I’m doing this post to please a friend who asked about what all the hubub was over Burning Man. She had never heard of it. Since I’ve been there, I have my own very personal opinion. So, Marcia – here ya go. The event is this coming week.

I guess I’m stretching a bit to present what to many is a scandalously misunderstood event in here in my nice conservative, construction and design-related blog, but I feel somehow almost obligated to. I enjoy sharing my life in every way and I obviously appreciate products I consider items of artistic genius.

Please understand, My interest in this popular and controversial event  stems from these underpinnings. There are many sayings and diatribes on how we contaminate reality with belief. I guess that pretty much says it all.

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Burning Man is a week-long event of something more than epic proportions, held on the same “playa” or lake bed where the world land speed record was set a few years ago by the crazed Englishman piloting a virtual jet car at above the speed of sound. Gerlach, Nevada is about 60 miles Northest of Reno and it is an otherwise sleepy, oppressively hot burg of a scattered population of every political persuasion known to man. But the world class events which happen out its front windows are some crazy stuff.

What began in 1986 with a few guys hoisting up an 8′ high wooden “Man” and then setting the sucker on fire on Baker Beach in San Fransisco, has now evolved into something of a virtual culture. This year, 48,000 people will congregate in the Black Rock Desert to participate in this year’s version of Burning Man – a festival like absolutely no other. Here, from the Burning Man’s own website is the timeline and history of the event.

You can see some strange stuff out there!

Nature gets gorgeous and pretty crazy during a stay in the desert like this. One sure needs good shades, some serious sun screen and a ton of water. Dust storms are normal, not rare – it seems every year is good for a nasty, good sized dust storm: Here comes one now!

But Nature also gives………..

It may surprise people to realize that the average age of a Burning Man attendee is around 35. After a walk around, through all the amazingly well-organized streets of campers, sporting silliness and wonder, it becomes more obvious.

Burning Man is a “barter zone” – money is only allowed for use at the Main Tent for coffee, lemonades and for the purchase of Ice. Otherwise, you can leave your wallet back where “civilization” rules. The Burning Man experience is so creative, large and literally engulfing, that you find yourself contributing. In the end, in fact, this is the energy behind the event. It has indeed become something of a culture of its own, led by enterprising artists and Internet-savvy art geeks and it provides a wonder of stuff – nearly indescribable, really. Night time scenes see amazing high tech lighting and nocturnally-inspired art work:

And the “Mobile Art”, lol. The Art Cars have institued their own world of whimsy, now featuring an Art Car Festival in Houston, Texas and a natural outgrowth of the male need to tinker and play, lol. Needless to say, these were always my favorites:

Some are just for fun

Some are more serious:

And these are just the “cars”. The art?

This is what grownups can do, lol…………

A pretty solid visual feast, no matter how you look at it.

Then it disappears – in 3 days, it will be as if no one had even been there.

From these, the Fire Temple of wood, above and two years of The Man below:

2008:

From this……….

To this:

It’s all good, interesting, exciting and always weird  – which is the point. It’s is the single most Artistical Artical Event ever.

Kablooey!

I’ll no doubt place these sporadically because the meat of this blog is landscaping and not all of these figures – in fact only one – is a landscaper. But I also believe we can do things such as this not only as exercises to explain ourselves to others, but to actually honor that which they accomplished. There is always merit in praising those who deserve it. It gives them a wider audience and writing about their influence on myself  supplies information about what they mean to the world – even if it merely my small corner.

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There is no personal rating system which quantifies these values. Just the fact that I simply know what effect their products and work have had on my life. But let me begin with one who talks about a value and a process without which I would not be able to do this blog. I am, if nothing else, about working. The tasks of landscaping – among the many in this kaleidoscopic field – involved serious quantities of dead lifting. I once tried to figure out the total weight of an average day’s efforts, where I moved one heavy thing to another location and I believe I came up with somewhere around five tons. Now, earlier when I was younger, this would have all been moved by hand – moved by wheelbarrow or shovel and rake. Later, of course, I did less, although, because I got smarter and began finding budgets and tools to support machines for the work I had once labored over, I bet the tonnage moves up substantially. Well, anyway, it does not have to be as hard or as onerous as it seems. In spite of how brutal it felt at the times – Lord, how many of those??? – I made out OK, after all. But in the end I thoroughly enjoyed it and I got some spiritual fulfillment from a guy who has always been all over work about the “value of work” – Eric Hoffer.

