The Northwest Files

Of Bees

You know about bees, right? Pretty little yellow-and-black insects that harvest pollen from flowers, pollinating plants as they go, then use the pollen they gather to make honey? Mostly benign? But you kinda don’t want to piss them off, onaccounta they will sting the crap out of you, dying as a result of that process?

They are of course absolutely essential. Without pollination, plants will not produce. They fail to produce, we have no fruits, veg or nuts to eat. Neither will our pets and other animals. We all pretty much starve. Other insects perform pollination, but bees are the workhorses.

So you’re rightfully concerned that bees are in deep trouble. Or at least you should be.

Don’t believe that? Here, read this:

https://environmentcalifornia.org/programs/cae/no-bees-no-food

The fact that bees are in decline, particularly in California, means many things, not least of which is that the produce and nuts that you buy are getting more expensive.

Why? I just learned this from Laura, who was going over the accounts for the family ranch, which she co-owns with her sister, a ranch that contains 100 acres of almond trees.

Almond trees require pollination. To achieve that, the farmers deploy bee hives in their orchards every spring. My understanding is that the traditional usage is two hives per acre.

In the past, Laura told me, say up to 10 or maybe 15 years ago, the cost was  $40 per hive. This year, the cost is $190 a hive.

So precipitous is the increase in the cost of bees that many almond growers are cutting back the number of hives they bring in. The figure now is maybe 1.5 hives per acre.

What effect will this reduction have on production? Whatever it is, it won’t be good.

So you wonder why vegetables, fruits and nuts are more expensive than ever? Bees are one of the reasons.

I just thought you might like to know.

-JFT

Slipping and Sliding

Interesting winter-driving experiment here today.

Both of our cars feature all-wheel drive. In this case, BMW’s X-Drive. So the systems are either exactly the same, or very similar.

What’s different are the tires on the two cars. Laura’s X3 (my cousin Paul informs me that it’s a terrific “lady car”), wears a set of Bridgestone Blizzak winter tires. My red 330i sedan wears Continental ContiProContact all-season tires.

Last night, we got snow. This morning when I took Laura to the airport, the roads were very slippery with not just snow, but also ice. We took the X3. Things got interesting.

A few hours later when I drove back into town to get what I needed for tonight’s chili, I drove my car, the 330i. The roads were still very slippery. Things got very entertaining indeed.

On ice, which we had here this morning, the Blizzaks were not terribly happy. Great care was required. But we mostly had traction.

On ice, the Continental all-season tires were just crazy. It was later in the morning, temps had risen, the ice had mitigated somewhat. But traction had pretty much taken a vacation.

Result? Seems clear to me that all-season tires are very much not the answer in winter conditions. Some drivers here believe otherwise. In fact, every winter, this is an ongoing debate. My take? Those drivers who believe that all-season tires are sufficient for winter driving here are wrong.

Now: Last winter and the winter before that, we had Michelin X-Ice tires on my car. God, they worked well! But by the end of last winter, they were worn out. Winter tires by definition use really soft rubber, as well as specialized tread designs. So they wear quickly. 

I may have made a mistake by not putting Michelin X-Ice tires on Laura’s car. But I think the Blizzaks, rated above the Michelins by a little, will be fine. I hope.

Oh, what about studded tires? They work really well on ice. But they work less well elsewhere. Plus they tear the hell out of the paved driving surface. So, no.

Bottom line? Lack of traction can be very entertaining! But it is not the way to stay healthy, not the way to keep your vehicle on the roadway. There is no way I would do winter travel around here without winter tires.

-JFT

 

The Marijuana Train

We’ve had visitors this past week, our final batch of a very busy summer. These folks, very old friends, date all the way back to boarding school. So we were thrilled to see them.

They expressed a desire to visit a pot shop. This is not on our usual itinerary when showing guests around, but OK, cool.

As you most likely know, pot is legal here in Oregon, so there are state-controlled pot shops everywhere. The one we visited yesterday, Oregrown, in downtown Bend, is like others I’ve been in: It is clean, neat, well-organized, well-lighted, professional.

