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Saturday, May 20, 2017
East Oregonian
Page 5A
Waylon and Sylvia: A love story
I
believe in free public education at all
levels.
In the last year before school
consolidation, I taught nine students in a
wood frame schoolhouse, way out on the
hard red winter wheatfields of northwest
Montana.
There was no school
bus. The students were
delivered to the chapped
building by wind-wrinkled
mothers smelling of
diesel, clabbered milk
and manure, who drove
stubnosed grain trucks
and Pontiacs with singing
shock absorbers. Through
the slumping panes of
the teacherage’s kitchen
window, I forecast the
day’s attendance by
counting the dust plumes
that boiled out of the
Sweetgrass Hills and converged on the
section-line roads.
I had long hair and had seen the world
beyond Great Falls, so I was a bug in a
mayonnaise jar to the kids, to be viewed
through a shell of cautious politeness until
it was determined whether I raised welts or
spat stinky fluids. The younger ones softened
first. By Columbus Day we were claiming
a corner of Rasmussen’s wheat field for our
school by planting a flag in the dusty stubble.
Shortly afterward I was J.D., one of the
gang, to most of my students.
But not to Waylon, who, at age 12, had
read most of Louis L’Amour and believed
it possible to live as a gunfighter. Hormones
were gathering behind his dinnerplate-sized
belt buckle. He focused on fair Sylvia’s scant
breasts during history class. To Waylon I was
an outlander, an agent of change, someone
bent on jamming mathematics between him
and his bull-riding future.
In the puncture weeds at the perimeter
of the pea-gravel parking lot were several
ant mounds. Waylon’s courtship of Sylvia
consisted of carefully working his freckled
hand and lower arm into
an ant hill, until it was
swarming with a black
scurry, then chasing her
around the schoolyard
yelling “Ant Arm Man is
going to get you! Ant Arm
Man is going to get you!”
During one such
episode of cowpoke
foreplay, Sylvia went
down hard on both knees
against the lip of the
concrete pad that anchored
the flag pole. Restrained
tears fogged her glasses.
“Darn you, Waylon. I’ll get you.” These
were strong words from a fundamentalist
farm girl who dressed as her grandmother
had.
Waylon booted rocks down the road
ahead of us. I was angry. I told him to cut
the crap, to try a little tenderness, that Sylvia
was in pain because he had worked an old
joke one too many times, and that I didn’t
like pain, intentional or accidental. He’d
better settle down before I called in the big
dogs, his folks and Sylvia’s. Waylon tipped
back the bill of his tractor hat, checked the
clouds, flashed a coyote grin and said, “Yes
sir, Mister Smith, sir.” That night a cold
front sneaked over the Canadian border and
covered the schoolyard with a foot of snow.
For Christmas I bought each student a
harmonica. By Valentine’s Day, with Sylvia
Waylon, at
age 12, had
read most of
Louis L’Amour
and believed it
possible to live
as a gunfighter.
sitting first chair, we were a one-song
band, playing “The Streets of Laredo” to
an audience of aquarium guppies. Science
afternoons were spent in model rocketry,
firing chunks of balsawood and cardboard
way, way up into the huge crystal skies.
Physical education occurred when we
trudged through the snow a mile downwind
for the space ship retrieval.
A wind that smelled of crawdads whistled
up from the Missouri River breaks in early
April. Overnight the snow was gone.
One sunny morning, after the yellow clay
had dried enough to permit play, Sylvia and
Janet asked if they could take the new canvas
bases outside and design a softball diamond.
Sure, but keep in mind the windows and the
thistles.
Each team had a pitcher, a first baseman
and a couple of roving fielders. I was both
teams’ catcher. Waylon captained one group
and chose Sylvia, Janet, and the two first
graders for his team. Sylvia was unusually
aggressive in demanding that her team bat
first.
Of course, Waylon was the leadoff hitter.
He punched the first pitch through the hole
where a shortstop would have been, a clean
single, but the girls knew Waylon so, as he
wheeled up the baseline toward first, Sylvia
and Janet yelled “Take two, Waylon! Take
two!”
When he made the turn, going for the
double, they changed their chant to “Slide,
Waylon! Slide! Slide!” and he slid headfirst
into a busy community of red ants that had
recently been covered by second base.
He came up swatting, spitting and
slapping. He was a tough little hombre, but
I could see that he was in trouble with this
situation, so I hustled him toward the four-
seater outhouse. I left as he fought with his
J.D. S mith
FROM THE HEADWATERS
OF DRY CREEK
belt buckle. Sylvia sat smiling in the swing.
