There are few birds more annoying to watch than the common nighthawk. This nocturnal member of the goatsucker family seems incapable of flying in a straight line for more than a few feet before spiraling up and diving down in a short looping flight pattern that can make a even a casual observer dizzy if you watch them long enough.

Of course, the nighthawk has a good excuse for flying like someone who has no motor control. They are hunting insects which seldom fly in a straight line either. The only thing worse than watching a single nighthawk is to watch a large flock of these nocturnal insectivores competing for the same air space. You wait for the inevitable high-speed collision of these feathered boomerangs but it never happens. Often while watching nighthawks you’ll hear a buzzing sound, not unlike a car hitting the rumble strip on a distant highway. It is in fact a sound produced by the wing feathers as the bird pulls out of a vertical suicide dive and heads up for another go round. Thankfully, the nighthawks are only here for a few short summer months before flying to South America for the winter.

The only thing worse than watching nighthawks is to observe the swift in flight. The swift is like a stealth version of the swallow with a forked tail and swept back wings that make it one of the fastest flying birds we have. Clocked at over one hundred miles per hour it must be a very short flight from here to their wintering grounds in the Amazon Basin of South America.

You’ll discover what an annoying pest the swift can be when they take up residence in your chimney where the roar of their wings will make you think you’re having a chimney fire when there is no fire in the stove. Fortunately these foreign visitors seem to have abandoned our skies somewhat earlier than normal this year.

Unfortunately, the absence of these annoying birds heralds the arrival of other migrants from the north whose appearance is not a good thing. Sandpipers are a small, drab, nervous shore bird that include a motley collection of twenty some species which often appear so similar that only a so-called bird-watching expert will bother to tell them apart.

All members of the sandpiper family share a similar pointed beak which they use to probe the shoreline for a disgusting array of gooey invertebrates on which they feed. Sandpipers are among our earliest migrating birds, moving along the coast and gathering in vast flocks that can have the disturbing appearance of an amoeba in the sky.

The arrival of the sandpiper is soon followed by that most beautiful of ducks, the Northern Pintail. Slender, elegant and colorful, the pintail is has been called the “greyhound of the skies” because of the speed at which it flies. Then again the pintail could be compared to a greyhound because it tastes like dog meat when cooked. That is just a theory. All we know for sure is the pintail is one of the earliest migrants to the Peninsula. Flying from the Arctic Ocean to as far south as Central America the sight of the first pintail is a good sign something bad is about to happen.

The fog which normally blankets the Strait of Juan de Fuca in the fall has hung around for half the summer. The spiders are numerous and moving indoors. The corn husks are extra thick. This is all evidence to the fact that an early winter will be dark, wet and cold.

The Bucket List.

Bucket list. It’s hard to think of a more frightening concept for our senior citizens. The phrase comes from a 2007 movie where the rich Jack Nicholson and the economically challenged Morgan Freeman meet each other in a hospital where they are both being treated for terminal cancer.

The movie soon deteriorates into an ego-fueled fantasy where the two decide to embark on a whirlwind around the world journey to do everything they ever wanted to do before they “kick the bucket.” This was a very popular movie. The bucket list is a concept that fostered the idea that people can live their entire lives putting off the things they want to do then make up for it all later if they have the money and the time.

Sadly, people with money seldom have time. Conversely, people with time seldom have money. People with no time or money, a group which most of us fall into, have little chance of gratifying whatever illusory whims we think will make our life worthwhile in the end.  

More often than not, this is simply not possible. For example, I used to enjoy backpacking into the Olympic Mountains. Backpacking could be considered a form of torture outlawed by the Geneva Convention if not for the fact that it is self-inflicted. We enjoyed this outdoor activity anyway. Lately however we’ve noticed that with the effects of plate tectonics and continental drift these mountains have been rising higher. In fact, the Olympics are much higher and steeper than when we used to climb them as kids. Even the flat spots seem to have gotten further apart for some reason. So, I don’t go backpacking anymore.

Instead I help others fulfill their life goals with an empathetic sensibility to their physical limitations. If you can fake that you may have a future in the tourist industry.

As a fishing and rafting guide, I have taken many people fishing and rafting that have no business getting into a fishing boat or a raft with sometimes disastrous results. There was the guy who burst his colostomy bag on a fishing trip on a hot summer day. That was an epic day on the water.