We weren’t looking to get high. Rather, we were interested in pot’s healing properties. When it comes to this, there are unbelievers. But one of us, an RN, possesses an open mind. She wanted information. We went to Oregrown to get some.

We came away with information provided by staffers there who were so young that automatically I, a very cranky and professionally skeptical old man, just did not trust.

Never mind. After talking with our disgustingly youthful sales person, I bought a jar of Dragon’s Blend balm, made by a firm called Medicine Farm Botanicals.

Hey, this stuff is not cheap: 2 ounces, 60 bucks. Annie bought some too, different stuff and in a smaller jar. I don’t know precisely what she bought. What I bought is composed of 260 mg of THC and just 15 mg of CBD.

That seemed wrong because THC is the component of marijuana that gets you high, which is not what I wanted; and CBD is the component that has, we are told, healing properties, which is what I wanted. So the percentages, for the result I hoped for, were reversed. I went ahead with the deal, repeating my usual refrain, “I’ll try anything twice.”

We came back home, had dinner, sat around and chatted, then we all retired to our respective lairs, promising to apply our balms and compare notes in the morning.

My area of interest involves my lower back. Several years ago, I had surgery on my lumbar region. The surgery solved the most pressing problem, but left me stiff and sore, unable to stand upright without being very uncomfortable. I’ve been walking around bent over, like the old man that I am, as a result.

So last night before crawling into bed I applied some of my Dragon’s Blend to the skin covering my lower spine. I rubbed in just a small amount and went to sleep, hoping that the listed activation time of 15 minutes was correct.

This morning, to my considerable surprise, I easily walked upright, rather than bent over like the great apes to which I have been so appropriately compared. I had no discomfort from my lower back. None at all.

My co-conspirator also used a bit of the balm she bought. She reported similar salubrious results.

I have lived a very active life, having backpacked hundreds of miles, fallen from motorcycles several times, worked hard bucking hay bales and sacks of poultry feed, so by this point in my life, 75 years having passed, pretty much everything hurts.

But not, for the first time in years, my lower back.

This evening, not quite 24 hours after the first application of my Dragon’s Blend balm, the effect has pretty much dissipated.

But no worries, I have more of the stuff. I plan to use it.

I have little interest in using pot to get high. But if it mitigates the effects of a long, active life that has featured, among other things, broken bones, replaced knees and strained, worn-out joints, I certainly am on board the marijuana train.

–JFT

Snakebite!

Almost nobody likes snakes. And we especially dislike rattlesnakes. With good reason. The bastards will hurt you, maybe even kill you.

This topic arose recently between my pal Stew Crane and me. We got to talking about this and he suggested I scribble a little something. So here goes.

Where we live, this is the season when rattlers become active. Worse, the babies are hatching and they are mean little sonsabitches, freshly hatched and looking for trouble. They are much worse than the adults because when they bite, they always deliver the full jolt of venom. Adults do not always do that.

But wait, let’s back up.

I got onto this topic in two waves. The first wave was during my time with my kids in a Boy Scout backpacking troop. We were doing lengthy trips in the Sierras. I thought it would be good if I took a few first-aid courses. One of them involved dealing with snakebites, since California has more than its fair share of rattlers.

The second wave came later, when I was working as a reporter for the San Gabriel Valley Tribune, covering, among other beats, health and medicine. We had a couple of bites in our circulation area so I did several stories about the risk and interviewed physicians who specialized in treating snakebites. These folks worked at L.A. County/USC Medical Center, in Los Angeles, which is where snakebite patients usually were taken, so they knew their stuff. Also I talked to herpetologists at the L.A. County Zoo. I got some good information.

But wait, let's back up even further.

I was raised on a ranch in California’s Mojave Desert called Rancho Cascabel. Translation: Rattlesnake Ranch. We saw them frequently. And we killed them whenever we could. We shot them, hammered them with jack handles (stupid and dangerous, this), assaulted them with hoes and shovels, ran them over with tractors, and just generally dispatched them in any way we could with whatever tools were handy.

Scared of them? You bet your ass. A more reasoned assessment tells us that if we don’t bother them, they probably won’t bother us. But you never know.

