4
Wednesday, August 26, 2020 The Nugget Newspaper, Sisters, Oregon
Tales from a
Sisters
Naturalist
by Jim Anderson
My marvelous
mentors
Editor 9s note: Long-
time Nugget columnist Jim
Anderson is hanging up
his spurs and moving to
the Willamette Valley to be
closer to family. His final
columns for The Nugget
celebrate the mentors who
helped him along the path
of a long and fulfilling life
in nature, aviation, and
journalism.
My life has taken many
turns because of the won-
derful people I9ve met along
the trail who have mentored,
influenced and cared about
me.
In 1945, while serving
on the USS PCS 1384, my
shipmates and I decided to
ride the bus from Key West
to Miami and celebrate my
advancement in my motor
mac rating. That trip was
one of the dumbest things I
ever did.
When I awoke behind a
sofa in the Sheraton Hotel,
my whites a mess and feel-
ing like I was going to die,
I panicked. When I discov-
ered it was Sunday afternoon
and I was about to miss (or
already had) the bus back to
the Navy base in Key West
I thought my world was
coming to an end. The little
sub-chaser was heading out
to sea Monday morning and
if I missed it that meant a
court-martial for me.
I ran to the bus stop with
all I had, and lo and behold,
as I turned the corner where
I hoped the bus would be,
not only was it still there,
but the driver was waiting
4 on the sidewalk.
When he spotted me
running he shouted, <Hey,
Andy, come on, boy, we9re
waitin9 for ya9. I told your
pals you9d make it!= I don9t
remember his name, but I
can still see that wonderful
Black man waving me on.
People who care make
life worth living&
I was so fortunate to have
crossed trails with so many
commendable individuals
who exerted great influence
on my life as I stumbled
along.
My first son, Dean, is
named for my Oregon fos-
ter dad and mentor, Dean
Hollinshead of Hollinshead
Park in Bend. Ross, my sec-
ond son, for a hero I met
who drove an ambulance in
World War I, took care of his
sister all her life, and col-
lected birds with two of my
birding heroes, Finley and
Bohlman of the early 1900s.
And another son, Reuben
Phillip, for Reub Long, who
wrote <The Oregon Desert,=
and Phil Brogan who I9m
about to tell you about.
By 1959 I was a bud-
ding writer for the Bend
Bulletin, under the guiding
hand of my mentor in geol-
ogy and newspaper writing,
Phil Brogan 4 another per-
son who cared about people
4 author of <East of the
Cascades= and hundreds of
stories for The Bulletin and
The Oregonian.
Phil and I became pals
shortly after I rolled into
Bend in 1951 on my trusty
1947 Harley. I became a
powder monkey for Bill
Miller 4 another man who
cared about people 4 in
his pumice mining opera-
tion west of Bend, close to
where William E. Miller
Elementary School stands
today.
I was continually discov-
ering volcanic <things= that
completely mystified me as
my working partner Darrel
Stevenson and I were drill-
ing blasting holes in the vol-
canic ash overburden con-
cealing the pumice Bill was
after.
Phil Brogan became my
walking and breathing geo-
logical encyclopedia and
enriched my life beyond
description.
In the long years we were
pals, Phil also discovered
something about me I didn9t
know: I was looking for
something more fulfilling.
Chasing coyotes, owls, and
eagles wasn9t quite enough;
I needed another dimension.
He pushed me into writ-
ing. But not being trained,
PHOTO COURTESY BY JIM ANDERSON
Jim Anderson and the OMSI Space cruiser, the museum’s 26-passenger
Ford bus.
it was difficult for me to
dot the i9s and cross the t9s.
I can still recall one inci-
dent: Phil had given me the
task of writing what <cub=
reporters called, <The police
beat,= the recent activities of
the local police department.
I was working hard on
the piece, pounding away
one finger at a time on the
typewriter, trying to make
sure I was doing it write
(pun intended), when Phil
came up behind me.
Phil stood there look-
ing over my shoulder, then,
with a soft sigh, reached
over, pulled the paper out
of the old Royal, sighed
again and said, <A naturalist
you are, but a reporter you
W e’re
OPEN!
ain9t= (sic), and with pencil
in hand, sat down and began
to edit what I had typed up
(write or wrong)&
But he never let up, and
slowly the words I put on
paper began to mean some-
thing. He gave me more to
do and seemed to be more
satisfied with the results that
opened more doors for me
to explore in the world of
journalism.
I can still recall the con-
gratulatory call I got from
him in the mid-1960s when
The Oregonian published
my first nature column about
the arrival of snowy owls in
Portland in the paper9s new
magazine section.
I was off&
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