Then there was the lady who had a broken arm in a cast. She wanted to paddle a raft down the river. And you know what? She did. It’s called dealing with the public. If we only took people who were physically and mentally fit, who had a good attitude and an appreciation of the effort it takes to provide recreational activities, we would seldom be employed.

Then there was the lady who was recovering from back surgery who wanted to go white water rafting. I congratulated the lady for her successful operation and observed that she must have endured intense suffering for years.

She said yes, that the pain was unimaginable but, I know back pain and what it’s like to lay on the floor for three days unable to get up and we agreed. I said the operation must have been very expensive and she said yes it was over a hundred thousand dollars and her insurance wouldn’t pay for all of it.

I wondered why, after enduring all of the physical and financial pain and suffering, she would risk it all to go rafting. It was the bucket list thing, an unrealistic expectation. When it comes to bucket lists, the sooner you realize your expectations are unrealistic the better. Don’t wait till the end to do what you want. Make your life your bucket list. I talked her out of rafting.

Lake Crescent.


A recent survey asked some locals about their favorite place to take visitors. Some said the mountains or the beach but no one mentioned Lake Crescent. This is unfortunate since this beautiful body of water has played such a large role in making Clallam County what it is today.

There are two theories on exactly how Lake Crescent was formed. Either by the Cordilleran Ice Sheet that covered the area until about 14,000 years ago or by a landslide sent from the top of Mt. Storm King by the evil giant Seatco that ended a three day battle between the Clallam and the Quileute and dammed the Lyre River forming Lake Crescent.

Lake Crescent was said to have remained uninhabited. It was haunted by Seatco. Recent archaeological surveys have determined Lake Crescent was home to Native Americans as evidenced by the large numbers of cedar trees that bear the scars of having the bark, which was used for clothing, stripped off them.  

In 1849, two Hudson Bay trappers paddled their canoe from Victoria, across the Strait of Juan de Fuca to Crescent Beach where they were adopted by the S’Klallams. From there they worked south into the foothills of the Olympics where they discovered Lake Crescent.

Trappers are generally secretive. They don’t want to give away their best hunting ground. Lake Crescent remained largely undiscovered until the summer of 1895 when the U.S. Navy Pacific Fleet under the command of Rear Admiral Leslie A.Beardslee dropped anchor in Port Angeles harbor. What was an isolated frontier town welcomed the Navy with open arms.

Admiral Beardslee was a fisherman. Wanting to make a good impression the city fathers wisely took the Admiral on a fishing trip to Lake Crescent where he caught 350 trout in one day! The Admiral spent so much time fishing at Lake Crescent they named a trout after him. The Beardslee trout, named after the Admiral and the Crescenti, named after the lake are unique species that occur only in Lake Crescent.

E.B. Webster in his classic book, “Fishing in the Olympics” describes the Beardslee striking a lure at 25 miles an hour, peeling hundreds of feet of line while jumping six or seven feet in the air. Webster saw a fight between a Tacoma angler with light tackle and an eleven-pound Beardslee that lasted for three hours and forty-five minutes!

Eventually, a dozen fishing resorts popped up around the shores of Lake Crescent trying to catch the Admiral’s fish. In 1912 Dr. Louis Dechman built a health spa resort on the North Shore of the lake called, “Eugenika, Goddess of the Better Race Sanatorium and Biological Institution.” The name was later shortened to “Qui Si Sana,” or, “Here is Health.”

Dr. Deckman was a promoter who claimed he could cure influenza, tuberculosis and childhood paralysis. Some of the locals said he cured bored housewives with something called Bio-Therapy. This involved the complex process of ‘cleansing the blood,’ whatever that meant.

The English writer Fitzherbert Leather described the strenuous health regime at Qui Si Sana, breathing plenty of ozone rich air with seven course gourmet meals and fine wines served in the luxurious main hall and healthful walks through the fabulous gardens and orchards filled with statues exhibiting themes of breast feeding and female pulchritude at its finest.

Sadly, Qui Si Sana did not last. Only two of the historic Lake Crescent resorts survive to the present. Lake Crescent Lodge was originally Singers’ Tavern. That’s where Franklin Roosevelt stayed when he toured the Peninsula in 1937 to consider the creation of Olympic National Park. In 1938 the Park was dedicated at the nearby Rosemary Inn, which has been restored as the Olympic Park Institute. Lake Crescent is not only a beautiful place, it has a lot of history for such a small area which makes it a great place to take a visitor.