Eric Hoffer posed himself as The Everyman, although, the truth is he considered himself far more aligned with the stragglers and the “underclass”. He believed that work and the development of a trade which one does well is a rite of passage for young men and that the affluence of the post war period of the 50’s and 60’s contributed to a longer “adolescence”, in that this development was often avoided – sometimes through the advice of parents: “If you don’t get your degree, you’ll be in Viet Nam or longshoring or digging ditches!” He thus earned the title of “conservative” from academics – whom he also criticized for being very desirous of power but who also bit the hands that fed them.  When called an intellectual, he insisted that he was a longshoreman. Hoffer has been dubbed by some authors as “longshoreman philosopher.” Academics had a hard time with Hoffer.

As a kid of 5, in 1907, in New York City, his mother fell while holding him, down a flight of stairs. She died two years later from complications of that fall and Eric lost his sight at the age of 7. He also lost much of his memory as well. It was 8 years later when his sight miraculously returned and one of the prominent desires he had always had came to fruition – he read books like crazy. He remained a voracious reader his entire life.

He moved at the age of 20 to Los Angleles where he figured a poor man could live in such weather. He lived on the street and sold oranges door-to-door until he realized he was a natural salesman and he could make good money. Uncomfortable with that idea, he quit. He was in something of a downward spiral and he attempted suicide and failed but it “scared him straight”. The experience gave him a new determination to live adventurously. It was then he left skid row and became a  migrant worker, and then, after that 5 year phase he took on various odd jobs, finally moving  to San Fransisco in 1941. He tried joining the war effort but was rejected because of a hernia so he did what he thought would help most by becoming a longshoreman at the docks. He settled down and stayed for the remainder of his life, working at the docks until he was 65. He began writing then and even ended up with a column as time went by.

Hoffer’s first book caused quite a sensation: “The Ordeal of Change”.  In a nutshell, Hoffer addresses one of his most fascinating themes, mass movements and mass psychology. I happen to like this stuff as well, but Hoffer always and forever included the working man in his diatribes. Indeed, it is the premise from which this all flows. The most central theme of all, for Hoffer is self-esteem.

Self Esteem

Hoffer focused on the consequences of a lack of self-esteem. He assumed self-esteem is granted by labor and by accomplishment in the real world. But he saw other puzzles of a grander sort when he stopped to analyze the totalitarian movements that caused World War 2.  He postulated that fanaticism and self-righteousness are rooted in self-hatred, self-doubt, and insecurity. As he describes in True Believer, he believed a passionate obsession with the outside world or with the private lives of other people is merely a craven attempt to compensate for a lack of meaning in one’s own life. In this simple assumption is where my own considerations merge with his. Granted that’s a simple bit of logic, yet it tells us much in just that simplicity.

Hoffer always contended that the world was “changing too fast”. To quote Wikipedia’s succinct passage explaining this:

“In Hoffer’s view, rapid change is not a positive thing for a society, and too rapid change can cause a regression in maturity for those who were brought up in a very different society than what that society has become. He noted that in 1960s America, many young adults were still living in extended adolescence. Seeking to explain the attraction of the New Left protest movements, he characterized them as the result of widespread affluence, which, in his words, “is robbing a modern society of whatever it has left of puberty rites to routinize the attainment of manhood.”

Furthermore:

“Hoffer further notes that the reason working-class Americans did not by and large join in the 1960s protest movements and subcultures was they had entry into meaningful labor as an effective rite of passage out of adolescence, while both the very poor who lived on welfare and the affluent were, in his words “prevented from having a share in the world’s work and of proving their manhood by doing a man’s work and getting a man’s pay” and thus remained in a state of extended adolescence, lacking in necessary self-esteem, and prone to joining mass movements as a form of compensation.”

Make no mistake, the actual issues of The Movement during that time were relevant. Women’ Rights, racial equality, corporate accountability, an unproductive war sending 400 kids a week home in bags were all compelling as they could possibly be. They burst through and are as relevant even now. Those times saw the intersection of an incredible number of changing things. Bear in mind as well that that generation were raised with the specter of Nuclear War as real as anything we can imagine. I know my dreams were full of fearsome mushroom clouds and unearthly destruction, too.

For Me

I am a fan. He is the working man’s common sense philosopher who butted his head against the Freudians and the academics of his day, extremely unfashionable yet amazingly penetrating. Hoffer’s lack of a formal college education contributed to his independent thought, and his books remain as insightful and just as classic today.

I recall first reading him and reveling in how much plain common sense it all made. Eric Hoffer hit me like a ton of bricks right when I was most ready for him, I believe. I just felt fortunate to have run across a man who valued work in an era when it actually seemed – and does, still seem – to not matter in people’s assessment of what it takes to be happy. His commentary on the mass movements of modern politics should be primary reading for anyone who wonders how these movements form and how the develop more.

It’s all a puzzle but it also explains my views of life and work. It has much to do with this blog inasmuch as I am working here, too. Since I am working, and since I get some self-esteem from this project, I feel it’s natural to explain why. I do promise this will be a rather final statement about self-esteem. I like it – we all like it – it works to make a body feel good. Everything else is as it should be, I reckon.

