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Writing Up the Gorge 2016

An anthology of works by authors inspired at five locations in the Columbia River Gorge

presents

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Table of Contents

Editor's Note .................................................................................................................. 3

Analemma Winery ......................................................................................................... 4

Whoville ................................................................................................................................................ 5 The Wind in the Vineyard ..................................................................................................................... 7

Partners ................................................................................................................................................ 8

Cascade Locks Marine Park ........................................................................................... 10

The Joys of Motherhood ..................................................................................................................... 11

AggieBella Bee Goes Camping ............................................................................................................ 12

Kidnapped ........................................................................................................................................... 14

Three Haiku ......................................................................................................................................... 16

Husum Riverside Bed & Breakfast ................................................................................. 17

Just Such a Dream, Just Such a Place .................................................................................................. 18

Fowl Talk ............................................................................................................................................. 19

Traces .................................................................................................................................................. 20 Salmon ................................................................................................................................................ 21

Sanctuary ............................................................................................................................................ 22

Listening .............................................................................................................................................. 23

Hutson Museum ........................................................................................................... 24

Agates ................................................................................................................................................. 25

Because everyone is sick or dying ...................................................................................................... 26

The Treasure Hunt .............................................................................................................................. 27

Patio Meditation ................................................................................................................................. 29

Western Antique Aeroplane & Automobile Museum ................................................... 30

Pilot to Copilot .................................................................................................................................... 31

Breaking Through: The First Women's Air Derby ............................................................................... 32

Go Green! ........................................................................................................................................... 34 The Garden ......................................................................................................................................... 35

Sweet and Sour Fruit .......................................................................................................................... 37

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Editor's Note by Julie Hatfield Welcome to the 2016 Writing Up the Gorge anthology, "Chaos and Miraculous Stars." In August, 22 writers visited five locations in the Columbia Gorge for inspiration. Writers' creations ranged from poetry to fiction to essays, each item limited to a maximum of 500 words. Favorite pieces were featured in a gallery show at the Columbia Center for the Arts in September, and most of the writers shared their work with a wonderful audience during the Literary Showcase in early September. I deeply appreciate generous support from our location sites: Analemma Winery, Husum Riverside Bed & Breakfast, Hutson Museum, Cascade Locks Marine Park and the Western Antique Aeroplane & Automobile Museum. We also received support from Cathedral Ridge Winery, Hood River Coffee Roasters, Hood River Stationers, Slopeswell Cider Company, Stave & Stone Winery and Waucoma Books. Pat Case assembled the anthology (and took some lovely photos). Moreover, Writing Up the Gorge would not be possible without the enthusiastic support of the Columbia Center for the Arts. It has been an honor – and a true pleasure – to witness so much creativity from so many talented artists. As you read these pieces, I hope you feel encouraged to step outside and see where your pen takes you. Image Credits

• Analemma Winery, Husum Riverside Bed & Breakfast and Cascade Locks Marine Park location photos by Pat Case.

• Cover and Hutson Museum location photos by Julie Hatfield. • Western Antique Aeroplane & Automobile Museum photo courtesy of WAAAM.

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Analemma Winery

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Whoville by Barb Ayers inspired by Analemma Winery Golden, glossy grains – amber waves on curvy roads. Sunset silhouettes. Buxom hills. Fertile shapes. Farm gates open, tractor, ready for labor. Rows of neatly spaced trees – vigilant neighbors of tender and ancient vines of future wines. Some young grapes longing to grow up and move away – the rest of us savor sweet and mellow Mosier. Downhill from Analemma winery, I'm drawn to a quiet place, where time stands still and always will. I can't resist. I've never visited a cemetery voluntarily. Massive oak – gnarled trunk – sky-high outstretched arms. The sentry. Patriarch, caretaker, undertaker of dearly departed. He himself, more than 100 years old – keeper of Mosier memories, families loved and lost. Gregarious neighbor fruit trees bear witness. I am – we are – here. Together. Me, in flip-flops, windsurf rig with dogs and gear parked just outside. Chatfield 1848-1909 welcoming me to the yard. It's not fancy, Mosier. She's the soulful one, with much to say if you're paying attention. Super-subtle. Caring for her own. No fanfare. No glossy green grass. No paved walkways. No gilded urns or rows of perfectly aligned flags. Though an ocean of noble veterans here – thank you for your service. My shadow, 2-stories-tall over the final home of James F. Wynn 1869-1901 and Ida, his wife, 1873-1897. So young – wish I knew their story. I send my 50-something heart with my silhouette. James and Ida reply, sending headstone shadows over the Sendlings, one plot east. We all intertwine. This place where the Roots put down roots. Family tree buried 'neath ancient oak. Hewitt. Ireland. Elder. Herman. Some rustic, some elegant. Husbands (including his wife,) Proctor, Evans. Kennedy bench. Mosier generations – all here.

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I miss my family, all living elsewhere, none resting nearby. These are my people now. Some, glossy granite. Some, lichen-laden pioneers. Some sweet, simple tributes. One, AstroTurf. One Elton John "Friends" album, no explanation necessary. It's a Who's-Who of Mosier. It's Whoville. Co-mingled with mole holes, grey diggers, chatter of birds. Empty flagpole clanging – sailboat in safe harbor. Church bell calling to service. August breeze rustles leaves, stillness broken. Red rose scent brought me in from the road. In full bloom! Alone in a sea of dried-out arrangements. Sun sets. Nature's cremation. I feel them before I see them. Red rose in my nose. Their rows – my people. Wilson. One word – that name – overwhelming tears. You Had To Be There. Miss You So Badly – Jimmy Buffet. My relatives – but I know them not. Danita, Grant, Wilson, Huskey. Red, the family dog, Grant "a servant to his community." Donita "a nurturer of quality of life for all." I'm humbled – neither serving, nor nurturing enough. I live in their Wilson farmhouse. On Wilson Road. Sears Catalog home, assembled before Mosier, 109 years ago. Warpy old windows. Century-old hardwoods. In the heart of the cemetery, the most magnificent stone – Mosier. As in Mosier, OR population 430, incorporated 1914, just like the sign says.

About the Author

Barb Ayers is a Mosier resident with 30 years of media and nonprofit experience; winner of six Emmy, 16 Telly and PRSA awards, Ocean Beach Citizen of the Year. She and her pack of rescued surf hounds spearheaded OB's Dog Beach Improvement Project. Visit their dog blog: www.DogDiary.org.

