Thoughts on Memorial Day

Memorial Day weekend is coming up; the weekend most people across the country generally regard as the first holiday of the summer season. Here in southwest Montana, we’ve learned that, often as not, it’s the last holiday of the winter season.

So, if you’re planning on an outing this weekend, my advice is make sure to pack cold weather clothing, rain jackets, cocoa mix and makings for a big pot of chile, because the biggest challenge for the weekend will be keeping warm and dry.

Let’s hope I’m wrong.

And let’s not forget that a weekend of camping and fishing is not what Memorial Day is all about. Decoration Day, the forerunner of Memorial Day, was, in 1868, set aside to place flowers on graves of both Union and Confederate soldiers at Arlington National Cemetery. In 1873, New York was the first state to recognize the holiday and by 1890 it was recognized by all of the northern states. Southern states refused to acknowledge the day until after World War I, when the holiday changed from honoring Civil War dead to honoring Americans who died fighting in any war.

Traditionally, Memorial Day was observed on May 30. In 1971, the last Monday in May became the date for the observance.

A couple weeks ago we attended the funeral for a member of our church, a World War II veteran who survived 165 consecutive days of combat in the Philippines and lived to the age of 87, long enough to become a great-grandfather, something he likely didn’t even dare to dream about during those long-ago days when he was under fire.

During the service my mind wandered to those last survivors of the First World War. Frank Buckles, the last surviving American veteran of the Great War died this past February.

Just this month, Claude Choules, the last surviving combat veteran of the Great War died at age 110 on May 5. Mr. Choules was a seaman in the Royal Navy and witnessed the scuttling of the German fleet in Scapa Flow in Scotland. He stayed in the Royal Navy after the war and after a training assignment in Australia he transferred to the Royal Australian Navy and continued to serve until age 55.

In his 80s, Mr. Choules took a creative writing course with the plan to write family memoirs. He established some sort of record by publishing his autobiography at age 108. Despite a long record of naval service, in his later years he declared himself to be a pacifist and refused to participate in any events glorifying war.

While Claude Choules was the last surviving combat veteran, another Briton, Florence Green, also age 110, is the last service member of that war. Ms. Green was a waitress in the Women’s Royal Air Corps.

April marked the 150th anniversary of the beginning of the Civil War, and I have to confess it made me feel old. I remember, during my high school years, the death of the last Civil War veteran, Albert Woolson, a drummer boy in that bloody conflict. I was a senior in college when the nation observed the centennial of the beginning of the war and the college orchestra did a concert of music from that era.

In the late 1960s, I had the opportunity to interview a centenarian who was a veteran of the Spanish-American War. He was a feisty old man who recalled military training camp, “We marched around a lot, but never went to Cuba; the war ended and they sent us home.” He was incensed because his auto insurance was canceled when he reached 100. “I’ve got a brand new Cadillac sitting in my garage and can’t use it,” he complained.

Now, we’re saying farewells to the heroes of my childhood, the veterans of World War II. Of the over 16 million Americans who answered the call, there are less than two million still living, survivors in their late 80s or early 90s.

While Memorial Day is set aside to honor the fallen, we honor those living veterans while we still can.

A funny thing happened on the river...

“Have you been catching any fish?”

That’s usually a question I don’t mind answering. I may not be the greatest fisherman since St. Peter, but over the seasons I catch my share of fish and consider myself fairly competent. After all, I can tie flies, build rods, identify many aquatic insects, and occasionally I even get paid to share some angling expertise with an otherwise unsuspecting public.

Also, in recent years I’ve been participating in the Montana Fish, Wildlife & Parks fishing log program. During the year I record a few things about each Montana fishing outing and at the end of the year the statistical wizards in Helena enter the data into their computer system and generate angling statistics they share with the world. But that’s the rub: to make it work, I have to do my part by keeping track of each fishing outing.

So, by looking back at my fishing log I am frequently reminded that fishing isn’t always about catching fish. Sometimes it’s about learning humility.

Back in mid-March I took my first spring trip to running water, enjoying some sunshine but getting blown around by strong winds roaring down the Madison River’s Beartrap Canyon. It was still a nice day to be outside and I don’t expect to catch anything the first time out anyway—or so I tell myself when I don’t catch anything. Nevertheless, that first trip started a pattern, or so it seemed.