After all, we like looking into things.

Making stuff is fun in the end.

“Art Clothing”. What a fascinating concept. Mz. Bare designs what to wear, surrounded by the knowledge that sheer unique artistic license is what you’re under. Jody Bare supplies an incredibly delightful, gorgeous and sumptuous feast of color, silk and images in her fabric art and I am – first of all – intrigued so much by her range and the delicate singularity of her products. Of course, the fact that I have known her pretty much forever makes it even more special.

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Biographical Stuff: For example, I can remember her as a college freshman at Western Kentucky University, courted by my very best friend in the world of nearly 50 years, Steve Bare. There are too many tales involving yours truly and this other miscreant – all true, unfortunately or fortunately. Sure, a few involve excess – but who’s counting??   The short version is that Steve and I met at 12 years old, both the “new guys” in a new town. That we were pretty good at sports and that we each had parents who were tolerant and smart as whips gave us something special right off the bat. For years, Steve and I were inseparable and we have maintained contact, through his tour in Viet Nam and my tour in Korea, through my dislocation to Vancouver and, then his, to Santa Cruz. His marriage to Jody not only probably saved his life, he got his Soul Mate in the bargain. This is, in many ways, a romantic story and Jody Bare figures just hugely in the last 90% of the tale.

Did I mention she’s fun and just a great gal? Well, she is. How close are we? ……Well try this – When you have a bed named in your honor: “The Sned Bed“, in this case, you know you’re close!!

Jody has always puttered around with fabrics. She speaks of her development as an artist on her home page, right here:  http://www.jodybare.com/.  As you browse her brand new site, you can find a product list, with photo’s of some of her stuff, some of which can be seen adorning the ladies in my life. These scarves and fabrics have never disappointed anyone, let me assure you. It earned me some great smiles and Thank You’s, so there’s your proof this gal is a pro.

Jody tends to work in Linoleum block printing. She has mastered coloring, arriving at the inks she prefers. She tends to work on silk – real silk – pressing the block gently and firmly in place at her desired spot. She has always done her very own work, without help. She is explicit about rendering unique, hand made products from her own efforts. This is not only a mesmerizing artist – she is a hard-working one as well.

I’ve decided to make this blog post about Jody because she has entered the “Online Community” for the first real time.  In reality, she has featured her products many places, from San Fransisco to Kentucky and during the great ‘Artist Open Studio’ events in Santa Cruz, California. It is my fondest hope that people will visit her site and browse her incredibly beautiful work. Her style and products are completely “stand alone” items. As mentioned, each one is utterly unique and bears her own unique style as well as her own unique hands on efforts.

Elegant, supremely stylish and wearable. What could be better?

Yes, I am inordinately proud of Jody Bare, great Mom, cool listener and occasional playmate on her husband and his friends’ great misadventures, noteworthy fisherwoman and great – I mean the best – pal. That she does World Class artwork surprises me not at all.

This one’s not about gardening, but that doesn’t mean I don’t think my fellow landscapers and gardeners won’t like it. They will, actually.

No, this one is about a game and a sport and a team. And it’s also about pride and an unsolicited human concern for dignity.

This one is uplifting. We are all better for reading it.

I rob Rick Reilly’s column at least once a year. Two years ago I posted his article on a Texas high school football team who scheduled a team of incarcerated kids. The hosts’  parents made them feel welcomed and like real social achievers – respectable athletes instead of criminals to be feared, by cheering for them by name during the game and by being friendly and open. According to Reilly, the looks on the faces and the happy smiles on the kids as they left made the entire Millennium better by degrees.

This story is quite similar. Once again, Rick Reilly gets my vote a Writer Mensch Of The Year, simply by pointing out some of the touching events which still occur between caring human beings.  Enjoy!

By Rick Reilly
ESPN.com

IndyStar.comMarshall softball players Antanai Coleman, left, and Taylor Stigger try on catching gear with the help of Roncalli junior varsity coach Jeff Traylor.

We live in a world where Peyton Manning walks off the Super Bowl field without shaking anybody’s hand. Where Tiger Woods leaves the Masters without a word of thanks to the fans or congratulations to the winner. Where NFL lineman Albert Haynesworth kicks a man’s helmetless head without a thought.

So if you think sportsmanship is toast, this next story is an all-you-can-eat buffet to a starving man.

It happened at a junior varsity girls’ softball game in Indianapolis this spring. After an inning and a half, Roncalli was womanhandling inner-city Marshall Community. Marshall pitchers had already walked nine Roncalli batters. The game could’ve been 50-0 with no problem.