When I was a kid, the local lore had them as deadly even when they were long past their sell-by date. One story claimed that a man died of snakebite after getting a flat tire. Supposedly he’d run over a rattler, a fang had pierced a tire, and he ran his fingers around the inside of the dismounted tire while trying to find the leak. He pricked a finger on that fang and he was history.

Nonsense, obviously. But that was the deal. You didn’t mess with them or take any chances with them.

They are complex and interesting creatures. According to what I remember about all this, rattlesnakes can have at least two kinds of venom. Most of them have venom that dissolves muscle tissue. This is because they have poor digestive systems. The venom starts breaking down the prey’s tissue even before the prey is swallowed.

It will break down the tissue in your hand or foot, if you are bitten there – sometimes, depending on the bite and how soon you get aid, nearly destroying the hand or foot. If you’re unlucky enough to get bitten in a vein, you’re in even worse trouble.

The second kind of venom is even worse. It doesn’t just break down muscle tissue. It also contains a neurotoxin, like that of a cobra, which attacks the central nervous system and is capable of paralyzing the victim.

There are a couple of kinds of pit vipers, rattlesnakes, that have this. The one that’s most common where I’m from is the Mojave green. One of these things bites you, you’re in real trouble.

What to do? The first thing is, don’t get bit. Be wary out on the trail, avoid brush where snakes might be hiding, and most importantly, do not, ever, put a foot or a hand someplace where you can’t see, someplace you're not sure is safe. Never ever reach up to a rock ledge that’s above eye level. You never know who might be hiding there. And yes, people have been bit on the face and head doing exactly this.

Oh, you’ve found one coiled up on a trail? Or you can't see the snake but you can hear the telltale buzz of its rattle? Give it a wide berth. Whatever you do, do not tease it. When coiled, they can strike out to about a third of their total length. Some of them get to lengths of five feet and more so their potential reach is prodigious.

What to do if you do get bit? Over the years we’ve been advised to cut an “X” over each bite mark and then try to suck the venom out of the wound. We used to carry little kits that did just that. That no longer is advised, as far as I know.

Then we were told to tie a light restriction around the affected limb above the bite – not to stop blood circulation, but to slow it. I think that now also is not recommended.

These days, what you’re supposed to do is get the hell away from the snake, remember its marking and coloration, then get to a hospital, fast! But first, remove shoes, jewelry, etc. That’s because the affected area is going to swell something awful. Also, and this is important, keep the bite location at or below the level of your heart. And no caffeine or alcohol – they will just make things worse.

But don’t take my word for any of this, please! This piece is intended to be informational, not authoritative. I am not giving medical advice here. For good information about snakebite, please do go here:

https://www.mayoclinic.org/first-aid/first-aid-snake-bites/basics/art-20056681

Bottom line? Mostly, rattlers – snattlerakes, buzz worms, and all they other names they’ve accumulated, aren’t interested in humans. They are mostly interested in small rodents. Leave them alone, chances are they’ll leave you alone. Annoy them or threaten them, however, and you risk putting yourself in a world of hurt.

Now I’m going to go open a beer to try to shake off the willies writing this has given me, and hope that I don’t have nightmares about this tonight. Yep, I’m still that scared of the damned things.

-JFT

Aftermarket Parts

Lately I’ve been feeling a lot like a vintage car. You know, an old thing that you shouldn’t have bought but you’ve always wanted one and it looked good at the time?

You get it home and find out that it needs lots of work, lots of improving, lots of new parts? That would be me.

Here’s a list of my personal replacement parts:

• Knee replacement, steel (2)
• Hearing aids (2)
• Interocular lens (2)

The knees are 5 and 10 years old, right and left, respectively. They work almost as well as the original-equipment items did. Almost.

These last items are the most recent. The hearing aids are 5 years old but just underwent a major adjustment, so they now work as new, so for a change, I hear pretty well.

The interocular lenses ­– well, these are plastic doohickeys that replace the original-equipment lenses in one’s eyes. They were installed over the course of the last two weeks because of a condition called “cataracts.” Cataracts are common with us older folks. They occur when the water and protein in one’s eyes becomes cloudy. If it gets cloudy enough, one cannot see through it.

