding
and traffic accidents.  
  During
my recent visit, a story in the Arizona
Republic newspaper published
the story of a motorist who lost
control and drove unseen off the side of
I-17. Despite tumbling with his SUV into
a ravine, the injured motorist
successfully completed a mobile
telephone call to 911. The resulting
ground search was insufficient to locate
the motorist. An air search, initiated
several days later, located the motorist
and his son. Officers pronounced them
both dead at the scene. 
  I love All
that Is Arizona. Shortly before my
recent visit, I was disheartened to
learn that Governor Jan Brewer had
signed legislation that places up to
one-third of Arizona residents under
suspicion. That new law requires Arizona
police officers to check the federal
immigration documents of those who they
suspect to be undocumented immigrants.
If unable to produce legal residency
documents, the police officer will then
arrest the undocumented person. We
wonder if police will require
middle-aged white people to produce
Canadian immigration papers. The
propensity for police racial profiling,
conscious or not, tells me that few
white people will have to justify their
residency status. 
  One
can imagine a routine traffic stop
leading to the arrest of a person who
has lived in Arizona since just after
the federal
immigration amnesty of 1987. Would
that person, who has lived in Arizona
for two decades be subject to
deportation, right along with a 2010
border-crosser? If eleven to fourteen
million undocumented immigrants now live
in the U.S. , how busy might we expect
Arizona’s police to be in
confronting and arresting the
undocumented?  
  Today, persons of Latino or Hispanic
extraction comprise about one third of
Arizona’s total population. The
governor’s assurance that police
officers will receive “anti-racial-profiling
training” leaves me cold. As
we know, whether we apply
“positive” or
“negative” energy to any
subject, we will soon get more of
whatever we focus upon. Thus, in
attempting to avoid racial profiling,
there will naturally be more profiling
activity, whether intended it or not.  
  Similar
to discrimination
that Austrian and German Jews
experienced before World War II,
will Arizonans soon report their
neighbors as suspected “illegal
aliens”? Would the act of accusing
one’s neighbor create
“probable cause” for the
police to verify the residency status of
“the accused”? When the law
goes into effect, I expect police
“anonymous tip-lines” to
ring more often. Those communications
lines could soon allow one neighbor to
accuse another of not being a "real"
American. 
  That day, I stopped at Baja Fresh in
Tempe for lunch. During my visit, a
steady stream of people frequented the
restaurant. As I sat and ate, I found
myself wondering what comprised each
individual’s ethnic or racial
makeup. Soon, I realized that I was
engaged in the racial
profiling of Arizona residents.  
  In
1848, the Treaty
of Guadalupe Hidalgo ended the U.S.
Mexican War. At the time, Mexico ceded
large parts of current-day Arizona,
California and New Mexico to the United
States. At their inception, Mexican
Americans outnumbered Anglo
Americans in all three territories.
Native Indians may have outnumbered both
Latinos and Anglos, but their subsequent
sequestration, subjugation and near
annihilation makes their situation hard
to compare. By treaty, all Mexican
Americans, but none of the Indian
Americans became citizens of the United
States.  
  I
hope that any “anti
racial-profiling” training that
local police and sheriff’s
deputies receive is superlative. For
years now, the sheriff of Maricopa
County has conducted document-search
sweeps in predominantly Hispanic
neighborhoods. For a police officer to
discern which Hispanic has a 163-year
citizenship legacy and which one is a
recent arrival is going to take some
great “anti-racial-profiling
training”. What criteria will they
use to decide when to ask someone for
papers? 
  Let us now remember the motorist who
disappeared off the side of I-17,
subsequently dying of injuries or
exposure. Will the Arizona police soon
be so busy arresting undocumented
persons that they will no longer have
sufficient recourses to search
thoroughly for accident victims? As a
motorist, I prefer to see more
“search and rescue”
missions, rather than “confront
and arrest” missions now
sanctioned by Arizona law. 
  With
our time, energy and money, each of us
“votes” for what we like, or
dislike. Arizona’s politicians and
electorate recently used their resources
to whip up bigotry and fear of Latino or
Hispanic residents. Now, this fear
has spread to Utah, where the
legislature is considering similar
anti-immigrant legislation of its own.
When pettiness and bigotry take over the
energies of a “body
politic”, it is time for me to
place my energies elsewhere. Until its
anti-immigrant laws disappear from the
books, I shall avoid doing business in
Arizona. Until sanity and humanity
return, my Arizona visits will be
restricted to necessary medical
appointments. When this is all over, I
hope that the Grand Canyon will still
there. I would love to see that place
again.  
  After
my overnight stay in Phoenix, I visited
the office of Dr.