It’s no wonder. This was the first softball game in Marshall history. A middle school trying to move up to include grades 6 through 12, Marshall showed up to the game with five balls, two bats, no helmets, no sliding pads, no cleats, 16 players who’d never played before, and a coach who’d never even seen a game.

One Marshall player asked, “Which one is first base?” Another: “How do I hold this bat?” They didn’t know where to stand in the batter’s box. Their coaches had to be shown where the first- and third-base coaching boxes were.

That’s when Roncalli did something crazy. It offered to forfeit.

Yes, a team that hadn’t lost a game in 2½ years, a team that was going to win in a landslide purposely offered to declare defeat. Why? Because Roncalli wanted to spend the two hours teaching the Marshall girls how to get better, not how to get humiliated.

“The Marshall players did NOT want to quit,” wrote Roncalli JV coach Jeff Traylor, in recalling the incident. “They were willing to lose 100 to 0 if it meant they finished their first game.” But the Marshall players finally decided if Roncalli was willing to forfeit for them, they should do it for themselves. They decided that maybe — this one time — losing was actually winning.

That’s about when the weirdest scene broke out all over the field: Roncalli kids teaching Marshall kids the right batting stance, throwing them soft-toss in the outfield, teaching them how to play catch. They showed them how to put on catching gear, how to pitch, and how to run the bases. Even the umps stuck around to watch.

“One at a time the Marshall girls would come in to hit off of the [Roncalli] pitchers,” Traylor recalled. “As they hit the ball their faces LIT UP! They were high fiving and hugging the girls from Roncalli, thanking them for teaching to them the game.”

This is the kind of thing that can backfire with teenagers — the rich kids taking pity on the inner-city kids kind of thing. Traylor was afraid of it, too.

“One wrong attitude, one babying approach from our players would shut down the Marshall team, who already were down,” wrote Traylor. “But our girls made me as proud as I have ever been. … [By the end], you could tell they were having a blast. The change from the beginning of the game to the end of the practice was amazing.”

Jeff Traylor/Roncalli High School Roncalli High School’s girls’ softball team demonstrated true compassion to Marshall High.

Roncalli wasn’t done. Traylor asked all the parents of his players and anybody else he knew for more help for Marshall — used bats, gloves, helmets, money for cleats, gloves, sliders, socks and team shirts. They came up with $2,500 and worked with Marshall on the best way to help the program with that money. Roncalli also connected Marshall with former Bishop Chatard coach Kim Wright, who will advise the program.

“We probably got to some things 10 years quicker than we would have had without Roncalli,” says Marshall principal Michael Sullivan.

And that was just the appetizer. A rep from Reebok called Sullivan and said, “What do you need? We’ll get it for you.” A man who owns an indoor batting cage facility has offered free time in the winter. The Cincinnati Reds are donating good dirt for the new field Marshall will play on.

“This could’ve been a thing where our kids had too much pride,” says Sullivan. “You know, ‘I’m not going to listen to anybody.’ But our kids are really thirsty to learn.”

And they are. Marshall never won a game, but actually had leads in its last three games. In fact, it went so well, the players and their parents asked if they could extend the season, so they’re looking to play AAU summer softball.

Just a thought: Major League Baseball is pulling hamstrings trying to figure out how to bring baseball back to the inner city. Maybe it should put the Roncalli and Marshall girls in charge?

Anyway, it’s not an important story, just one that squirts apple juice right in your face. And who knows? Maybe someday, Marshall will be beating Roncalli in the final inning, realize how far it has come, and forfeit again, just as a thank you.

“I’m not a real movie star. I’ve still got the same wife I started out with twenty-eight years ago.”  Will Rogers

It has been an article of faith in my family’s genealogical discussions that Will Rogers was my Grandfather’s  cousin. Actually, more than that – it’s true. Naturally, I am proud of it all, as are all my relatives. My grandfather’s name was Paul Rogers, obviously the maiden name of my very own Mom. I remember one time someone telling my daughter Alena – probably around the 3rd or 4th grade – that they were “descended from royalty”. She was moping and feeling dreadfully “unconnected” to her own ‘royalty’ and she said as much.It reminded me of when I came home all sad and feeling so small over a similar taunting sense of deprivation at about the same age. Then my own Mom told me about our own genealogy. Needless to say, both my daughter and I were delighted to learn some of the facts of our family history. Face it – everyone is. We gain so much by such an in depth look at where we come from – it puts us in touch with the past and makes us curious about the eras when these most interesting people lived. For example, another ancestor of ours came over on a ship with the first settlers in New Amsterdam – New York. Which leads to a small but humorous tale:

I had a good friend named Ed Starkins who still lives in Vancouver, who was all agog about getting a Canada Council Grant to travel to England to help with research on a book he was writing about a murder in Vancouver which took place in 1926. It was an upper class scandal, never resolved, and Ed wanted to open it all back up. Even the research  had some intrigues of its own. Here’s the book: Who Killed Janet Smith? Nice and cheap now, Ed!