I wasn’t quite to that point but was getting there. Now that’s in the past. The surgery takes about 15 minutes per eye and the difference is profound. At least it is for me.

This past year spent singing with the Central Oregon Mastersingers was difficult for me because of these two problems. It was bad enough that I’d been away from choral singing for 15 years and my skills had faded. What was worse was that at times, during rehearsal, I could not hear the conductor’s comments and instructions. And what was even worse than that was that I had a very difficult time reading the sheet music. The smaller the type on the music, the more difficult it was. And some of the type was very small.

Those problems should be gone now. I’m eagerly awaiting the start, in the fall, of the choir’s new season. Just hoping that I don’t have to fish around for new excuses.

Catastrophe aside, I think that I’m done with aftermarket parts. At least for now. Unless another crappy old car finds its way into our garage.

-JFT

The Eclipse Experience

Yesterday was the most amazing day I've seen in a very long time. At about 10:20 am, darkness settled over our area and the temperature here in Oregon's high desert fell to levels more usually seen here in November.

It was, you see, the 2017 eclipse, an event in which Old Sol rendezvoused with his occasional lover, the Moon, kissed her to the accompaniment of a diamond ring and then a thin ring of fire, and then, slowly, returned to brilliant prominence.

Do I have photos? No, I do not. I chose to experience, rather than fiddle with hardware and technicalities. But of memories and impressions, I have many.

For us, this was a day that followed a year of planning. For it was a year ago that our pals John and Ann Scoggins asked us for lodging for themselves and for Gail, John's sister, during this event. Not much later, Paul Thompson, my cousin, asked for the same for himself and his wife, Elaine. Cool!

That set into motion Preparation. Yes. With a capital P. Planning for food, for beverage, for bedding, for activities, for fellowship. And for the event itself.

The big question? Where to park ourselves for optimal viewing that would provide the longest totality experience with the least hassle with traffic, with people? We don't like people!

Our section of Oregon, smack under the path of totality here in the center of the state, contains about 100,000 residents. Estimates indicated that we could expect up to 200,000 visitors. So while the longest totality was maybe 20 miles north of us, we decided that in order to retain our sanity and to avoid inducing in this reporter the state of hopeless grumpiness that is natural to him, we would stay close to home. Very close to home.

We – most of us, anyway – viewed the event from a soccer field maybe a quarter-mile north of our home. This was cut so finely as this: Stay at home, not see totality. Travel north through a few hundred yards of grass and junipers, experience 25 seconds of full totality. This was an easy decision.

So we arrived, greeted the maybe 50 people who had the same notion about this that we did, and set up our lawn chairs for an amazing show.

First, there appeared a bite out of the upper-right quadrant of the sun. This evolved until the Sun resembled PacMan. Then, totality.

The temperature, which had been maybe 80, plummeted. Stars became visible. The horizons were lighted by color, helped, I'm afraid, by smoke from the Milli fire threatening nearby Sisters, which has, as I write this, consumed 10,000 acres.

I think always of Laura. But for this brief spasm of time, I thought only of the wonder of the event, the once-in-a-lifetime aspect of the thing. The diamond ring came and went, the ring of fire came and went, and then, slowly, as the Moon progressed toward the lower-left quadrant of the sun, PacMan appeared again. Through it all the people around us gasped, cheered, laughed, cried, and expressed amazement.

And as with the snap of one's fingers, the event was complete. We folded up our camp chairs, stashed them in the trunk of our car, and toddled on home.

But we were, I think, changed. Perhaps a bit more reflective, bit more introspective, a bit more respectful of our physical world. One cannot witness an event of this magnitude and not be changed, I think.

And now Laura and I are deep in post-event let-down. We've laundered the sheets and towels from our guest rooms, regarded the leftovers in the fridge as we ponder tonight's dinner. We've also achieved, I think, a needed bit of recovery from the stress that always seems to accompany a houseful of company.

We would not change a thing. We were deeply gratified to have witnessed this magnificent celestial event and to have shared it with people we love and admire. But that said, at the end of the day, we certainly are happy to be alone here again tonight.