Gino Tutera in Scottsdale, and then
headed northwest toward Laughlin,
Nevada. There, I spent the night at Harrah’s
Laughlin, Nevada Hotel and Casino.
My elapsed time for the 270-mile trip
from Phoenix
to Laughlin was less than five
hours. 
  Once I crossed the Colorado
River Bridge and entered Laughlin, I
breathed a sigh of relief. For less than
$50, I had booked a River
View, King Room at Harrah's. When I
checked in, the guest services
representative invited me into the
Diamond Check-in Room. There, she
promptly dropped the price of my room to
less than $40, plus tax. The room was on
the fourth floor, allowing a panoramic
vie of the Colorado
River. Throughout my stay, all hotel
services were impeccable. Additionally,
I found the onsite McDonald's and Baskin
Robbins convenient for quick meals and
snacks. 
  During
my stay, there were many Japanese
tourists at Harrah’s. As I entered
the hotel, there was a group of twenty
receiving their individual tickets for
an evening event. Many more enjoyed the
swimming pool, which was just below my
window. On my hotel TV, NHK Cosmomedia
Japan provided their English-speaking TV
Japan channel. Unlike many U.S.
cable news sources, TV Japan featured
unbiased news reporting. If I had a
choice at home, I would gladly exchange
NHK for my current Fox. I love to stay
informed, but prefer my news without an
obvious editorial slant. 
  As I exited the casino that evening, I
spotted a senior couple eating ice cream
together at Baskin Robbins. They were
enjoying themselves so much that they
reminded me of a young couple on their
first date. After passing by, I stopped,
turned back, smiled and then said to
them, "You are the two most sensible
people in this whole place". The woman
jumped about six inches, but the man
smiled, held his hand out and said,
"Thank you". 
  As
my friend, Leonard
recently said, "I really like Laughlin;
my wife does not. I figure it takes me
about as long to drive from Los Angeles
to Laughlin as it does to Las Vegas.
However, there is an obvious difference
between the two. Las Vegas has too much;
Laughlin has absolutely nothing. For me,
it is a great place to get away and do
nothing. I think "nothing" is the
primary attraction in Laughlin.  
  Next to Harrah’s, the Riverside
Hotel & Casino has some things to see.
There is an antique
automobile museum there and a watch
store that sells all sorts of ... uh ...
watches. The town of Oatman,
Arizona is close by. I think Tim
McVeigh hung out there before he blew up
the federal building in Oklahoma City.
Today you can go to Oatman and feed
carrots to wild burros. Descendents of
pack animals brought by miners long ago,
they still wander the streets.” 
  The
next day, I departed Laughlin for Simi
Valley, California. My trip west across
the desert via I-40, then south on I-15
was beautiful. With temperatures in the
80's, clear air and minimal traffic; I
made it home in record time. In recent
years, the Mojave
Desert has experienced extreme
drought conditions. This winter, the
rains swept in and the Mojave
National Preserve now looks green by
comparison. Later, as I approached the
north side of the San Gabriel Mountains
on I-15, heavy snowdrifts there attested
to this year’s wet winter in
Southern California. 
  By  James McGillis [43]
at 06:12 PM | Current Events
[44]
| Comments  (0) [45]
| Link [46]
-------------------------
 Port Orford, OR - A Forest Home
[47]May
11, 2010 
PORT
ORFORD, OREGON - "THE TOWN THAT
CHOOSES YOU."
   Over the past three years, I have
traveled often to Port Orford. First, it
was to help my mother after the death of
her husband of thirty-five years. Later,
I helped maintain her property on Cedar
Hollow Drive, including 1.72 acres
of mixed fir, pine, cedar and other
hardwoods. A three-bedroom home stands
in a clearing at the far end of a long
gravel driveway. Last fall, I helped my
mother move from there to Heritage
Place, an assisted living facility
in Bandon
(By the Sea), Oregon. Next, I began
preparing her property for sale,
expecting to use the proceeds to pay for
her new retirement lifestyle. After she
passed away in February 2010, I opted
not to sell, but rather to prepare the
house for rental. In late May 2010, I
shall make another visit to Port Orford,
completing that process.  
In
Port Orford, U.S. Highway 101
changes names to Oregon
Street. There, the highway is four
lanes wide, with parallel parking along
both sides of the street. Nowhere in
Southern Oregon does the speed limit
exceed fifty-five miles per hour.