Well, my friend Ed was also all hyped up about seeing some of his ancestors in the ‘oldest graveyards in New York City’. It was to be one of the side benefits, especially evocative for him since he was pretty much born and raised in San Diego.

Poor Ed.

When he came back, after what must have been a month away, he had tales of how he was barred from opening 100 year old files owing to the potential damage to family reputations they could cause – all the opium wars, illegal shipping and the likes. These were all fascinating. But he also had a real bummer, experienced in NYC. When I asked him if he had indeed found graves of his ancestors, he said a sad “No, man.” Furthermore, lol……….he said this:

“There were a billion frigging  Snedekers !”

I held my mud, lol, not wanting to hurt him further. It was a great moment and rare. My Spanish friend, a mutual friend to Ed and I, who was raised in an ancestral home in La Coruna, Spain, and whose family has furniture from the 1500’s up in their attic, laughed at us both. Honestly, it’s really all pretty relative. (Pardon the pun.)

Moving right along, now……….being related to Will Rogers meant one signal and very important thing to me. It meant I could study him with some pride of place but – even more important – it meant that I could study him. Irregardless of any genetic attachment I may have, this man was a great man. Since we see so much comedy replacing literal political explanation any more – Jon Stewart comes to mind – we remember Bob Hope, Mark Twain and so many other Americans throughout our history who used humor to literally shed light on our modern problems. Quotes such as these are timeless:-

- The income tax has made more liars out of Americans than golf!

- I belong to no organized party, I’m a Democrat.

- If stupidity got us in this mess, why can’t it get us out?

- People who fly into a rage always make a bad landing 

- Diplomacy is the art of saying “Nice doggie” until you can find a rock. (!!!!)

-  Diplomats are just as essential to starting a war as soldiers are for finishing it… You take diplomacy out of war, and the thing would fall flat in a week.

- (a personal favorite of mine):  I bet after seeing us, George Washington would sue us for calling him “father.” Hahaha.

Rogers had a huge attachment to Hollywood, of course, being in the exceedingly unusual situation of quite literally playing himself in later films as his notoriety increased. One thing about the man, however, and the purest source of all the admiration which was ladled upon him when he was around was his utter humanity. In this day and age, how many men do we know who believe this way?:

“I bet you if I had met him and had a chat with him, I would have found him a very interesting and human fellow, for I never yet met a man that I didn’t like. When you meet people, no matter what opinion you might have formed about them beforehand, why, after you meet them and see their angle and their personality, why, you can see a lot of good in all of them.”

That is pure Will Rogers and that alone is the most respectable opinion I believe anyone can possibly have about life on this Earth.

Most of us know a lot about Will Rogers, so I won’t expound much more on it, other than to say I like paying homage to those who really, really deserve it. I don’t care what the subject matter of a blog is supposed to be, we all have room for Will Rogers.

Movie theaters across the country went silent for an hour to commemorate his funeral and his passing. In 1935, Congress also observed a moment of silence in his memory and CBS and NBC, the two Titans of radio back then, closed off the airwaves for a full half hour in his memory. Will’s obituary filled four full pages in the New York Times.

I think we owe it to ourselves to honor people like this. These guys make us great.

Next: “Stalking the Wild Dandolion!”

(2 notes – 1. – I fully realize this story runs on. It is very long. I advise maybe cutting the reading in two. You can stop at the “Dynamite” section and resume later – that’s about halfway. I had someone read it who thought it too long and I cast about for what to cut and, honestly, I am happy with it as an accurate rendition of the circumstances of the project. 2. -Another thought – the preservation of these stumps was obviously something I wanted. It’s a heartbreaker, in many ways. Just remember that the entire province of BC is one massive tree farm. Plus, you can fit California and Oregon together inside of this massive province. While you and I might deem these stumps priceless – which they are – it is not unusual to see them as impediments. After all, there are literally millions of them. BC is rich in stumps!)

Since I have been plying this trade for so many years, it only stands to reason that I would accumulate a few stories which might make for interesting reading. I do have one or two already in here, one in particular a sort of narrative concerning the construction of the Portland Chinese Garden I was involved with helping construct. I have this one, a tale of an eccentric rhododendron grower in Langley, British Columbia which you might enjoy.

Horror Stories

But I thought it might be interesting to deal with “horror” first.   Now, I don’t want to put thoughts in your head, but I ‘am convinced we all love seeing someone more miserable than ourselves, just as – when “the horror” occurs – almost anyone’s life seems better than the one we are living. I remember thinking, in the midst of some blazing financial or personal tragedy how even Death Row Prisoners had 3 meals a day, a cot at night and  so few responsibilities. Now that’s stretching!!

