up the river

One of my favorite memories from eighth grade arose out of my Oregon History class. 

Mrs. Meyers told each of us to choose a county for an oral report.  For me, the choice was obvious.  Even though we had lived in the Portland area for almost five years at that point, I still thought of myself as a Powers boy from Coos County.

So, when she read Coos off of her list, my hand shot up.  She looked in my direction, pointed, and said:" OK, John.  You have Coos County."

Like Ralphie in A Christmas Story, I simply thought my teacher was mistaken.

She wasn't.  She had chosen my friend John Crayne, who sat behind me, to present on behalf of my county. 

But I recovered by grabbing Coos's neighbor -- Douglas County.  Home to another branch of the Cotton clan.

Most grade school presentations slip into the ether before they even reach the ears of fellow students.  For some reason, mine was stuck deep in the recesses of my mind's basement.  But when we started driving through the Umpqua valley on our drive to Powers, I sounded like a tour guide with glossolalia.

Douglas County has something that exists nowhere else in the world.  Colliding rivers.

The North Umpqua River (top right) and the Little River (bottom right) meet almost head-on at Glide, Oregon.  In the winter, the water creates quite a show as the two streams crash into each other.  In the summer, the water simply jacuzzis around in a deep pool (middle right).

The effect is a little less overwhelming than what I imagined when I gave my report.  It is even less interesting when you notice that the main channel of the North Umpqua has carved a path to the west of the collision point.  Nature has a way of rectifying its oddities.

Further upstream is Zane Grey country.  My grandfather and my cousin's son rate Zane Grey as one of America's greatest authors.  He was perhaps the most egotistical of an arrogant-prone trade.  But there is no doubt that he was one of the world's great sports fishers.

Even though he fished throughout the world, he had two favorite fishing spots in Oregon.  The first was the Rogue River.  He wrote a series of articles about the benefits of the Rogue that attracted groups of wealthy easterners to the river's banks.

That infuriated Grey.  He wanted his own river.  And he found it in the North Umpqua with its steelhead runs.

His temporary camps are gone.  But the river is still there.  Even if the steelhead runs are greatly decreased.

And then there is Diamond Lake.  The Cascades are filled with mountain lakes.  My favorite is Diamond Lake.  I would pick Crater Lake, but it is in a class of its own.  Frozen in amber as a National Park.

Diamond Lake is a working lake.  "Working" in the sense that it is a recreation lake.  Campers.  Fishers.  Boaters.  Swimmers.  Where the wilderness meets civilization.

The last time I was at Diamond Lake was on a 1969 camping trip.  I was in college at the time.  Two of my classmates (John and David), their high school friend Carl, and I decided we would spend a week boating and fishing at Diamond Lake.

The first day there, we rented a boat.  Being college students, we opted for a canoe rather than a boat with an outboard engine.  The cost difference was not great (something like $3 rather than $5).  But we were young and strong.  And ready for adventure.

So, out on the lake we went.  I do not remember catching anything.  But around noon, a northerly wind came up.  Struggle as we might, the four of us could not get the canoe back to the dock on the north end of the beach.

We were eventually blown to the south shore.  There was nothing to do but have two of us walk back to the north shore to rent a boat with an outboard and return to rescue the canoe.

In the end, we paid for two boats -- and were fishless.  But we had more exercise than most college students get in a month.  And we had purchased a great tale for future campfires.

We celebrated at the end of the week by combining all of our leftover food into one large stew.  We started with cans of chili and added a dozen eggs, some bacon, the remnants of a mustard jar, sundry vegetables, and a few items I cannot recall.  We named it in honor of France's newly-elected president.  Chili Pompidou.

It was terrible.  But the French president was not much better.

Of course, not all of that was in my eighth grade report.  But my mother was a far better audience than my classmates.

Who thought I could ever recycle old research?