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The Wind in the Vineyard by Kate Gray inspired by Analemma Winery The waiter pours dark garnet wine and fills the bowl of my glass, the wine filling in like a crayon rounding curves, the way my youngest sister as a child filled in a heart she drew on the children's table. My school ring makes a high-pitched clip as I reach for the glass, wrap my fingers under its bowl. Graceful and thin, this glass fits, the weight of a robin in my hand. My head moves to the glass rather than the glass rising to my lips. Everything in me has toppled, has tipped and ripped and heaped on piles. When Tommy struck blow after blow, what I knew slipped off, tipped over, crumpled. Lord have mercy in the hour of my need. The Bordeaux smells of wind in a vineyard, the dry wood that stakes the vines, the wind whipping through poplars in a line, the rolling hills of southwest France, the hands of the Mediterranean man trimming the vines, the water spraying through spigots and tubes. The Bordeaux tastes of sun and rain and grapes plump with redemption, the way my bruises will heal, the way my face will lose the swelling, and once more the dimple in my cheek will sink instead of ache. One more sip, and another, and another glass, and soon I remember the travel by ocean liner from New York to Paris where I walked the gangway to the dock, where I sat before the vanity in my stateroom and patted my face with enough powder to hide all manner of sin, where I packed only dresses and a few francs in a square bag I carried on the ship, and I remember the walk away from Smith as a summa-cum-laude graduate, not walking at graduation because of the bruises and cuts inflicted by my boyfriend. Now it is June, 1953, and I am in the train station in Paris, my bag with dresses and a few francs under my table at a café, the Frenchmen around me sitting alone with glasses of Bordeaux or demitasse cups or smoking thick cigarettes. I am alone and not alone. Mother has sent me out of the States to heal, sent me so no one sees what a Jew has done to her daughter. What she does not see is what her daughter has done to herself, what her daughter believes. The station is loud like my family, and that loud is sacred. To pray I open my whole self, drink the wine tasting like wood and blackberries, and feel my throat singe as if I can consecrate the land that split tribes in the beginning. I pray with my whole self to have a self that will serve a bigger purpose. My God is bigger than Jews and Catholics, Communists and Capitalists, bigger than the Atlantic I crossed.

About the Author

Kate Gray is the author of three poetry collections and a novel, Carry the Sky (Forest Avenue, 2014). In Any More, Black Shoe, her novel-in-progress, Sylvia Plath and Maureen Buckley, the younger sister of William F. Buckley, Jr., wrestle with roles prescribed in 1953 by race, class, gender and religion.

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Partners by Shannon Perry inspired by Analemma Winery Lines of cherry, apricot, and peach trees stretched across the valley. Orchards and fields created a patchwork of green, tan, and brown lined by wind rows of poplar. Paul Franklin raised these peaches the color of sunrise, as had his parents and grandparents before him. He had given up the oily smudge pots in favor of the fans in case of freezing temperatures. Now, that was a change that made sense. Some changes didn't sit so well. He scowled across the road at his newest neighbor's vineyard. Perfectly good cherries yanked out of the ground to set up all those rows of grapes, and for what? Fancy names like Trousseau and Mencia, but could you eat them? No, it was wine that threatened to overtake the valley and beyond. Paul had resisted Scott's efforts at friendliness, preferring to ignore him if they met in town. On this particular morning, though, the peaceful air was torn apart by the hideous screeching of metal on metal, coming from below by the river. Soon, black clouds of smoke rose like phantoms over the hills. "God damn! What's happening down there?" Paul yelled out loud. Scott bolted out the door of the winery and they met on the road. Paul said, "Let's go up to my house. I've got a police scanner and we'll find out what's going on. No use rubbernecking and getting in the way." The men hurried up the porch steps and through the front door. "Oil train derailment, a dozen cars engulfed in flames. Downtown evacuated, moving folks away from the river." Both men knew how long those trains were. Ninety-plus cars, and if it had been the day before, the vicious wind would have lit them all. The foam used to fight fires was impotent against the blaze of oil. The fires had to burn themselves out. In the next couple of weeks, people couldn't return to their homes because the water was turned off due to contamination. Oil seeped into the Columbia, and Paul and Scott joined others laying booms to contain it. Soon the salmon would be running. Eventually, folks returned home and released a shaky breath of relief at what had been averted. They were safe, for now. But all too soon, the investigation into the cause of the derailment was over, the rusty and broken bolts by the ruined track replaced, and apologies made. The oil trains resumed their long march through the Gorge and its towns. The men attended meetings held by the mayor and local citizens. "Can you believe they're talking about adding a second track so they can run twice the number of trains?" asked Scott. "No way," answered Paul.

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"You're not completely useless," said Paul, his thin ribcage shaking with laughter. "And you're not too bad for a geezer," shot back Scott. They shook hands over a pint and agreed they were committed to work together to make sure this never happened to anyone, anywhere, again.

About the Author

Shannon Perry has lived in the Hood River Valley for over 30 years. The valley's beauty inspires her every day, and provides many opportunities to hike and explore. She has previously published in the Yes Book, The Gorge Literary Journal, and the Write Out series in Hood River, Oregon.

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Cascade Locks Marine Park

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The Joys of Motherhood by Katherina Blackmar

inspired by Cascade Locks Marine Park I watch my daughter stare at the water. She wants to play in the muddy sand and splash in the cold, lapping waves. She has always loved the water with a passion that baffles me. The first time she saw the ocean she ran into it with no regard for safety or fear of its size and power. She has never feared the water; to her, rivers, lakes, and oceans are playgrounds waiting to be explored. As I watch her I wonder why. Why does she love the water so much and what does she see when she gazes at the rippling sunlight dancing on its surface? Does her imagination say there are mermaids playing just below her sight waiting for her to join them? Or do they sit on the river bottom braiding their seaweed hair full of shells as they listen to the magical melodies made by the currents sweeping through their discarded harps? Does she hear this music in the sound of fish jumping on the surface or the gentle slapping of the water as it rushes to the ocean? Are there sturgeon playing percussion and salmon playing floating reeds like flutes to complete her aquatic symphony? Does she watch too much Disney? Do I? I follow her eyes as they shift to a sailboat in the middle of the river. The boat's white sail is billowing in the force of the wind as it passes quickly upstream. My daughter laughs to herself as it moves by us. Her eyes follow it for a while and there is a light smile on her lips before she laughs to herself and returns her gaze to the water. I smile to myself because this time I know what she is thinking. I know she imagined the boat out on the ocean being chased by pirates. She smiles because they crew was brave and the captain smart and witty to outrun them, thus escaping such a fearful situation. Or maybe the boat was captured and she laughed because she knows that the pirates have stolen the boat and filled its small hold with gold and jewels to bury inland where no one will look until they can safely sell them. Her attention turns to me now and I can see a thought forming in her wrinkled brow and behind her sparkling blue eyes. She purses her lips before opening them to speak. I am excited to hear the thoughts that have kept her so occupied these last several minutes. She sighs and says, "Mama?" then closes her mouth, saying no more. A moment passes and then I prompt her by saying, "Yes hunny? What is it? You can tell me." She smiles at me and tilts her head to one side. I wait patiently to laugh with her, to share in her innocent and joyful imagination. She smiles and asks, "Mama, what's for dinner?"