These are tales that chronicle what may be somewhat typical, actually, of many landscapers. I mean, anyone in business for themselves for longer than a couple of years has to have a fairly impressive stash of horror stories. Since every trade is different, they vary in severity, longevity and in the sources of the horror.

1. The Root From Heck

I obtained a contract from a guy who, by any criterion, would be called “pushy”. Others might call him a straight out “pain in the butt” – and did, for that matter – often. Anyway, he hooked me in by telling me I would have “carte blanche” to landscape an enormous piece of property – (10 acres) – from front to back. The only caveat to the project was this:

“I don’t want any history. Tear it all down and rebuild it!”  OK, um, sure.

What I did not realize at the time was how literally he intended his remark. There was a lake there, fed by an Artesian Well which was very mucked up and which I was going to be happy dealing with. Indeed, this lake spilled into a creek which was terribly overgrown and which would require scraping by machine in order to find the soil and get it to a “blank space”, fit for re landscaping. All this was cool – no, I misstate that – it was to die for. I was ecstatic.

The parameters of the work would be the draining and diverting of the water in the small lake while we scraped all the muck and blue clay off the bottom and sides, complete with the reeds, pussy willows and blackberries which literally teemed there. We would essentially render it blank, as mentioned. The creek itself which flowed from this was in a ravine, right below and aside the house itself – a veritable mansion with a 3,000 square foot foyer, no less. I believe the home was some 20,000 square feet. A giant of a house.

Our role was to install various spillways and waterfalls for the well’s water to spill over, making it a series of waterfalls, fed from the lake above. Points of interest in waterways has always been a lure and a huge strength of mine. I love it. There were around 6-7 of these as I recall. Anyway, so off to work we go. Mucking out the lake was performed by using a good sized pump, feeding about 300 feet of hose to avoid the spillway and excavation work planned in the ravine. The muck and stuff, we were to take to the back of the property and use later to level it all off and sort of reclaim the land from the mess it was. No problem. That was the easy part. We were going to plant clover and alfalfa in the “back 5″ (acres) and he was talking about getting horses or cattle. Since both these plants love clay, it was a natural.

We accomplish the lake cleanout by using a D-5 machine with a bucket for loading the trucks who then take the material to the back area. In the meantime, I hired a 3 yard cleanout bucket on a monster excavator, complete with another D-5 Cat bulldozer for the ravine. It was hugely industrial for a while. Another guy – a local – came by and mentioned he had a large bulldozer to help with and would charge less money – he said he was bored. He had all these toys – even a huge crane – which he had accumulated over the years and ran an auto demolition yard. Fun guy, with toys – who could turn him down? So he came along, too, working in concert with the others. It was going swimmingly.

This is a picture of a D-7, from a stock Caterpillar photo:

The ravine itself had all these old stumps from the first-growth logging which had occurred in the British Columbia forests at the turn of the Century. This had resulted in numerous humongous stumps of old Douglas Fir and Cedar trees which were absolutely fascinating. They secreeted “pitch”, even still, a sort of varnish from old sap which was incredibly flammable and smelled just like some acetone compound. Sticky and moist, I used to fantasize how some of this sap could be older than Jesus. Truly, the stumps were from trees which were a thousand or more years old. There was nothing cooler, in my view than having these remnants of our human and floral past standing around. Add that they made some of the greatest imaginable mediums to plant in. I was excited more each day we worked.

Well, the homeowner comes home and congratulated me on doing a magnificent job of clearing it all and inside a time frame which we had surprised him with. In truth, it had really only taken about a week. We had pushed over these 150-200 foot tall trees which had been dead a while, as well as some he had requested which were alive. Bert, the guy with the toys, had taken away much of them in the form of firewood. The owner was pretty stunned and it left a glow as he spoke, raving about how it was “perfect” – much better than he had even expected. The only glitch, according to him, was those “dam stumps”. “Remember when I said ‘no history’?”

Sitting with his wife at the kitchen table, I patiently laid out my reasons for leaving them – stressing both their historical interest as well as how they could add so much to the landscape for purposes of planting. His wife had very much bought into my rap but he resisted. I’m not sure if it was his macho because he was so used to running things or whether it was a real urge to be his version of a “pioneer” and render it all his domain. We took a walk outside with me taking the behalf of the stumps and he pointing at which ones he wanted out. We argued some and he even came around a bit. It was a tiny victory however. In the end, he wanted about 6 of the 12 or so stumps completely removed. I sighed and agreed, with reservations.