-JFT

Scandinavian Angst

I am very reluctant to write about this. In fact, even as I write, I'm not sure that I will be able to post this screed, as I suspect that most people probably aren't comfortable hearing about this sort of thing. Certainly I'm not terribly comfortable writing about it. But for whatever reason – perhaps someone else out there is feeling what I've felt and could benefit from this – I want to get it on paper. So here goes:

A friend and I have joked over the years about "Scandinavian angst," which I took as nothing more than an odd, unfunny joke about, or rather on, Danish, Swedish and Norwegian folk. But I also knew that there was something there, something I've felt, and that my father certainly felt, even though he wouldn't have recognized it as such.

In my dad's case, Laura and I thought that probably he suffered from depression. My mom thought so too. He was completely joyless, played solitaire all day when he wasn't napping, and generally lived an unpleasant last decade of his life.

For the last couple of years I've realized that I've become very like my dad. I have been taking no joy in the things I used to love to do. I napped frequently, my diet was out of control, I sought home and privacy rather than being with people, I questioned my ability and my worth as a journalist and my limited ability as a musician, and I couldn't make myself do things I knew I needed to do.

For example, I went to a medical appointment for something important and was given a prescription I badly needed. But I couldn't make myself go to have it filled. Came straight home instead, the only place I could bring myself to go, the place I needed to go. It wasn't that I didn't want to go for those meds; it was that I couldn't go. Laura went and got them for me the next day.

Clearly, something was amiss.

I was troubled by what was happening, or not happening, and at the end of the day, I didn't want my behavior to be like my dad's – no offense to him, he had many admirable qualities. But he missed a lot of life's joy and for me, this would be unacceptable.

So I went to my doc and reported what was going on.

He asked a number of questions and then said, "Jon, those are the symptoms of depression."

He wrote me a prescription for a substance that increases the production of certain chemicals in one's brain that help produce a feeling of well-being. Trolling the Web for information suggests that science isn't exactly sure how/why the stuff works.

I came straight home from that appointment. Again, I could not bring myself to head to the pharmacy; just couldn't do it. Had it filled the next day.

But once I got my hands on the stuff? It seems to work, in a subtle sort of way. I don't know how much of an impact it is supposed to have, or whether my doc will adjust the dosage. These are things I will learn down the road. It's early days, in other words. But there is progress; it seems to be having an impact on the way I live life. I guess we shall see.

So, depression, the black dog, Scandinavian angst, whatever you want to call it, apparently there are effective treatments. I'm hoping that over time, mine continues to be effective.

–JFT

 

I'm Not Superman

As some of you know, I recently underwent a spot of surgery. This was aimed at solving a problem called spinal stenosis, which was wreaking havoc with my legs and knees.

I thought, "Well, fine, no problem." That's because I'm never ill, ever; and because I've undergone umpteen orthopedic procedures, including three knee replacements, and I've always bounced right back. And I mean, right back.

But this time has been different. I came through the surgery just fine, problem apparently solved. But I exited the hospital with a couple of stubborn infections. My doc has a handle on both and I'm feeling pretty good, though Laura and I both are gobsmacked at the concept of leaving the hospital sicker than you were when you went in.

But never mind. It's all good. I've told Laura I'm now ready to hunt bear with a broomstick. More to the point, I'm ready for a little trip we have planned.

Here's the conversation that followed during a chat about a return to normal activities:

Laura: Oh, no, you don't, buster. You are not Superman.

Me: Oh, yes, I am!

Laura, thoughtfully: Well, OK, maybe you are. But you're an older Superman.

Well, just how do I counter that? She is, of course, correct. As she always is. So we're still going to embark on our little weekend adventure. But I will practice as much discretion as I'm capable of, take it easy, let the meds continue to do their work.

Because this business of getting older is not for wimps. But it also is not for people who give up easily.

-JFT

Belief vs Knowledge

I'm interested in, and more than a little puzzled by, the dichotomy between belief and knowledge.

I've been thinking about this within the context of a book I've been (re)reading. Its title is "Hard Road West, History and Geology along the Gold Rush Trail," authored by Keith Heyer Meldahl.