About the Author

Katherina Blackmar is a proud mother who loves to share her passions with her daughter whenever possible. She works in the medical field, serving both The Dalles and Hood River communities. Her writing is a newer hobby that she hopes to continue exploring through opportunities such as this program.

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AggieBella Bee Goes Camping by Patricia S. Case inspired by Cascade Locks Marine Park AggieBella Bee was very worried. It was the end of summer, and most of the flowers had disappeared. No flowers meant no food for AggieBella and her sisters back at the hive. AggieBella thought there might still be flowers at a place called Cascade Locks… a magical place in the heart of the Columbia River Gorge. So she flew there, hoping for the best. But instead of flowers, she was surprised to see more campers and hikers than anyone could count. AggieBella noticed that many of them were showing off their tents and sleeping bags… and lots of other things having to do with camping. This made AggieBella think that maybe she could go camping too − high up in the mountain known as Mt. Hood. She was almost certain that there would still be flowers there, even though it was late in the year. But camping on the big mountain would too dangerous for a little bee to do on her own. It was just too far away and too high up to fly. And so, AggieBella decided to text her hummingbird friend Rufus Ruffles, to see if he could take her. Rufus said he would be happy to do so, but that AggieBella would need to have the proper camping gear. AggieBella brightened up at this point and said, "I know just where we can get all the gear that we need!" And so, AggieBella found a hammock to sleep in, a jacket to wear if it got cold, a backpack to carry her clothes, and sturdy boots she could hike in. But then she realized, "I'm just a little bee, and these things are all way too big for me. What am I going to do now?" she cried out loud. She cried so loud, that she woke up Tree Spirit. Tree Spirit said to her, "I can help you little bee, if you would just stop crying." "Oh, please help me Tree Spirit. I'll stop crying right away if you help. I promise!" And so, Tree Spirit waved his branches furiously. He waved them so hard that the air started to thunder, and lighting bolts lit up the sky. And then rain came pouring down, drenching everyone in sight. And when it was over, all of the gear that AggieBella needed had been reduced to a size that was just right for a little bee. "Oh thank you Tree Spirit. I will never forget you!" AggieBella Bee said. And then Rufus Ruffles flew in.

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"Sorry it took so long," Rufus said. "I had to fly through a giant storm. It just came right out of the blue without warning! But we can make up for lost time if we hurry," he added. And so AggieBella quickly loaded up her gear, hopped onto the back of Rufus Ruffles, and strapped herself in. And off they flew, together, to the big mountain, in search of flowers and yummy food that bees could eat.

About the Author

Patricia S. Case spent over 30 years writing for corporations and non-profit organizations. She now lives full time in Hood River, and writes children's books which feature a honey bee named AggieBella Bee. Learn more and purchase her first book, AggieBella Bee: Along the Big River, at her website: www.vistabarn.com.

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Kidnapped by Linda Jo Hunter inspired by Cascade Locks Marine Park So, I couldn't tell them where I had hidden "it." Whatever the heck "it" was anyway. They wouldn't believe they had captured the wrong woman, so they decided to imprison me until I talked. "Twenty-four hours," they said, until torture started. My prison was a stinkpot anchored in freezing cold water. To make sure I didn't swim, they put a chain around me with my left hand tightly cuffed to it. I could move around the boat, but not get away. The three men believed that, just like they believed I knew where "it" was. As they rowed away, darkness come over the water like spilled ink. The men seemed unaware that voices carry real well over water. "Don't worry Pete, she'll be terrified by morning." "Hey, what if we did get the wrong broad?" "It don't matter none. We'll still have to silence her." The sound of their oars faded. I pushed open the rotted wooden doors with my knee and started exploring the boat with my free hand. It was literally a stink pot; an old Chris Craft with the engines yanked out smelling like mold and seagull shit. I found a small flashlight and some matches in a dank drawer under a sagging bunk. There was a kerosene lamp on the scarred and slanting table. The floor boards and hull were so saturated with diesel oil I was afraid to light it with one hand. But, it did give me an idea. I turned off the flashlight and went on deck to listen. Since I had been unconscious for a lot of my time in captivity, I had no idea where I was. There was a tide running, and by studying the navigation lights I could tell it was headed to sea. The boat was being held by two anchors fore and aft. I fumbled around in the galley until I found a kitchen knife. A bit of sawing and I had taken care of the stern anchor. I went below to make sure there was nothing else I could use. In the boat's head there was a cracked mirror. The flashlight revealed gray braids undone, a fuzzy white cloud surrounded my head like thick fog. My eyes were red rimmed and shadowed from whatever drug they used. Yup, I was sure the men thought I was a helpless old lady. When they got back, I would be gone. They couldn't have picked a better place to leave old Captain Psycho Bitch. The hammer I found did the trick on the cotter pin and I let the bow anchor chain ricochet into the black water. The boat swung with the incoming tide. The north night breeze took us to the south shore.

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Aground, I stepped off the swim step as the galley caught fire. I figured a boat fire would keep me warm until help arrived. Nothing like a diesel fire to call the Coast Guard, anyway.

About the Author

Linda Jo Hunter is the author of Lonesome for Bears, A Woman's Journey in the Tracks of the Wilderness, Lyons Press, 2008. Besides writing, she teaches visual tracking, and is an artist. For more information, find Lonesome for Bears on Facebook, or http://lindajohunter.com.