Can You Eat the Fish?

Lately a tourist asked me how and where they could catch and eat a fish. This is a common question that can lead us down the garden path through a legal morass of Byzantine regulations that have done much to delegate the barbaric practice of catching and eating a fish into our dark and primitive past.

Just a relatively few years ago, our waters were a place where poor people could obtain a delicious high-quality protein that was there for the catching. There was a culture of fishing and eating fish that had evolved since the last ice age when the glaciers melted, the rivers formed and were filled with salmon. These fish were an important food source for Native Americans and the European invaders who transformed the salmon into fodder for the murderous industrial fisheries, that produced the fortunes made in the exploitation of what was considered an “inexhaustible’ resource.

The salmon shared the fate of another “inexhaustible” resource the people relied on to build their homes, the old-growth timber. It was the best timber in the world, cut and sold as raw logs that were exported to the far east to the point where it has become economically extinct.

Now days our forests and waters have been transformed from a public resource to be shared by us all to a career opportunity for gangs of grant-sucking bureaucrats, biologists, consultants and heavy equipment operators to pad their resume’s with multi-million dollar pie in the sky so-called “restoration” experiments that do nothing to bring the fish back.

The more endangered our fish become, the more valuable they are to the salmon restoration industry. In many cases, our fish are much too valuable as endangered species to allow people to eat them. Our tourist visitors are often unaware of the legal implications of eating a fish.

First, they would have to consult the hundred and some odd page Washington State Fishing Regulations. Otherwise known as the “Fish Cop Employment Security Program” it is a wealth of information that can make for some interesting reading if you are a legal scholar. If you are not, it’s like we say on the river,

“If you cannot afford and attorney you probably can’t afford to go fishing.” The fishing rules as they are written in the fishing law pamphlet are so confusing that generally no two anglers can agree on just what they mean. I once asked a fish cop about the rules on a section of river and he said he didn’t know because he just got here.

The funny thing is I’ve lived here my whole life and often can’t figure out what the rules are. The only thing more confusing than the paper version of our fishing laws would be plunging into the depths of the WDFW, (We Destroy Fishing in Washington) website. Here, the legal scholar might find a reference to the dreaded “Emergency Closure.” While emergency closures to fishing are very common in Washington there has never to my knowledge been an emergency opening of a fishery.

For example, the printed version of the fishing regulations say the Hoh River is open to fishing. The WDFW website says the river has been closed to fishing. This is news to the many tourist anglers trying their luck on the river these days. They would possibly be even more surprised to learn that any fish they caught was illegal to keep even if the river was open for fishing.

Leaving only one word of advice for people who want to catch and eat a fish, don’t.

Tourist’s Revenge.

Sometimes it’s fun to make fun of the silly questions that tourists ask like,

“Is the weather always like this?” Or “Why do loggers wear suspenders?” But it’s not so much fun when the tourists ask a question that is difficult to answer. That’s because tourists are generally a lot smarter than I am. Many of our tourists have travelled the world while I’ve been stuck here my whole life going nowhere fast.

In this age of information people who choose to spend their vacation on the Olympic Peninsula really do their research. Our visitors are very much aware of local environmental issues that have made the national news. Such as the plight of our Southern Resident Orca endangered by the extinction of our salmon. Sometimes tourists ask questions that are extremely difficult and painful to answer. It’s like the ultimate tourist’s revenge when they ask a disturbing question like,

“How has the river changed?”

That hurts. It’s like asking how a friend has changed after they died. The death of the river was a death that took years to achieve. Just a few years ago, the glaciers were much larger and when the spring melt began the river ran higher, colder and with more volume longer into the summer.

Along about the middle of August the spring chinook, which entered the river in the spring and spent the summer in the river ripening their spawn, were laying their eggs in the gravel. As the month progressed the fish would spawn and die, carpeting the shore with their spawned-out bodies.

