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Of course, we are talking about a noted author. Though
his writing and outreach covers much of the country, he is
not nearly as visible as a Tom Wolfe or Tom Robbins or any
one of a dozen other noted American writers whose books
sell to movie producers. Bob’s Walt Whitman persona
edges him into poet laureate status but doesn’t offer a rich
and famous profi le.
Let it be noted that “Sky Time in Gray’s River” is Pyle’s
brilliant testimonial to a Walden Pond life-style and rural
notoriety. Stand aside, Mr. Thoreau, Robert Michael Pyle is
writing.
The art of writing
Art never comes easily. Long hours haunt a writer.
That’s not a bad thing; it’s simply reality. Not so distant in
our Anglo-Saxon past, four monks might spend two years
transcribing religious knowledge into a single book. On the
edges of their lustrous gilt script, they complained of back
pain, tedium and fatigue. The monks worked dawn to dusk.
Perhaps, we have it easy — or easier.
But Robert Michael Pyle is ours, the admired
and beloved butterfl y monk, writer and poet of the
Columbia-Pacifi c.
The draw of the river
I stopped in after an appointment in Longview, Wash-
ington — please get in line with the other graybeards with
bad joints. I chose the road less traveled. That’s the Ocean
Beach Highway that snakes along the Columbia River and
into the Deep River and Naselle Valleys, an evergreen par-
adise that still retains a green sway on beauty after a cen-
tury and a half of clear-cut logging. Other than Duffy’s
Irish Pub (charming, original, clearly rural), eateries are
rare here. But the natural beauty of this county lured Pyle,
or as I call him, Bob, to his pioneer home. A Yale gradu-
ate with a Ph.D. in Butterfl ies (he is a lepidopterist from
the Yale School of Forestry and Environmental Studies), he
fell for the Grays River Valley on his fi rst visit, ignoring his
fi eld assistant’s insistence that they return to Portland and
get a big city meal. Instead, Pyle turned onto the old cov-
ered bridge and looked up the hill. The painted white Victo-
rian was love at fi rst sight.
Pyle knows what he likes. He fell headfi rst for his late
wife, Thea, as did most everybody who had the good luck
to fall under her trance. Weaver and printmaker, she lured
those in the rural valley with her intelligence, talent and
natural beauty. Thea passed away from cancer six years ago
and is missed by one and all.
A quick hello
On this winter day, the house and library were clut-
tered. “Rearranging,” Pyle declared. “Fifty
years of collecting and writing books.” At
least, two dozen are his own. His latest book
was a novel, and he has a book of Columbia
River poems and pictures coming out soon
with the noted Cathlamet photographer, Judy
Vandermatenn.
His fourth book, “Wintergreen,” swept
most of us away with the same force as Gray’s
River during freshet. Of course the timber
companies roared their disapproval. Bob sol-
diered on.
A half-dozen butterfl y books, the latest being
the Butterfl ies of the Pacifi c Northwest, show
his passion of the elusive winged Lepidoptera.
‘Where Bigfoot Walks’
One might call him a pantheist. Hard for a sci-
entist to proclaim a defi nitive explanation of a
force (our universe) that expands at extraordinary
speed every second, every day, every year and
Art Cards
Stationary
Jewelry
Ceramics
If You Go
Poetry workshop with Robert Michael Pyle and Florence
Sage
10 a.m. to 1 p.m. Saturday
Astoria Studio Collective, 372 10th St, Astoria, OR 97103
Tickets $35 and can be purchased at bit.ly/pylepoetrywork-
shop
light year at mind-boggling speeds. Pyle fi nds spiritualism
in the green lush forests that he has helped protect for most
of his adult life, a life which also seems to pass at stagger-
ing speed. He and I had to chuckle at the multitude of our
aches and pains.
Undaunted, he was writing today. That is when he
wasn’t shuffl ing books. Or before I interrupted his ded-
icated routine. There’s also a phone call from the direc-
tor of a movie being made from one of his books, “Where
Bigfoot Walks” from the director of a new Bigfoot movie.
Does Pyle believe or doesn’t he? That is the question.
Lucky us. We follow his popular missive, “Where Bigfoot
Walks,” and his career the same way the Grays snakes out
its passage through cow fi elds that unfold lime green and
lustrous in the sway of a summer day.
I wanted to know if the current political war was altering
his affable personality. Best, he said, to surge ahead. “Best
to ignore what can’t be ignored.” He wasn’t happy with
Trump. But there is always new inspiration, and outreach of
the written word remains his mantra.
He inspires
Pyle’s aware of the friction of years on the human body,
but you can’t keep a good man down. He writes, he inspires
and he participates. His art is diverse. He just released a CD
with his Grays River buddy and famous musician, Krist
Novoselic in a musical-poetry collaboration, “Butterfl y
Launches from Spar Pole.” The trio features Krist’s songs
and guitars, Bob’s lyrics, and Ray Prestegard’s back-up
strings.
And Pyle reads poetry regularly in Astoria venues, often
with his good friend and fellow poet, Florence Sage, as fi ne
a voice as any artist who ever launched a poem.
But the river runs on as Pyle drinks his green tea and
forges a new path for new words and his feast of creative
ideas. Aren’t we the lucky ones?
Move on river, move on.
See.
Go.
Do.
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Astoria, OR 97103
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THURSDAY, JANUARY 23, 2020 // 5