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Three Haiku by Yvonne Pepin-Wakefield inspired by Cascade Locks Marine Park Water Locks Behind the dam flows Nine hundred years drowned out Barges move fish don’t Widow’s Walk Roll on Columbia Past my spot your vein flushing Dead sorrow downstream Ray Sea lion quiet Your brothers slip through locks blow Bubbles of your past

About the Author

Yvonne Pepin-Wakefield, Ph.D, is an artist and author with a home and studio on The Columbia River in The Dalles. Suitcase Filled with Nails: Lessons Learned from Teaching Art in Kuwait, and Babe in the Woods: Building a Life One Log at a Time are her two most recently published books (www.yvonnepepinwakefield.com).

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Husum Riverside Bed & Breakfast

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Just Such a Dream, Just Such a Place by Pennie Burns inspired by Husum Riverside Bed & Breakfast Stepping into the shaded courtyard, my breath catches in my chest! Vines create dappled sunlit patterns on the bricks at my feet, and I know that here is where my dream awaits me. In life, I think it's rare when a real place reflects a recurrent dream, but here I am in just such a place! The vision of many years can come true. Good friends will dine with me, at a beautiful midday meal. We'll embrace before sitting down to our summer Sunday lunch under the green arbor. So happy to be together to share this perfect afternoon! I hear how the wine pours like music. The forks play notes as they touch the plates of food. Every little detail, every note in the score of this lovely symphony of loving friendship, tasty food, and perfect conversation fills and delights my senses. And the talk, such talk! Filled with the lyrics of mutual memories and amused surprises. From the corner of my eye I see a beautiful striped cat chasing a butterfly which playfully eludes him; around the table the talk flits about too, from subject to subject, so easily, lightly. Laughter echoes off the aged brickwork of the cottage and from behind a fence, hens cluck as their sounds blend with voices as light as the fluttering leaves above us. Pausing to look around me, wanting to commit every little detail, every note in the musical score of this afternoon, I look into the faces of friends. Some are more familiar to me than my own face, sometimes very strange to me, as nearly every day now brings some new discovery, some sad little line… Oh! What is happening? Here is the intrusion of a not very dreamlike thought! The beautiful music has ended abruptly, as the hens begin to squawk! I keep my eyes closed very tightly and take a deep breath. Can I get it back? I cross my fingers, then open my eyes wide. It is SO quiet. Have all the lovely people gone? They're still here, around the table, but where are the happy, smiling faces of my dream? I see every head is bowed. Are they praying? So odd to be praying long after the first taste of the meal. I'm praying too! "Please bring back my dream! Why are you all praying? ARE you praying?" No. In the hands of all eight people at the table are phones. "BUT THIS IS NOT MY DREAM!" Now it's the reality of life today. Everyone has ended their attachment to one another, and it's the screens we take into just such a place.

About the Author

A native of San Diego, California, Pennie Burns has loved writing all her life, and was an English major in college with an eye to doing something in the writing field. However, practicality intervened, and she was a high school teacher for 35 years.

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Fowl Talk by Margaret Chula inspired by Husum Riverside Bed & Breakfast the rooster calls out Jack Jack Jack Oliver the cat, not hearing his name, searches for the perfect shade a chicken clucks Unbelievable Unbelievable her beak open wide in the garden, green apples fall only on the weeds a hen cackles I wanna blow this coop! I wanna blow this coop! I debate whether to move down to the river pullets chuckle Hech Hech Hech Hech a hummingbird circles and lands on the Day-Glo hula hoop the rooster is silent what the heck's going on behind that fence? leaf shadows dip and rise with the wayward wind

About the Author

Margaret Chula lived in Japan for twelve years where she taught creative writing at Kyoto universities. Her seven collections of poetry include, most recently, Just This. She has served as Poet Laureate for Friends of Chamber Music and as President of the Tanka Society of America. Visit her at www.margaretchula.com.

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Traces by Rishell Graves inspired by Husum Riverside Bed & Breakfast There are traces of everyone I have ever loved, Things I could never let go of. The sound of laughter, The taste of tears, The way he smiled. A scent that reminds me of one, A song that brings me back to another. Voices that still haunt me, Others that bring comfort. Each is a part of who I have become. I carry these pieces in my heart, The DNA of each lover imprinted on my cells. The light of every star that formed them, Mixed with the starlight of my own soul. Is it any wonder that I cannot turn loose of these parts of myself, Made from the traces of others? I keep each one safe inside, a part of me forever, A big swirling mass of LOVE That has created and defined what I am.

About the Author

Rishell Graves is a musician who finds inspiration and gratitude in the Columbia River Gorge. She writes to heal herself and others.

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Salmon by Julie Hatfield inspired by Husum Riverside Bed & Breakfast I need to be more like a salmon. I realize this as I perch on a flat basalt rock overlooking the White Salmon River, shaded by vine maples and the Husum Bridge. The only discordant note in this pastoral scene is the occasional unpleasant scent, which I finally identify as the smell of wet Airedale. It's exactly what Babe, my grandmother's Airedale, smelled like when she'd return from romping at the beach. Her odor had a metallic tinge, and I wonder if today's scent is coming from the bridge or if it’s the salmon, as there are definitely zero Airedales nearby. Regardless, the smell is not enough of a deal breaker to force me back into the August sun. So I watch the falls as the salmon jump, the slim, dark fish yearning to return to the quiet pools where they can mate and die. If I were a salmon, and I knew that was my fate once I cleared the falls, I wouldn’t try so hard. Instinct has driven these fish to spend every ounce of energy towards their eventual demise. That, or they’ve had enough of this life and they are eager to move on to the next. Fish could be Buddhist, why not? What I am admiring is the ferocious determination of the salmon; that is the aspect I would like to incorporate into my life. To try again and again and again, to battle with every cell towards my own version of success. Occasionally a fish makes a leap that seems easy, other times a fish will wriggle, wriggle, wriggle towards the crest of the falls, only to have gravity yank it back down to the pool below. The most unfortunate fellow will leap but then smack into a slick rock with an audible thwack, then tumble, stunned, back to where it started. I wonder whether that fish is going to try again, or if it’s too injured to continue. Then I notice a fish that is clearly destined to clear the obstacles. It is large and strong and confident, as it launches its athletic arc high in the air. Yet a rafting boat arrives at the same moment to travel down the falls, thwarting the salmon’s perfect leap. The fish had no way of knowing that its timing was catastrophic. I’m not sure whether being run over by a rafting boat, its occupants’ paddles flying as they scream and laugh, high-fiving their congratulations to each other, mortally injured that fish. I hope not. He was handsome for a salmon. Yes, I should be more like the tireless, relentless salmon, constantly striving towards my goals. But there is another animal in this scenario. I don’t see one today, but I’ve seen videos on YouTube and that is enough proof for me. That animal would be the bear, standing in the cool water, massive jaws agape, patiently and passively waiting for a salmon to land in his mouth. He achieves his goals, too.