A month later the job ended. On the last
day of school, as I was boxing the artifacts
of my teaching career and packing my truck
to head toward Alaska, I looked out into
the schoolyard and there by the flagpole sat
Sylvia and Waylon, holding hands while
they waited for their rides back into the
Sweetgrass Hills.
■
J.D. Smith is an accomplished writer and
jack-of-all-trades. He lives in Athena.
A river trip
ends in tragedy
A
Drone range a development opportunity
I
hesitate to say that
need to come from a group
something is new in
such as PNNL. And ventures
Pendleton’s economy after
including shipping freight
dashed hopes over the years.
puts distant Pendleton at a
Why has Pendleton not
disadvantage and Pendleton
landed payrolls that have
has a limited number of ready
gone to Hermiston? Several
workers.
reasons.
But the point here is not
If you need bare land
whether Pendleton can grow
Mike
near interstate highways,
to a population of 30,000 or
Forrester becomes the UAS capital
interstate rail and a major
Comment
river, Hermiston can be your
of the West. The question
place. Pendleton has some
is whether Pendleton and
of those features but this town is
its airport can team up with drone
more choosy than Hermiston when it
R&D people and help them. If so,
comes to development. I believe most Pendleton can be a net beneficiary.
Pendletonians favor economic growth
Incorporating drones into farming
as long as it does not change the basic drove early interest in forming a
character of the town they cherish.
test range here. Pendleton sits next
Seems to me Pendleton has to
to the Columbia Basin, one of the
some extent been the victim of its
most productive crop areas in the
own success — as if Pendleton
United States. World War II brought
Woolen Mills and the Round-Up
Pendleton an airport designed to
are proof that this town has it made
handle planes of the Army Air Corps
forever. But the losses of Albertson’s
and commercial airliners out of
and J.C. Penney and declines in
Portland. And the fact that Pendleton
school enrollment remind us that if
is in a rural area of just 17,000 is
you are not moving forward, you are
good because UAS aircraft need
dropping behind.
plenty of space.
Pendleton airport has found itself
The FAA says the data from the
in the research and development
Pendleton test range helps the FAA
aspect of unmanned aircraft systems
in writing flight regulations and
(UAS), or drones.
ensuring that airport users across the
The Tiger Shark is the newest
country can operate cooperatively
aircraft added to the aviation
and safely with one another.
department of the Pacific Northwest
The FAA is known for extra
National Laboratory. Tiger Shark
attention they give to drafting and
collects data related to global climate
revising regulations governing
change. It was developed by a
aviation. It can be frustrating to deal
Pennsylvania engineering firm for
with a cautious agency, but Pendleton
the Navy for reconnaissance. It was
UAS officials have learned to cope.
then adapted by the DOE as a climate
Darryl Abling, the Pendleton
measuring tool.
Range manager, says that in addition
PNNL flight official Pete Carroll
to the Tiger Shark, other potential
sounds enthusiastic about being able
clients have shown an interest in
to use Pendleton’s UAS test range.
using the Pendleton Test Range, but
Chances of repeat business with the
he gave no names.
Pendleton test range look pretty good.
Abling, a 29-year veteran of
But even though the Pendleton
Northrop Grumman in Southern
Range is busy these days, city
California, showed me two facilities
officials wonder if the future will
to house drone test operations at the
bring the airport more than rental
Pendleton airport.
payments from aviation companies.
One is a trailer that can move
After all, the Northwest-based
tech equipment from place to place
engineering for a Tiger Shark would
on the test range. The other is a
12,000-square-foot building that used
to house bank records.
So what is the potential for
outside investment and jobs at the
Pendleton test range? Distance
from urban areas and shortage of
housing and workforce may rule out
manufacturing of drones. So what is
more likely to develop?
Because of the Pendleton Range’s
favorable reputation so far, I would
guess that the PNNL would consider
Pendleton for work on aircraft
beyond the Tiger Shark drones.
Likewise for the FAA’s writing of
drone flight regulations and capturing
data on climate change. Pendleton has
apparently been a dependable partner,
so why not keep using the facility?
Pendleton needs well paying
jobs. Numbers of ag jobs here have
declined as farm ownership has
consolidated.
If there was a prize for filling a
drone test range niche, Pendleton
might get the blue ribbon: Diverse
array of aircraft from science research
to military to medical, distance from
urban areas, nearness to diverse
cropland and forest lands, variety
of weather and climate, nearness to
Tri-Cities.
A rule in economic development
is to build on your strengths.
Pendleton has been fortunate in that.
A flourishing sheep industry helped
start the Pendleton Woolen Mills just
after 1900. And the Round-Up and
Happy Canyon were a natural fit for
Pendleton.