The next few trips were to my favorite trout stream, the Big Hole River, and learned that past angling success doesn’t mean anything, and that if you go fishing in early April, you’d better plan on nasty weather. On one of those days, storm clouds hung over the mountain ranges west of the river, though bright sunshine warmed me as Flicka, my faithful Labrador retriever, and I shared a sandwich while I put on waders and assembled my rod.

The sun was still shining when I stepped into the river’s icy waters and began casting flies into the river’s current. I had a couple bumps by fish hitting my fly—and just as quickly refusing it. At least I know there are fish out there, I told myself.

Then those storm clouds roared down the mountainside. At first there was a little drizzle in the air. That quickly changed to graupel, icy snow pellets that bounced off my jacket before being swallowed up by the river. In minutes that changed to wet, heavy snow that soaked my clothing and chilled my hands. Flicka and I beat a retreat back to the truck where I turned the heater on high until feeling returned. The storm then let up a bit so I found some gloves and returned to the stream for a few minutes before I finally concluded I wasn’t having fun and drove back home through the snowstorm.

Bad fishing luck continued, pretty much in lock step with continuing cold weather and icy waters, now beginning to get murky with the beginning of what will likely be a long runoff period.

Still, that’s no reason to quit fishing. On my last outing I returned to the Madison River. While the peaks on the Tobacco Root Mountains seem to have more snow than in mid-March the lowlands are turning green and many fields are freshly planted with this year’s planned crops. Unexpectedly, the winds along the river were relatively calm.

The fish continued to ignore my offerings. I tried several spots, all to no avail. I was ready to call it another unsuccessful outing when I noticed little mayflies flying all around, plus some rises on the water. I cast my line and was gratified by the take of a fish. That fish got off, though it stayed on long enough to qualify as a ‘long distance release.’ A few minutes later another fish struck and stayed on long enough for me to land it and send it back to the river.

I’d finally caught a couple fish. I declared victory and went home.

Going Green Pays Off in Bellingham

Heading out for an evening sail on Bellingham Bay

Waders, rain jackets, rain hats. Sorry – no sun.”

So read the sign in front of a sporting goods store near Everett, Washington, though the cold, driving rain discouraged us from checking out specials on rain gear.

We were on our way to Bellingham, Washington for the annual spring conference of the Northwest Outdoor Writers Association, though to be honest, we were also looking for some spring weather. Of course, we were realistic enough to understand that if you head for the West Coast rain forest you’re likely to find rain.

We found rain, and people at local businesses were apologetic about the weather. They were also weary of cold, wet weather and were eager to get some warm sunshine. The skies did clear and we had a chance to enjoy some sunshine while we took advantage of opportunities to get away from hotel conference rooms and poke around this maritime city.

With bright sunshine to set things off, Bellingham looks mighty green right now, with lots of spring flowers to add colorful highlights. We also learned the city is green in other ways as well. We had a presentation by the director of a local non-profit, Sustainable Connections, an agency working to improve the local business climate and quality of life by emphasizing ‘green’ ways of doing business, including renewable energy sources, reducing waste (one business was featured for reducing waste by 90 percent), expanding local farming and similar efforts.

The efforts seem to be paying off and they’ve gotten a lot of recognition for it. The Environmental Protection Agency rates Bellingham as the nation’s number one Green Power Community. They also have the nation’s largest increase in public transit ridership. More to the point, perhaps, is their number two national rating for local retail vibrancy.

Sustainable Connections’ logo includes this slogan, “Think local, buy local, be local.”

A representative from the local Convention and Visitor Bureau boasted that the Bellingham area ranks in the nation’s top ten for clean air, health and happiness, bike ridership, and as a place to live. Though the city is known as a maritime center, agriculture is the area’s number one industry. In fact, the county raises 65 percent of the country’s red raspberries. For variety, the area also has the nation’s second largest numbers of artists, per capita, after Santa Fe, New Mexico.

All in all, Bellingham seems an attractive city, with its combination of scenery, outdoor recreation and bustling downtown area. It’s a good demonstration of how emphasizing so-called green values, such as renewable energy, reducing waste, and boosting local agriculture, contributes to a community’s economy and quality of life.

On the dry side of the Cascades is Wenatchee, which bills itself as the “Apple Capital of the World.” It’s quite a sight, right now, with miles and miles of apple orchards bursting into bloom. When I toss an apple into my hunting lunch next October I’ll have to keep in mind that last week I might have seen the blossom that produced the fruit.