About the Author

Julie Hatfield is a freelance writer and lives in Hood River. More essays and flash fiction are on her Web site, www.onlineprose.com.

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Sanctuary by Audrey Mlakar inspired by Husum Riverside Bed & Breakfast She had never been this far up the mountain. Following the riverbed, she thought she would find signs of water where others had missed them, but she was wrong. Exhausted from climbing in the late August heat, she came up over huge boulders next to a bridge. A barnlike structure stood open, dusty kayaks stacked inside; they were of no use to her, no use to anyone. Across the gravel drive, she saw a house. Houses made her leery; this one was open and ravaged. It looked empty, but most did, and she was never sure. Just behind the house, she found a courtyard set with iron tables and chairs from Before. With a floor of faded bricks, the courtyard had a fence in the back and buildings on either side. Twining branches, hung with the yellow leaves of another scorched summer, created a ceiling above the outdoor room. The papery leaves made dappled shade, and she shrugged out of her backpack and laid it on one of the tables. She took a sip of water from a metal bottle, swallowed gratefully, then tucked the bottle away for safekeeping. Hidden in the corner of the sheltered courtyard, she lay her head on her pack and slept. When she woke, she blinked against glints of sun poking through the tattered canopy. Looking around, she thought this place had probably been ransacked early in The Emergency. The larger building had been open against the elements for some time; dirt, leaves, and broken glass littered the floor. She opened the cupboards and found what she always found: small appliances and nothing to eat or drink. In the back room, an empty fridge, a commercial stove, and bare shelves. She knew the faucet wouldn't work, but she tried it just the same. No, no water, and she was down to her last few ounces. She dreaded negotiations with the Water Men; it had cost her too much the last time. She crossed the courtyard to the smaller building. It was windowless and made of stone, its door swollen shut. She pried the door open with a rusty shovel, pushed against it, and slipped inside. The air was cool, the wall cold to her touch as she felt her way into the room. A wooden bench ran the width of the back wall, and she sat down as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. She saw a fireplace and the skeleton of a wingback chair, and she remembered her grandmother's house, a Christmas from Before. She shook her head against the image; she didn't have time for memories. As she stood, she realized the top of the bench was a lid, and she opened it and peered inside. Stacked against the cool stone walls were bottles and bottles of water, and even better, bottles and bottles of wine. She sank to her knees against the cold floor, and she cried without tears, her face pressed into her hands. She would negotiate with no one.

About the Author

Audrey Mlakar lives in Hood River with her husband Steven. She is an avid reader and writer.

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Listening by Sarah Sullivan inspired by Husum Riverside Bed & Breakfast This morning I awoke to the sound of a deer running past the bedroom window. Her hooves made thunder under the walnut trees. I pressed my startled face into the cold screen. The deer froze and we shared an ancient conversation, as if whispering across the water. My body commanded, flee or hunt or quiet or something I've forgotten. Her chest pumped in panic. We stared at each other until she finally trotted off. Usually I wake to crows cawing, a car passing, or all of the human worries. I tick down all of my to-dos or all of my losses. I want to enter each day reverent and alert. In the hills above Jewett Creek there are wild roses. I aim for the rosehips in autumn, tart and full of seeds. When I forage I feel closer to everything and I imagine myself as animal, all instinct and sinew. It was when I was doing dishes in my homely kitchen that the moon finally set and the Perseid meteor shower set the sky ablaze. The world is insane, I thought, with all of the chaos and miraculous stars circling us at once.

About the Author

Sarah Sullivan is the Executive Director of Gorge Grown Food Network, a non-profit working to build an inclusive, resilient regional food system in the Columbia River Gorge.

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Hutson Museum

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Agates by Cheryl Hollatz inspired by Hutson Museum Sitting on his haunches as only a little child can do, Anderson sat transfixed, watching the waterline in the sand. Once, twice, he reached out to touch the disappearing line, that place where the lapping lake water quietly pushes up, then pulls back. Pushes up, then pulls back. Anderson was hypnotized by the water as it tapered to almost nothing, then disappeared entirely into the sand. He'd abandoned his sandcastle and the yellow, blue and red buckets and molds lay strewn atop the golden sand. "Anderson? Is everything okay?" His momma called out from her low beach chair, just a few feet from the remains of Anderson's castle. Settled in with a book and iced tea, she watched her small son with his 4T-sized bottom resting on the backs of his heels. The whoosh of a swallow come-too-close broke his concentration, and he lifted his eyes searching for who or what had caused the noise. But there was nothing above, only a blue sky filled with clouds that looked like newly spun cotton candy. He stood up and took a few steps into the shallow water. "Anderson? Don't go in any farther!" His momma set her book down and stood up at the ready. Anderson turned toward his mother, his round moon face beaming at her. He grinned and waved, his eyes squinting almost shut the way they do when his smile fills every inch of his face. "Ma-MA!" he called out and waved a second time. Then he turned back to face the lake, resuming his crouched position but this time in water that came well above his ankles. It was the flash of pearly white that first caught his eye. Bending over to look, he got so close that his nose was only inches from the water. Below the surface he saw other colors too. The sunlight bounced off something orange, but he also saw greens and pinks. Reaching into the shallow water, he opened his hand wide. The warping effect of the water made his hand look disconnected from his arm, so he quickly pulled it out. After a brief inspection to be sure his arm and hand were fine, he again put his hand into the lake. The colors were rolling gently, back and forth, as the water ebbed and flowed. Anderson slowly reached downward and fingered the small colored rocks, one at a time. Drip-drip-drip. The drops of water bloomed as they hit the pages of her open book. Looking up, his momma saw Anderson, offering out a single cupped hand to her. It was filled to the brim with wet agates, water dripping between his tightly closed fingers. From the vantage of her low-slung chair, mother and son were almost nose to nose. "Ma-ma!" he said as he beamed. Then he opened his fingers wide, and together they watched the rocks fall like confetti.

About the Author

Cheryl Hollatz consults in the career assessment industry and trains counselors all over the country, both online and in-person. She lives with her partner in a small purple house where they tend to their gardens and their pups. Cheryl reads, runs, and writes in her spare time.