These stumps were about 10-12 feet across. They stuck out of the ground about 6 feet, some maybe 10, and they represent one heck of a lot of work. Some even had other trees – even other species of trees – growing out of them as if they were fertile soil, which, of course, they were. But since we had the huge excavator still on site, along with 2 other strong D-5 and D-7 bulldozers, I figured it would be a snap. Plus, the one virtue of these pitch-laden stumps are in their volatility. We were going to burn the refuse we accumulated and which Bert did not take away. These were your average  “fire starters”, to say the least. In fact, starting this fire would take one match. So, in my sadness at seeing them go away, I at least had the consolation of some relief in terms of the disposal of our currently enormous pile of forest refuse. But I had underestimated the mutual sadness of his wife. It turned out she had advocated leaving them most vehemently. She had been an ally in my urge towards preservation and the entire issue had become a real hot potato inside the home. But that sucker would not budge. I was fully convinced the dynamics inside the home determined the fates of those gorgeous natural stumps. Alas, we moved on to Monday.

Bert’s D-7 had a ’splitter’ on the front which rested on the blade of the Cat- a virtual “spear” which was essentially a long (12 feet) narrow triangle which could penetrate a stump and basically cut it in half, especially aided by the force that a huge bulldozer can deliver. I have never seen one since and I have to believe this was a unique object. I also know he made it himself, a fact for which he was quite proud and I also know it worked…………..to a degree. As it widened and as the machine pushed the penetration deeper, you could often hear a monstrous “Crack!!” as the tree split. This was some brutal technology – like a log splitter applied to a maximum-sized object. We set the excavator nearby who would use the big bucket to split the stump further and eventually dig out or at least loosen up the roots. At the same time, on the other side of the ravine, we placed the D-5 which had about 300 feet of airline-strength cable spun around its winch. We ran the cable to the split half of a stump, wrapped it up and the D-5 would begin pulling, usually never even applying any driving power to get the desired result. It’s heavy weight and the combination of forces were generally all it took to yard some humongous root right out of the ground. We would then use the Cat with the cable to take the remains over to the burn pile, then return for more.

We got 5 of them out of the ground, proud of our successes. You could hear triumphant roars now and then as we succeeded at these gnarly tasks. These trees were definitely stubborn. Meanwhile, the lady of the house watched in horror as the destruction proceeded apace. Clutching her 2 year old, she was visibly crying. It was some sad stuff, unfortunately, casting a real pall over the project, then coursing through every remaining moment we worked there. Sure, I wandered up and spoke to her often. I had actually grown fond of her and we had joked about her old man more than once, the truth is. And I even liked the guy, so this was the banter of a friendly sort. But the rubber was hitting the road on this one now and she was darn near inconsolable. Nor did she blame me or anything like that. Unfortunately, I had made too much sense in my arguments for preserving the stumps. I hugged her and mentioned that there were silver linings, etc, etc. The usual. I also took her boy down to ride on the Cat – now, he was convinced we were the coolest guys who had ever lived, so we had that going for us and she smiled at his obvious relish. He saved us, I am convinced to this day, from curses and voo doo she may have resorted to. The guys were great with him, as well. They sympathized with me and her, actually. No one could understand the logic of removing these priceless virtual organic antiques.

Well, there was only one stump left. We performed the standard operation, with Bert trying his damnedest to split the trunk. But this one was somehow more solid. We attached the winch line to a half we thought would be above a seam in the trunk and Bert pushed in his splitter, Guy used the excavator to help and the D-5 across the creek pulled, even engaging his drive this time. The groans and efforts of the combination of all the machines was absolutely deafening as each strained to accomplish what was becoming seemingly impossible. We tried variations of every move but that dang stump had not even budged – not one inch. We went at it for an hour or more to absolutely no avail. The stump was incredible.  There was only one solution – Dynamite.

Dynamite

Bert mentioned he had a buddy who had some sticks of dynamite. He was licensed for it and all that, having worked for the highways blasting rock for the past 20 years. Bert arranged for him to come out within an hour. It was actually fairly impressive. Needless to say, this was my first experience at using dynamite for landscaping and I would never have guessed how to even go about acquiring a good blast man. Bert smiled at me and winked: “We’ll get ‘er outta there, Steve.”

I wandered up while waiting to apprise my client’s wife that we were about to blow up her property. Nor was this a pleasant experience. “Dynamite??” she responded in horror. I mentioned it was a last ditch effort to get the stump out of the ground. And, to be honest, dynamiting tree stumps is not all that unusual. She called her husband who was all for it, remarking at how resourceful I was. It was embarrassing, actually. I mentioned she might want to go to the store or something because things were going to get hella noisy. But she said she wanted to stay for the whole process. I sighed and went back down to where the arrival of the dynamite guy had everyone standing around him.