We’ll close with a literary note. The New York Times ran a book review last week of “Evel, the High-Flying Life of Evel Knievel: American Showman, Daredevil, and Legend,” by Leigh Montville. It’s one of the more entertaining book reviews I’ve seen.

The reviewer, Dwight Martin, says “This book is, like Knievel’s life, slick, pulpy, eye-filling, exhaust-belching and in the end a bit boorish and irksome. Its ideal form would be a mass-market paperback flecked with glitter. It should come with a grape Slurpee, a little packet of Pop Rocks and a cocktail-size American flag to wave between your thumb and forefinger at weary moments.”

Evel Knievel, or Bobby, as he is still remembered by those who knew him before his high-flying daredevil days, was never dull, and always controversial, even here in his hometown. Judging by the Times review, this biography seems equal to the man of whom a San Francisco Examiner sports writer described before the Snake River Canyon jump, “The contest is Evel Knievel versus the canyon. The canyon is the sentimental favorite.”

Litter? Be part of the solution!

Litter! Don't be a slob!

Remember the Seinfeld episode when Kramer and Newman filled a postal truck with cans and bottles to haul to Michigan and make a big killing with that state’s 10-cent deposit return? Naturally, that trip ended in disaster. The Seinfeld show was a comedy, and disaster is the foundation of a lot of comedy.

Still, they had the right idea. When you buy a beverage in Michigan you pay a 10-cent deposit and when you return the container for recycling you get your money back. That’s not exactly a new concept. A few years back that’s the way we bought beverages. We paid a deposit on the glass bottle and brought the empties back to the store and either got our deposit back or traded for the deposit on the next set of bottles. Kids looking to pick up some spare change could usually find it by picking up bottles.

Michigan gets a 90 percent return on cans and bottles. The rest of the country? The national average for aluminum cans runs around 50 percent and just 25 percent for plastic bottles. Aluminum can recycling peaked at 68 percent in 1992. So, what happens to those containers that don’t get recycled? Much of it ends up in our landfills where it lasts virtually forever.

The rest, sad to say, ends up as litter. A friend commented that her father takes a daily six-pack walk, meaning that he doesn’t come home until he’s collected at least half a dozen aluminum cans. I do sort of the same thing, as every time my dog and I take a walk I pick up aluminum cans, and the numbers of cans scattered on city streets is mind-boggling. From the middle of February to the middle of April I accumulated 31 pounds of aluminum, and that’s a big pile of aluminum. On the bright side, at the current price of 60 cents per pound, I got a nice payback for healthful exercise.

The trouble is, the cans I pick up in my neighborhood are trivial compared to the actual problem. A rural Butte resident called to suggest I write about the litter problem. “The roadsides around here are just covered with aluminum cans,” she said, adding that she frequently makes rounds to pick them up but when snow melts in the spring there’s a fresh crop of aluminum.

I told her I fully agree about the littering problem here in our area and that I’d written about it before. I agreed with her suggestion that I write another column about it, though I suspect litterbugs don’t know how to read.

Unfortunately, many of those litterbugs are juveniles illegally drinking beer and they’re chucking those cans out to get rid of the evidence. That’s one excuse. The truth, however, is that litterbugs are nothing but a bunch of slobs.

When I go for walks I often walk across an I-90 overpass and look down on the highway ditch and median and there are aluminum cans everywhere. Bless their hearts; some ‘adopt a highway’ group may pick them up, but that aluminum usually ends up in the landfill.

When I go fishing I walk along the river and find cans everywhere. A pet peeve is people who carefully pick up their cans and dump them in a fire ring. Maybe they think they’re being virtuous that way by not scattering litter. Sorry, you’re still a slob.

In the fall when I’m out hunting in the mountains or the prairies I often find aluminum cans out in the middle of nowhere. For heaven’s sakes, if you can carry a full can with 12 ounces of beverage in your daypack, why can’t you carry back an empty can that weighs next to nothing?

If you’re one of those slobs out joyriding, why not swing by one of the many recycling bins that are placed around Butte and put your cans there?

The late Walt Kelly’s cartoon character Pogo once lamented, “We have met the enemy and he is us.”

We have also met the solution, and it is us. Don’t be a slob.