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Because everyone is sick or dying by Drew Myron inspired by Hutson Museum My mother, who has shrunk to bone and brittle, limps to the kitchen, to make a fancy dessert with a fancy name only she can pronounce and will pour into fancy glasses and present to us, her falling apart family, in an effort to fill us, feed us, love us. And we are greedy for this sweet, this love, this smooth easy end.

About the Author

Drew Myron is a writer and poet living in Hood River. Visit her at www.drewmyron.com.

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The Treasure Hunt by Connie Nice inspired by Hutson Museum, Parkdale Tyler wiped the sweat from his eyes and peered into the brush. Which way? He, Jerry, and Melanie had followed the abandoned train tracks for days; into the dense unforgiving mountains south of the ghost town known as Hood River. They had traveled for months, fighting through the deep crevices of the dry Columbia Gorge. They followed a lead from an old-timer. A legend, of a historic town, and a lost treasure house hidden deep within the shadows of Mt. Hood. They looked back down the valley. Once beautiful with thriving orchards and vineyards, now desolate; empty, after the mighty river dried up, and people forgot their dreams of rural living, and moved into the concrete jungles of the cities. The tracks were barely visible now through the brush. How much farther? Thump! Tyler's machete hit something hard. "Hey, over here!" he shouted. One more whack! The shape of a large wooden door appeared through the dry vines. After years of research, false leads, and dead ends, had they finally found it? Was this the treasure house they sought? They carefully stepped inside as Melanie ignited her illumination stick. In the dim light they saw an assortment of old decayed objects. Some were inside big wooden boxes with broken panels of glass. Others were piled in corners. Dusty, moldy paintings hung in rows on crumbling walls. "What kind of place is this?" Tyler asked. In the middle of the room, they found a strange-shaped metal box with a glass monitor. As they touched the screen, the box lit up. A voice echoed through the room. "I am IRIS. Intelligence Research Information System. Please state your question." "Wow, an old-school IRIS system. I've always wanted to see one of these." Jerry said. "IRIS, what is this building?" "This building is a museum," explained IRIS. "A museum?" they echoed. The irritating robotic voice responded by spilling out her extensive knowledge of the word museum. "Museum; A building in which objects of historical, scientific, artistic, or cultural interest are stored and exhibited. A storehouse of objects treasured by a specific community or group of people." "So, a museum is kind of a treasure house," Melanie said. "Maybe we've found it after all?"

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They began to document the items that appeared to be the most significant. A Siletz Indian trade necklace from 1920. An albino muskrat with beady pink eyes. "IRIS," asked Jerry, "who did these items belong to?" "To the people of the community of Parkdale," IRIS responded. "What's the history behind them?" IRIS paused. "Unable to calculate request. Insufficient information. The stories are forgotten." The light stick in Melanie's hand began to fade. The glass monitor began to flicker. Tyler asked one last question. "IRIS, why are the stories forgotten? Why weren't these items saved?" IRIS responded, "My function is to preserve knowledge. Preserving artifacts and their stories is the role of humans." With that last word still echoing in their ears, IRIS stopped. The room went dark.

About the Author

Connie Nice is a freelance writer with a passion for history and enjoying life to the fullest! She balances her day between family, writing and her day job as co-owner/baker and chief dishwasher at the Husum Riverside B&B. Join her in Connie's Corner at www.connienice.com.

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Patio Meditation by Leah Stenson inspired by Husum Riverside Bed & Breakfast I step under the arbor laden with grapes and wisteria and am transported to the Mediterranean; time-warped back to Greece, where as a young woman traveling solo I reveled in the taverna, the very heart of Greek life. On my second trip to Greece, with my aging mother and two teenage daughters in tow, the mixture of sun and sea, whitewashed houses, sun-ripened fruit and the warmth of the people proved just as potent despite the intervening years. It's been decades since that last trip and yet I still dream of returning to Greece. I long to drink Greek coffee in the cafes, swim in the Aegean, write poetry under grape arbors, take afternoon naps, and meander through towns that haven't changed much since ancient times. In the tavernas, I'll drink wine and dine late into the evening as the moon rises high, intoxicated by the very essence of it all. I'm not sure if it's Greece I want to return to or the days of my youth. In any case, Heraclitus got it right – about how you can't really step in the same river twice. Greece and its islands are no longer the pristine sun-soaked land once inhabited by victorious Olympians and magnificent Gods. Even the country's modern image popularized by Zorba the Greek, Shirley Valentine and My Big Fat Greek Wedding has been tarnished. Do I really want to see the Greece of my dreams caught in a whirlpool of political chaos, financial ruin, and a humanitarian crisis of epic proportion? Can I still swim carefree off the shores of Lesbos and Samos where so many have drowned seeking refuge, their bones resting at the bottom of Homer's wine-dark sea? Throughout history, the Greeks have been a wonderfully hospitable people, and now they are suffering for that very reason, an irony worthy of ancient Greek tragedy – that tourists like me are no longer drawn to their country. Of course, it's unfair to simply blame Greece. It's not just Greece that has changed. I'm no longer young, slim and tan – the archetype of carefree youth. Nor has advancing age conferred on me the patina of an ancient artifact, the promise of a temple erected in my honor or the hope of immortality. What is this restlessness? Why can't I be satisfied here, now, on this charming patio in Husum, in the dappled light under the grapes and wisteria, sheltered by dogwoods and magnolias? Perhaps it has always been our nature to seek paradise beyond where we are – even though contentment is to be found right here in the heart, from which there is no escaping the joy and suffering of this perilous and precious journey, our human condition.

About the Author

Leah Stenson is a published poet living in Portland and Parkdale. She serves on the board of Tavern Books and hosts the long-standing Studio Series Poetry Reading and Open Mic. Her full-length collection, Everywhere I Find Myself is scheduled to be published by WordTech Communications in December 2017.