Bears came down to the river to catch salmon and spread fish remains across the forest floor. Bears were seen by the Native Americans as the mother of all creatures because they caught more fish than they could eat. They fed the other creatures that couldn’t catch fish for themselves. Science has confirmed this relationship by identifying an estimated 137 species of birds and animals that feed on spawned out salmon. In the process the remains of the spawned-out salmon were spread across the forest floor fertilizing the trees.

The smell was terrific. The water was alive with salmon thrashing in the shallows making a commotion that sounded like a herd of elk crossing the creek.

As summer turned into fall the biggest runs of salmon came upstream. The fall rains would flood the river and tributaries allowing the salmon access to the tiniest little creeks deep into the forest recycling the nutrients from the ocean to the forest and back again in an ecosystem that had functioned since the last ice age, until now.

These days the air along the river is fresh and pure. Which would normally be a good thing but the smell of fresh air is the smell of death on the river. With the salmon gone, the eagles, otters and even the mergansers have largely disappeared.

Once upon a time, people were allowed to help the salmon. They re-placed boxes of fertilized salmon eggs in the creeks. The fish would hatch and migrate out to sea without having to be fed at a hatchery for a year. Unfortunately, the use of remote hatch boxes to bring back the salmon in our streams is no longer allowed by the powers that be.

Instead, they build log jams with steel I beams and spray herbicides along the river to bring the salmon back. It is a shameful excuse for environmental stewardship that had done nothing for the salmon.

The fact is tourist questions aren’t so funny anymore.  

The Fish Camp.

It’s the simple things that I enjoy most about the fish camp, like the smell of burning driftwood and watching the sparks from the fire shoot up into the sky to join the stars before they fade. Or land on your tent to smolder as you remember you forgot the fire extinguisher. Then there are the night sounds of the wilderness. The distant hoot of the owl, the electric crackle of the bug zapper and the gentle murmur of a twenty-five hundred-watt gasoline-powered generator that tells you its summertime and the living is easy. Experienced campers know you must organize your supplies and prioritize your equipment to maximize your enjoyment of the outdoors. Life in the wilderness can test a woodsman’s skill. There’s a lot more to wilderness survival than being able to start a fire with just a single highway flare, cauterize a wound with gunpowder or siphon gas. The first rule of camping is to avoid taking along a lot of useless stuff that you just don’t need.

Still it’s the little things that can make a big difference between a memorable outdoor experience and a life-threatening disaster that tests the endurance of the human spirit. I once knew a camper who put all his food in plastic bags to cut down on weight and save space. Unfortunately, he was too busy to label the plastic bags, relying instead on a keen culinary instinct to tell the difference between sugar and spice. I carefully measured a cup of borax, a type of powdered soap used to cure fish eggs for bait, into the morning hotcake batter. Breakfast was served to the campers without a single complaint. They must have known. Camp cooks are chosen by a time-tested process where anyone who complains about the cooking is the new camp cook.

After breakfast, there were activities involving a foot race to the restroom facilities. I avoided the shame and disgust of the pit toilet with what could be the most important piece of camping equipment to come along since the turkey fryer: the camper’s portable flush toilet. When using the camper’s flush toilet, you really should read the instructions and maybe not enjoy the use of this product inside your tent. Especially while leaving an overfilled camper’s espresso maker on top of your 60,000 BTU propane crab-cooker. After the fire I wished I remembered to pack the wet-dry camper’s vac.  Instead I shoveled out the tent the best I could and tried to dry the mess with a gas catalytic heater and a battery powered ceiling fan. That’s when I noticed my queen-sized camper’s air bed was as flat as a soapy pancake. I tried to find the leak by pumping the air bed up with my camper’s air compressor, but the batteries were dead.

By then it was time for a relaxing morning shower. Whoever said fish and company smell after three days never went camping where it is possible to stink after a couple of hours. That’s no problem with the propane-powered hot water heater and the adjustable jet nozzle shower head inside the collapsible camper’s shower stall. Be sure to follow all safety instructions and check the temperature reading on your camper’s shower system, or you could get scalded and go hopping around the campground like a singed grease monkey.

The rest of the day I spent doing the chores that need to get done to keep a fish camp running smoothly. I changed the oil in the generator and filled it with regular gas. I put white gas in the heater, replaced the batteries in the fan and compressor and refilled the propane cylinders on the turkey fryer, crab cooker, hot water heater and lanterns. By then it was time for dinner which was hotcakes again.

The Cold Vanish.

