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[ Thursday, May 15, 2008 13:04 ]

Legacy Journal: Memory Lane: Kodak Moments in Carmel at Mission Ranch

Section:
Personals

Summary:
“Make My Weekend” : A Classic Black and White Colorful Kodak Moments at the Mission Ranch, Carmel-by-the-Sea, CA.

Main:
The fall of 2007 offered an opportunity for the Rochester branch of the family to gather back in northern California with old and new friends, scattered members of the tribe, members of the San Jose Welch family, and son Damon’s buddies from the Empire State, “The City”, and Santa Rosa in Sonoma County for some golf, and --- oh yes, a wedding.

For the Fisks, it was the first formal family wedding in more than thirty-five years.

It was kind of a return to the 1820-1850 Mexican Californio era. The Mission of Junipera Serra was a short hike up the Valley of the Carmel River. Down river, a protected wetland seeped into the Pacific Ocean at a sandy cove just to the west of the fenced Ranch grounds where sheep grazed.

We bunked out in the restored and plumbed ranch out building. Chuck wagon grub and Strong coffee brewed by the grandsons of former vaqueros was available at the cook house at the first light. Horses were stabled on rancheros next to the golf course in Carmel Valley.

The local sights included cypress rimmed pristine beaches and cliffs festooned with native plants and touring plein aire artists. The marine marshes were protected and populated with birds, bugs and aquatic species that could warm the heart of Rachel Carson. Tide pools worthy of attention from Steinbeck and “Doc” Rickets, and shops to tempt the most reticent credit card holder complimented the scene.

A quick drive away was Monterrey, Cannery Row, calamari cuisine, and the historic presidio.

But, the weekend belonged to Rebecca Welch and son Damon.

One of their special guest was 94 year old Grandma Ruth Lear from Oregon who made the gathering a true four generation family event. She jetted in from Corvallis for the Friday evening Groom’s Dinner. The next day it was time for one on one conversation with al the kids, before the sunny early afternoon outdoor wedding, the reception, the wedding dinner, and the following fandango. She did not miss a beat or a photo op.

At 2230 it was time for the younger generation to load into the bus and head out for the Boar’s Breath, a cool basement jazz piano bar in the center of town

The following day it was a burrito BBQ on the beach, a bracing dip in the surf, and final farewell hugs all around.

Here, Ruth is escorted to the beach by two of her eight grandchildren, Damon Fisk from San Francisco, and Jordan Liebbrandt from Portland. She peacefully died recently in the quiet company of family. Her obituary is in the Memorial Week End edition of the Corvallis Gazette.

At the end of the weekend, the bride and groom slipped away to catch a flight to find some rest and privacy in the warm azure blue and bright white of the Aegean Sea, the Greek Isles, and Crete..

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Posted by: webscribe2 on 05/15 at 01:04 PM
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[ Tuesday, May 13, 2008 11:36 ]

Legacy Journal: Haying in the upper John Day River Valley

Section:
Environment

Summary:

“Hay is the foundation of civilization in the northern climes"---- futurist, physicist, and Templeton Award winner Freeman Dyson. Chandler Hereford’s of Baker, Oregon agrees.

Main:

Going Green at Sixteen by Doug Fisk, May 2008

For the Fisks and the Forrests mid-July in the fifies was a time for three generations to gather and Go Green.

On working cattle ranches in the upper John Day Valley of eastern Oregon, haying season was and is serious business and a heck of a lot of fun.

The Forrest ranch is 4,000 acre spread located just up river to the east of the pioneer village of Prairie City. In its “hayday” “the ranch” was a cow and calf operation that shipped 1200 lb, lean and meaty 2year old grass fat steers to the Portland market or to a buyer from Safeway markets. The deal was usually make on a handshake,

One square mile of the ranch was green irrigated wild natural meadow grass that was mowed, sun dryed, winnow raked into rows, bucked up in bunches, and piled into loose two story high mounds using an overshot stacker. It was kind of a 2 weeks blitzkrieg that was hopefully free of thundershowers. The harvest result became winter fodder and the only feed for the herd of carefully bred Herefords. Home grown, individually selected, broad beamed cows, their gestating calves to be, range bulls imported from Red Bluff, CA, this year’s weaners, and last year’s yearlings were all the beneficiaries of open field winter feedings that were hand pitched daily from a low-rider hay wagon. It was a cycle that was self sustaining, season driven and largely powered by machines that had replaced the preWWII one, two, and four horse powered teams hitched to primitive iron wheeled implements.

Now, rubber shod Ford tractors were fitted with mowing machines and blades that were carefully sharped daily, a canvas canopied WWII jeep pulled the winnow rack, and the power hay bucks, pickup victims of road kill that were rescued, repaired and given new life in the winter shop. darted about the field like hounds fetching rabbits. A big green stationary John Deere diesel was outfitted with a long ponderosa pine fork received the catch for overshot loose hay stacking in the field

The machine operators were mostly family high schoolers who gathered from around the state to bunk out at Uncle Orrin’s ranch, help in the kitchen, feast and put on weight around Auntie Christina’s huge table, man the equipment, and shoot some spirited pool in the basement after the evening chores were finished. My red haired teen age cousin John was an only child, so he particularly benefited from the youthful annual gathering of the youthful hay crew.

One memorable summer, Jimmy Howard , a Prairie City townie, and I were the designated power hay buck jockeys. We had a spirited racing competition. Our cockpit perches were open air, the wind was in our unprotected faces, the bugs between out teeth , and our saddle-like seats were unbelted. The game was to see who could deliver the most hay to the stacker from soggy and slippery ditch banks and from the far fences bordering the fields. The hazards included the ignomy of getting stuck in the mud or running a fork down a gopher hole. The competition continued after dinner around the green felt pool table in ranch house basement with Uncle Orrin quietly and approvingly looking on.
.
His ancient fiddle and his player piano was by that time mute and unused upstairs in the parlor where Strawberry Mountain to the south was framed in a picture window.

The times, they do change. The ranch was a major part of my uncle’s life. He had passed on college to inherit the property from Grandpa Clyde. That was the verbal bargain they made made many years prior and he had no regrets. However, were he alive today, he would be saddened, if not despirited, by recent news. The ranch has been sold by the third generation to the Consolidated Indian Tribes of the Warms Springs out of Madris on the Deschutes River near Billy Chinook Resevoir. The tribe is now the largest private land owners in the state.

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Posted by: webscribe2 on 05/13 at 11:36 AM
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