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Western Antique Aeroplane & Automobile Museum

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Pilot to Copilot by Lois Colton inspired by Western Antique Aeroplane & Automobile Museum "Pilot to Copilot, Pilot to Copilot, does anyone know where we are?" At first we could hear a sound like a swarm of bees coming our way from the distance. As he got closer, the distinct murmur of his Cessna Bobcat lit up our faces. My sister Treva and I would scream and rush out to the front yard, the screen door banging. We were thrilled at the sight of our father's plane circling in the clouds above our house. Up and up he'd climb, looping around again to tip his wings from side to side. Frantically waving, we blew kisses to the sky. After giving us his airplane wink, off he'd swoon like in cartoons, making his way across the Ohio River to little Bowman Airfield in Louisville. As I walk around the WAAAM in the imagined company of my father, I hear his enthusiastic Southern dialect and infectious laugh as he tells stories about most all the planes we pass. I feel his love of flying and smile to myself. For his graduation from flying school at Calero Air Base, my dad and his buddy John appealed to the Dean of Women at Pomona College to fix them up with a couple of "nice girls" for their important event. My mother, a studious grad student in Chinese and mathematics, and her friend Carol took the bait. They were never sorry, for each ended up marrying the airman they'd met on those blind dates. During the war Daddy flew and taught others to fly the big B-17s. Then as the war drew to a close, he and Mom moved to Tampa, Florida where he flew out of McDill Air Base into the eyes of Atlantic hurricanes as one of the first hurricane hunters. After his military discharge, they moved to Daddy's home state of Kentucky and he bought a little plane to become a flying instructor and charter plane pilot. In 1952 we moved to Arizona and my dad's dream of a flying career ended. Dad regularly regaled the four of us with flying stories and often referred to us as copilots and navigators or bombardiers when on long road trips. Once when my teenage sister was nervous about her first big flight over water to visit cousins in Hawaii, Daddy endlessly teased her with theatrical dialogs which always ended in, "Pilot to Copilot, Pilot to Copilot, does anyone know where we are?" "Oh, George, you're really not helping," said my mom when all-but-scared Treva thought the comment was hilarious. Years later, my nephew made me a T-shirt with a silk-screened image from a Super 8 home movie of Daddy on his first solo flight in 1942. Lt. Jackson grinned broadly and his snappy blue eyes shone brightly at me from the cockpit of the T-6 single engine plane. Whenever I wear that shirt, I remember my dad and his continued gifts of laughter and love.

About the Author

Lois Colton lives in Hood River, where she teaches ESL part-time at Columbia Gorge Community College and facilitates weekly writing workshops through an enterprise she calls "Pencil Pushers." She taught 20 years at the Oregon State Penitentiary and was twice awarded regional Corrections Education Teacher of the Year (loiscolton1640@gmail.com).

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Breaking Through: The First Women's Air Derby by Janice Hussein inspired by Western Antique Aeroplane & Automobile Museum My 24-year-old friend Louise Thaden was one of 20 female aviators competing in the first official women-only transcontinental air race, from Santa Monica, California, to Cleveland, Ohio – a 2,800-mile race – with stops in Arizona, Texas, Kansas, St Louis, and Columbus. My name is Helen Wheldon; Louise and I grew up together. It's 1929, a time when being a female pilot was considered unladylike, but each of these ladies strove to exceed expectations, to prove what women aviators could achieve. And besides risking their lives and planes in this race, there was $25,000 at stake. Today's the ninth and last day of the race – August 26th. Out there somewhere, her short, auburn hair streaming, Louise cruises at over 120 mph in a blue and gold Wright J-5 Travel Air 4000. Flying gives her joy – makes her feel gloriously, vigorously alive. Her flying style is low, fast, and aggressive. But she'd earned her pilots certificate just last year, and, so from day one of the race, I had been terrified for her. And she had known it could be dangerous. Each pilot carried a parachute and food for three days in case they were forced into a desert landing. And at the last stopover in Columbus, Ohio, before they all headed to this airfield in Cleveland, only 15 of the original 20 had arrived. Marvel Crossen had crashed in the Gila River Valley and was killed, a victim of CO poisoning. Margaret Perry caught typhoid. Pancho Barnes and Ruth Nichols both crashed. Claire Fahy withdrew – her wing wires had been sabotaged. Amelia Earhart experienced an electrical problem, but was expected to fly into Cleveland today. She wore a dress for the race. Last year, she became the first woman to fly across the Atlantic, following Charles Lindbergh's record 1927 flight. Now Louise's husband, Herbert von Thaden, a pilot and engineer, stood nearby in this crowd of 18,000 – including Howard Hughes and Will Rogers. Herb was vibrating with excitement and apprehension. Both of us had been watching the skies for hours, and then I glimpsed something in the distance. My hand shot up, pointing, "There's a plane!" Other people began pointing too, shouting the news. The noise escalated as the plane slanted toward the airfield. As it approached, I saw a flash of blue and gold. Herb and I looked at each other. "It's Louise's plane!" we said simultaneously. The crowd around us was now thunderous. "Go," I yelled. "I'll join you." Herb ran ahead to meet her. When the plane touched down and cruised to a stop, Louise rose up from the open cockpit, radiating a big joyful grin, and waved at the frenzied crowd. Photographers and reporters surrounded her plane. Louise had finished first – in 20 hours, 19 minutes, 4 seconds.

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Note: Women were barred from racing from 1930 to 1935. In the 1936 transcontinental Bendix Trophy Race, the first race ever between men and women, Louise Thaden won, setting a new world record of 14 hours, 55 minutes. See Wikipedia.org/wiki/Louise_Thaden.

About the Author

Janice Hussein has been a freelance editor and writer for 13 years. She first participated in the Gorge Write-Out in 2010, and this is her fifth year. Her website is www.documentdriven.com.

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Go Green! by Bruce Ludwig inspired by Western Antique Aeroplane & Automobile Museum My family has always been green. We weren't environmentalists as that term has come to mean, although husbandry and conservation were important concepts. We didn't belong to some early iteration of the Green Party. No one in the family was particularly fond of green shirts, shorts or shamrocks. Nevertheless, we were definitely a green family, and all of our neighbors knew. We had a few green neighbors – and we often gave them a knowing nod, but we also knew red, orange, gray, and one or two other-colored families. There was frequent ribbing between those of one color and those of another. It was always good natured; never hateful or contemptuous. I'm talking about farm equipment. Our family farmed almost exclusively with John Deere tractors and implements. I learned at an early age that John Deere was the best. We viewed Farmall (red), Allis Chalmers (orange), Case (pale orange), Ford (gray) and a few other makes as clearly inferior. To complete my indoctrination, I usually (happily) received John Deere toys at Christmas and birthdays. I was good at making the unique putt-putt sound of the old 2-cylinder tractors as I pulled my implements across the living room floor. If I annoyed my mother with my various farm sounds she didn't let on. I learned to drive when I was about eight on a late '30s John Deere B tractor. My dad would set the throttle, engage the lowest gear, and demonstrate how to work the hand clutch to start and stop. I sat in the molded steel seat, barely able to reach the steering wheel, as I steered the tractor and wagon near bales of hay. My dad and older brother would heave the bales up onto the wagon as it passed. As my early years passed through my teens I was able to operate bigger and better John Deere tractors, as well as a variety of off-colored tractors which generally worked fine, although I have stories of breakdowns unheard of among green families. These experiences merely validated what I already knew about the value of green. The tractors I operated as a youth are now classics, but over the years I've operated some much more modern equipment on my brother's farm – John Deere of course! I'm not allowed to visit my brother's farm in Indiana without bringing gloves and work clothes. I have made these visits periodically for decades, and they always make me happy. It's not just about the feeling of power behind the controls of gigantic, sophisticated, modern machinery – although that is great, but more about the feeling of accomplishing a job from start to finish and immediately seeing the results. It's a good respite from the day-to-day tedium of a career of never-ending, yet worthwhile, service. I continue to visit my brother every year or two, and I always bring work clothes. That reminds me: I'd better go pack and grab my John Deere cap, or I'll be late for this year's farm therapy appointment.