Operating a test range for drones
has been a niche only for a couple of
years. “Make the most of what you
have” is still good advice.
Pendleton city officials are
reportedly planning next fall to start
marketing Pendleton and the test
range for groups in the industry.
I’ll be rooting for that because I
and others continue to meet people
who are glad they have found this
community which offers so many
positive features to its residents.
■
Mike Forrester lives in Pendleton.
LETTERS POLICY
The East Oregonian welcomes original letters of 400 words or less on public issues and public policies for pub-
lication in the newspaper and on our website. The newspaper reserves the right to withhold letters that address
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Daniel Wattenburger, 211 S.E. Byers Ave. Pendleton, OR 97801 or email editor@eastoregonian.com.
s spring returns
roared by too swiftly
to the West,
for us to make a safe
I think about
exit. Then we saw
a day last summer
two guides signaling
when we packed for
to each other across
a rafting trip, never
the river about how
thinking to pack
many of us had been
for death. We took
rescued. And that is
clothes, cameras,
when we knew: One
Andrew
river gear, sleeping
Gulliford of us was lost.
bags and tents. We
River running,
Comment
never dreamed
both in private boats
there might be a
and commercially,
tragedy, a whitewater death
has become firmly established
by drowning. And yet that
in the West. Families want a
accident happened, and our
taste of adventure, cold water
lives were forever changed the splashed on hot skin, yells and
instant the raft flipped.
shouts of excitement, a reason
It took hours for a
to hang on to the “chicken
helicopter to come by, low
line” as the rafts tumble
and slow, searching for the
through rapids. We crave
kind of shadow that reveals
excitement.
where a body might be
Our group had planned
hidden underwater, pinned by this trip months in advance
boulders.
without knowing that a record
Four other rafts were well
snowpack would force the
ahead of us when our raft
dam above us to release huge
slammed into a submerged
amounts of cold water, not
tree and the commercial
only to save the dam but also
river guide yelled, “High
for downstream irrigation.
side! High side!” That meant
These pulse floods are
we had to move fast to the
healthy for the environment,
upside of our raft to prevent
re-establishing habitat for
water from getting into the
endangered fish and bird
low side and flipping us. But
species. But with high flows,
in a tight canyon with the
there is little margin for
river roaring at 9,000 cubic
human error. Now, as the
feet per second, everything
bright sunshine ebbed towards
happened simultaneously. The late afternoon shade, we
survivors were grateful simply
raft tossed all six of us into
to be alive.
45 degree water. I blew out
The next hours blend
the back end and swam to a
together. I recall deep wails
log near an island. I looked
and sobs of grief from the
around for my companions. I
man whose partner was
saw no one.
missing. He kept saying,
It was the first day and
“Why her, God? Why not
the first rapid on a four-day
me? Take me, I’m older.” The
rafting trip. In those seconds
inevitable questions arose
after the accident, as I tried
about the random nature of
to understand what had
death, who dies and why.
happened, I heard only the
Weeks later, I thought
rushing water. Then I saw the
about the hidden complexities
upside-down raft bobbing
of the situation. Here we were,
furiously in the river, caught
trapped in a canyon, and yet
in the kind of submerged
also caught between some of
tree that river-runners call a
the West’s other competing
strainer.
activities, things like farming
I stayed on the log,
and irrigation, activities far
debating whether to try to
removed from river running.
get to the island, when our
The Bureau of Reclamation, I
guide appeared out of the
had learned, would not slow a
thick willows. He saw me
scheduled release from one of
and patted his head. I patted
their big dams — not even to
mine in turn to signal that I
retrieve a body.
was OK. We couldn’t hear
There were 28 passengers
each other over the sound of
on the trip, and among them
the river. He turned around
were grandparents who’d
and melted back into the
brought their grandchildren.
brush, and I stayed a few
I hoped those children did
more minutes on the log, my
not blame the river. We had
impromptu sanctuary.
chosen to be in the wilderness,
In 20 years of river
and that choice had
running, I’ve experienced
irrevocable consequences.
plenty of flips, but this one
Snow is melting now in
felt different. I reached the
the high country. Rivers are
island, removed my lifejacket
and helmet and tried to dry off high from snowmelt, and
rafters launch with a sense of
as the sun climbed the cliff.
nervous expectation. To every
Then one of the couples who
river runner and every excited
had been in the front of our
passenger: I wish you safe
raft appeared, both of them
barefoot because the river had passage.
■
ripped their sandals off. We
Andrew Gulliford is a
hugged.
contributor to Writers on the
We explored the island.
Range, High Country News.
On both channels the river