Despite signs and flashing lights
warning of the thirty miles per hour
speed limit through the city, many
travelers barely slow down. As often as
not, the local police cruiser quietly
waits for the next speeder to blow
through town. Rarely does he have long
to wait. Announcing his presence with a
quick “whoop” from his
siren, there is no place for a scofflaw
to run or to hide. Some call it a speed
trap. Others will say, “We
warned you, fair and square”.   To
an outside observer, Port Orford appears
to exist in a time warp. With no traffic
signals to slow you down, you might
drive through town in less than five
minutes. If you are looking for
national-franchise businesses of any
kind, you will find only filling
stations, hardware and auto parts stores
there. Almost every other business in
Port Orford is local, both in ownership
and concept. For many businesses in and
around Port Orford, a website is a
curiosity, but not a reality. 
 When I began working on the Port Orford
house, everything outdoors was reverting
to nature, including fir trees that
overhung the eaves and green moss
growing on the roof and in the garden.
Moss is appropriate in the forest, but
when growing on a roof, it indicates
that too little sunlight is reaching the
surface. Twice in the past two years, I
contracted with Blue
Sky Tree Service, in Bandon to cut
dangerous, dead or overgrown trees from
the property. My goal was to lift the
lower reaches of the canopy and to push
back thirty-five years of forest
encroachment around the house.    Inside
the house, there were spider webs behind
each piece of furniture that abutted a
wall. By the time of my departure, it
felt like I had vacuumed out enough
spider webs to knit a sweater. As both
the outside and the inside became
cleaner and neater, I realized that the
property is beautiful, beyond compare.
For five years, Mom’s 2005
Chrysler 300 was almost the only
vehicle to use the driveway. Lately,
heavy service trucks have used the
driveway more frequently. By late April
2010, Port Orford had already seen over
fifty-five inches of rain. The matt of
decomposed forest material that lay upon
the driveway quickly turned to mush. It
was time to apply a new coat of gravel
at each end of the driveway.    Looking
at the driveway from the street, it soon
becomes a double-track, with moss, grass
and other small plants growing between
the tracks. Farther on, the ground is
higher and retains more of the original
gravel. In honor of the natural
surroundings, I wanted that section to
have the undisturbed look of an old
country road. Our goal was to
rehabilitate the driveway, but leave a
swath of green between the two sets of
tire tracks. 
 After several recommendations, I
contracted with Janet
Dougherty, of Bandon, Oregon to
provide the gravel that we needed for
the job. Janet is the owner and driver
of Big Bertha, a fourteen-yard Mack
EZ-460 dump truck. Janet and Big
Bertha quickly spread twelve tons of
freshly crushed gravel for me. They laid
most of the material at either end of
the driveway, leaving the middle section
relatively untouched. Each end received
at least two inches of gravel, plus an
extra pile, which I later hand-raked
into place.    Upon delivery, the gravel
was wet and covered with a thin coating
of gray mud. The mud was a byproduct of
wet crushing the rock. Most city
dwellers are used to seeing washed
gravel, which looks clean by comparison.
In order to see what the gravel really
looked like, I sprayed water on a few
spots, flooding
it until the gray mud ran off or soaked
in between the stones. After washing,
the material showed itself to be solid
granite, three quarters of an inch in
diameter and varying in color from dark
gray to white.    After hand grading the
driveway with shovel and rake, I then
drove back and forth in my 2006
Nissan Titan truck. The wide tires
acted like steamrollers, packing the
gravel down to its base level. After
grading and rolling, our transition from
gravel to concrete is as smooth as a Los
Angeles freeway. In the transition area
between full-gravel and our country
road, I raked fresh gravel off the
median, and then built it up where the
wheels of my truck might roll.  
The next day, my driveway greenbelt
looked sad. We had gouged it, dumped on
it, scraped and trampled it. It rains so
much in Port Orford that unless grass or
moss are well established, soil can run
off quickly. I decided to rehabilitate
it from the ground-up. To do so, I first
applied bags of bark mulch and potting
soil, spreading those materials wherever
growth was thin or damaged.    In town,
I found a grass seed product that
included a moisture-retaining growth
medium, encapsulating each seed. After
sewing the super-grass seed along the
center strip, I raked up some extra pine
needle-mulch and used it to cover much
of my new ecological experiment. Next, I
sprinkled granular plant food along my
new garden path. Finally, I watered the
median, from the pump house to as far as
my hose would reach. Overnight, the Port
Orford area received gentle, soaking
rain.  
On April 26, 2010 we completed the
driveway, and then departed the next
day. With frequent rain reported since
then, we hope to see substantial growth
upon our return in late May. With a bit
of luck, we will have a clean, level
driveway and thriving new growth down
the center of our country road. Whatever
the results may be, we shall report them
here in Early June. At that time, please
return for photographic evidence of
nature’s bounty in Port Orford,
Oregon. 
  By  James McGillis [48]
at 03:44 PM | Travel [49]
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