This is good stuff and highly recommended (available from Amazon), especially for we Californians, and especially for those of us who are interested in the Gold Rush and in the incredible diversity of geologic forms that are found all over the state.

But it's just a tiny section, a couple of paragraphs, really, that got me thinking and scratching my head. They're found in the early part of this work, where the author is discussing the early days of the science of geology, the early writings of the fathers of that science, and the familiarity with those writings possessed by at least some Gold Rush travelers.

Meldahl writes, "By the mid-nineteenth century, most scientists had accepted both the evidence that the Earth is very old and that gradual, uniform, present-day processes, operating over immense spans of time, have created most of its geologic features."

In fact, he points out, a seminal book called "Principles of Geology," written by Scotsman Charles Lyell in the 1830s, was known to some of those making the trip from staging points on the Missouri River to California's gold fields.

Meldahl points out that in their letters and notes, these travelers remarked upon the geology they were seeing, and they did so from Lyell's perspective.

So let us classify the information upon which they based their observations as knowledge, observations confirmed by science, even though it was incomplete - the critical discovery, for instance, of plate tectonics was still more than a century in the future. But Lyell understood the basics and so did some of those who read his book, even as their fellow travelers attributed, in their own writings, what they saw to the hand of a divine being.

I'm puzzled by this: Here we are more than 180 years later, with a vastly greater and much more provable understanding of the Earth and its history and processes and with much more widely spread education, but belief, at least among many, seems to trump knowledge. Still we have people who believe, for instance, that geologic features and changes are the result of a divine being, that Grand Canyon was formed in a week and that Earth is 6,000 years old. They are able to ignore, in other words, what has been established, settled science for nearly 200 years.

It's my understand that most of organized religion's recognized thinkers discard these beliefs. But out the greater world they seem to persist, with folks choosing belief over knowledge.

I used to tell the reporters I worked with, when asking them to check a source or gather additional information for a story, "It's better to know than to not know." It seems that not everyone agrees.

Better to say, I think, "I just don't know," than to hew to a point of view that relies upon belief but that has no scientific basis - a belief that can't be proven by the scientific method, in other words. Perhaps it all comes down to emotion vs. intelligence, with no thoughtful balance between the two. I'd hate to think that it's something that elemental, but it just might be.

-JFT  

 

Saving Face

I get these little pre-cancer growths on my face and scalp. It's the wages, my doc tells me, of allowing myself to get too much sun when I was younger. Right. I think of it as the inevitable result of bring a ranch kid who worked a whole lot out in the alfalfa fields.

My dad, who also was out in the fields, fought almighty battles with skin cancer, eventually losing parts of his nose and ears, along with huge tracts of skin. I've seen what happens when attention to this is not paid. So I pay attention.

Lately I've had a persistent one of these growths. Had it frozen off. It came back. Had it frozen off again. It came back again.

OK, time to get serious.

The doc told me that while the liquid-nitrogen freeze is "the gold standard," when that doesn't work, she prescribes a salve - or she cuts to the chase and cuts the troubled area out.

This time she prescribed a salve - very expensive stuff - that she sez will do the trick. Three applications, on successive days, are required. Thank god for health insurance.

First day, application one: Not much happens, feels like a cool, light, slippery goo.

Second day, application two: Something definitely is happening. When the light, slippery goo comes into contact with the target area, it feels like I've just applied a coating of sulfuric acid.

Third day, application three: To say something is happening is an understatement, like saying that habañeros are hot. When the light slippery goo comes into contact with the target area, if feels like I've just applied nuclear waste that eventually will melt my skull and what little gray matter it contains.

This makes me very happy that three applications are all that have been prescribed, as I have no gray matter to spare.

It's now a week after application one and the crusty, scabby, dried skin that covered the target area after application three did its work has mostly flaked off. This means that I no longer look as though a makeup artist from "Star Wars" has been at work on my forehead in an attempt to make me look reptilian.

I am keeping fingers crossed that this will do the trick. Can't shake the notion, however, that I would have been better off to just allow the doc to wield her scalpel and be done with it. I mean, everything she cuts off could be counted as weight loss, right?

-JFT