He was this 135 pound grizzled old man with 3 fingers on his left hand and no thumb. I looked at him and my heart skipped a beat. I suddenly wondered what the heck I had done to deserve this. Of course, it had also started raining – I left that part out. I began to face a misery which I had never plumbed before. The stresses were getting to me.

The little dynamite guy got shown the tree and made his best guess as to where the tap root was going to be. He placed 10 sticks at that spot wired it up and ran up the hill by me. “Ready?”, he asked and I nodded. He tooted his horn, set the plunger and it went off – “Ka-Bloom!”

The earth shook where we were standing and I could see the other trees bounce in in place. Bert immediately started up his D-7, splitter on, and rammed the tree again. The guy across the creek pulled and the excavator reefed on one of the roots closest to the creek. The roar of machinery recommenced as the smoke from the dynamite wafted across our vision.

The stump did not budge. Not an inch.

After 10 minutes of effort, the cable snapped on the winch and shot back at the Cat like a bullet from Hell. Luckily the cage prevented it damaging the driver or the rest of the machine but I will never forget that sound as long as I live. That was the single most malevolent “hiss” and “pop” in history. The speed of the broken cable line was stunning. By the time the break sounded, it had already smacked the Cat. I could have sworn it was simultaneous.

Our dynamite guy was puzzled, so we got down in the hole and used shovels to try and locate the tap root. Thinking we had found it, we loaded that one up with another 10 sticks of dynamite. Once again, the sound of the warning horn, then the muffled but incredibly loud “Ka’Boom!!” of the dynamite as it went off. Once again Bert firing up the D-7 and once again he headed downhill to lance the stump. This time he actually made a tad of headway, getting through all the way to the other side but the firmness of the stump befuddled any effort towards increasing the split. The excavator roared, the D-5 guy had fixed the cable and stubbornly insisted on another “go” at pulling the stump apart and the same thing happened.

The stump would not  budge.

To make a very long story short, we tried another 8 times to blast that stump. We had used 100 sticks of dynamite in our efforts by the end of this session and the dynamite guy was standing there scratching his head, still. Add that he was now out of dynamite. I thanked him for his efforts and sent him on his way. I walked up to the  incredibly upset Mom and mentioned her dynamite days were over. To say she was relieved is an understatement. The, when I walked outside, I saw a most bizarre event.

Bert had gone around the tree to the top of the ravine. He was now orienting his bulldozer nearly straight down. He was mad. The guys were taking this personal now. Bert got himself about 30 feet above the stump and then just launched himself off a precipice which was probably about 60 degrees. When his bulldozer hit that stump, his splitter went through it almost like butter. The crack of the stump was insanely loud as all its pressure released inside the split Bert had just created. He slid on his splitter as it went through, rising off the ground. He sat there, hoisted literally “on his own petard”, bouncing off the ground, stuck in that stump.

So here we are, we have this immense D-7 bulldozer, stuck into a stump with its running pads literally off the ground! Bert was suspended, all 20 tons of himself propped right up into the air. He sat there for a few moments and he began laughing. Looking at me he asked: “Am I off the ground?”

I looked at the layer of mirth written large across his oil-stained face, smiled and said “Yup!”

The other guys wandered over and we all began laughing. “Dam,” Guy said, “I’ve never even seen that before!” The other guy was laughing as well, some of it in relief as we saw the cracked stump and knew we had gained a purchase.

“Hey, Bert, what’s it like to fly in a D-7?”

It was pretty rich. We also knew we had won. That was not small. Crazy Bert had gotten mad enough to enforce his will on that stump – and a formidable foe it had been. That he risked his life was implicit – but he was somewhere beyond thrilled.

The excavator piled up some dirt under Bert’s Cat and the other ‘dozer came over to ease the journey down by placing the bucket on the tracks and applying downward pressure and we got him out of there. Eventually, we returned to our basic positions and it took about 15 minutes to clear the area, then replace the soil. The stump was out and was added to the pile. After 6 hours on this gnarly stump, it was now dark outside and still raining. But we could not help but feel triumphant. It was with one bizarre mixture of feelings that I drove home that night. The range of emotion during that day was simply astounding.

We had missed the tap root which had uncharacteristically been skewed from its very origins and went virtually sideways into the bank. Bert’s launch of himself in his ‘dozer had loosened the root which had indeed been somewhat damaged by the blasting earlier. The downward pressure released not only the root itself but Bert’s additional great good fortune had come with hitting the perfect spot in a seam running up the stump, splitting it in half.

Later on – a couple days following this, we had the fire which would render all our refuse into a small pile of ash. That the fire went 6 stories high and blanketed the entire neighborhood in soot and ash is another story for another time. It turns out Bert’s crane was a toy which could make epic blazes.