About the Author

Bruce Ludwig is a retired Police Chief living in Hood River, Oregon. He is a community theatre actor, director, and tech guy. He dabbles in writing, woodworking, bicycling, hiking, wineries, and pubs. He has no idea how people who work get anything done.

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The Garden by John Metta inspired by Western Antique Aeroplane & Automobile Museum Ugh. What is that word? I know I know it. It ain't like I ain't said it a hundred times. That's the thing, ain't it? Just one more thing goin'. Doing it more and more. Soon I'ma have to– Another rock? Where in the name of everything did all these rocks come from? I don't remember so many rocks being here when I filled this hole. Course, I might just didn't notice them. I mean, filling is the easy part. The dirt just fall in. Gravity do all the work. I can feel you! I know you're there! On the tip of my tongue – tip of my mind. Tippy mind. What is that word? Another rock? I'm getting pretty darn tired of crawling into this hole to dig out these rocks. I hate digging. That's the whole point of the men doin' it. They always like it so much to help. Wish they could help me remember that word! Hard on your hands, digging. Dries 'em out somethin' fierce. Hard on your body too. Maybe that's why I'm forgetting. This garden is the only exercise I get nowadays, and that ain't much. I just don't have the stamina anymore. And a good man is hard to find. Don't you worry. I'll find you. Hiding there. In my tippy mind. That young man dug this one deep. Forgot his name now, too. So much forgetting. Another roc– oh, here we are. About time! It's the clay that dries out your hands. One of my men told me that. Steals the water out of them. Leaves them all ashy like burning charcoal. But, down this far, the shovel ain't no good. You got to dig with your hands. Ain't nothin' else for it. That's the part I love the most anyhow. That's why I work my garden. Workin' with my hands. Planting each seed just right. Every one facing the same direction. It's so… intimate. Don't even need nothin' to grow. The planting is the harvest. I gotta stop reachin' for it or it'll gonna slip off for good. Too much forgetting. I'll need to see someone about it soon, I do know that. It's more than words now, obviously. Maybe I can see a nice young doctor who'll come dig that next hole for me.

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There you are! I didn't realize how tight those pants were when you were digging. I forgot to get your wallet. That wouldn't do me no good, would it? Maybe I'll make a list, all the things I need to remember when I plant a seed. That'd do me good. Whew, am I tired. I need to get me a cup of tea, sit down for a bit. Ain't no way I'm fillin' that hole back in tonight. I'll just cover it a bit so the jeans ain't showing. Maybe the nice doctor will finish it for me before he digs me another one. They do like to help so. What is that darn word?

About the Author

John Metta lives in Hood River and writes poetry for computers to read.

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Sweet and Sour Fruit By Nancy Woods inspired by Western Antique Aeroplane & Automobile Museum Almost every Friday at 2 p.m., Jerry Himes drove from his cherry orchard (Jerry's Cherries—Where Life Isn't the Pits) to the nearby Pear Valley Airport. Well, "airport" might be a stretch. "Landing strip" was more like it, a smooth stretch of asphalt surrounded by a field of cropped grass. Jer loved the unpretentiousness of the place. Low-key and sweet. Just like how life should be. But during the past few years, life in Pear Valley had become less and less sweet. Too many tourists, in Jer's not-so-humble opinion. Sure tourists brought money, but they also brought their big-city ideas, especially those uppity gawkers from Watertown. Still, every Friday as a favor to his friend, Pat Pringle – who owned Pear Valley B&B – Jer drove to the airport to pick up any fly-in guests and transport them to the B&B. This Friday he was picking up Andie and Sasha Watkins. According to Pat, the women were a Watertown mother-daughter team coming to Pear Valley to bond over fresh fruit, home-cooked meals and shopping. Jer wondered if they had matching tattoos. After nosing his Jeep up to the field, Jer jumped out, stretched his arms and took a deep breath. After all, it was fall in Oregon, and the air was crisp and clear with Mt. Hood keeping watch in the distance. Just then, a single-engine Cessna circled overhead before making a soft landing and coasting to a stop. After putting on his meet-and-greet face, Jer strode toward the plane, waving as he went. Soon he was shaking hands with the pilot and introducing himself to the two women before leading them to his car. It took several trips back and forth between the plane and Jeep for him to transfer all their luggage. "Not staying too long, I hope," Jer joked while gesturing to the over-stuffed bags. "Oh, you know. Women and their stuff," Andie said as she settled into the front passenger's seat. Wow. A woman with a sense of humor. How sexy is that? Jer said to himself. Maybe I shouldn't lump all tourists into the same bushel basket. Maybe there's hope for love yet. "So how long will you be here?" he asked again, as he got into the Jeep. "I own the cherry orchard next to the B&B. I could show you around, point out the sights. The two of you, I mean." "Oh, Mom's over men," Sasha said while adjusting her seatbelt. "Besides, this vacation is all about girl time. Just you and me. Right, Mom?" Andie rubbed her chin while getting a thoughtful look on her face.

About the Author

Nancy Woods lives in Portland, Oregon, where she edits a community newspaper and teaches creative writing. She is the author of Under the Influence of Tall Trees: Humorous Tales From a Pacific Northwest Writer and Hooked on Antifreeze: True Tales About Loving and Leaving Alaska (www.nancy-woods.com).