IT WAS ANOTHER tough week in the news. A woman fell off the Hurricane Ridge Road and had to be pulled 100 feet up a cliff with ropes. Another woman broke her leg at Lake Angel9es and had to be flown out with a Coast Guard helicopter. A hiker was stranded by an incoming tide at Rialto Beach and had to be pulled off a rock. A young man was missing up the Quinault River but walked out at the Skokomish River after a needle-in-a-haystack search was initiated. Someone started a forest fire at Lake Crescent.

People go insane when they escape the city to enter the woods. I blame the media. We watch nature shows telling us animals are like people with commercials showing SUVs plunging through streams, along deserted beaches and mountaintops like the world is our race track. If we spend enough money and do crazy things, someone will like us on social media.

I used to wonder why park rangers were so cranky. Then I took a couple of them fishing where they talked about dealing with the suicidal tourist invasion bent on causing harm to themselves or others. Like the guy who took off up the trail, ate some poisonous mushrooms and came back three days later with no clothes on until the rangers could talk him out of a tree.

There is a theory that, the more advanced our electronic devices become, the dumber people get. People like to take pictures of themselves with their phones. Selfies can be self-destructive behavior — like the guy who fell off our own Sol Duc Falls. At least someone got a video of it.

This is not an isolated incident. People have plunged to their deaths taking selfies at the Grand Canyon and Yosemite. There’s been an uptick in rattlesnake bites at the Grand Canyon National Park due to people taking selfies with rattlers. Others try to take selfies with bison at Yellowstone and grizzlies at Glacier National Park, and they get stomped and mauled in the process. Here on the Olympic Peninsula, we have no rattlers or grizzlies, but people injure themselves anyway.

Others disappear without a trace for no apparent reason — like the case of Jacob Gray. He disappeared April 4, 2017. Leaving his bicycle dumped along the side of the Sol Duc Hot Springs Road, Gray vanished, causing a massive search effort that covered hundreds of square miles.

His father called me a week later to float the Sol Duc to look for his son. He believed Jacob was alive. I didn’t. Jacob Gray left most of his gear with his bike. It had been storming. He would have been lucky to survive overnight. The Sol Duc was too high to float, but Jacob’s father swam 12 miles of the river looking for his son.

The recent book, “The Cold Vanish” by Jon Billman describes the heart-breaking search for Jacob Gray.He’s just one of several people who have vanished in our wilderness without a trace. This is not a uniquely Olympic experience. There are an estimated 1,600 people currently missing in our country’s wilderness areas, including a park ranger who disappeared in Chiricahua National Monument.

They found Gray’s remains Aug. 10, 2018 — 15 miles away at Hoh Lake. How he crossed the Sol Duc, Bogachiel and the many rain-swollen tributaries to get 5,000 feet up into avalanche country remains a mystery, and a lesson to us all. Tell someone where you’re going and when you’ll get back.  Take the 10 survival gear essentials. Don’t make the rangers come looking for you.

Root Hog or Die.

“Root hog or die.” If I had a dollar for every-time I heard my Aunt Stella say that I would never have picked berries for money. It’s a phrase from the first colonists in America who turned the hogs loose to forage for themselves.

Which lead to conflicts with the Native American gardens that were not fenced. Indigenous gardens grew what they called the three sisters. Corn supported the beans over a ground cover of pumpkins that kept the weeds down. It was a smorgasbord the hogs made short work of. The practice of introducing feral hogs to the environment leap-frogged its way across the country to the Oregon Territory where the Neal’s settled in the 1840’s.

There the hogs made short work of the camas, a staple crop that was the main source of carbohydrates since time immemorial in this vast territory where, “root hog or die,” was a way of life. My aunt Stella employed this phrase to motivate her crew of kids to get through breakfast and pile into the station wagon for a trip to the berry fields.

These days it is considered cruel and unusual punishment to make children work but back in the last century kids were considered farm machinery. Stella would have been up for hours by the time the kids were ready to eat. She had cooked breakfast and made lunch for her husband Len, who was off to the woods cutting timber. Then she had her quiet time until she woke up the kids. Stella baked countless loaves of perfect bread, canned everything that grew in her tremendous garden and made everything else from butter to beer the old-fashioned way with food grown, raised, caught or shot right there on the farm.

“Root hog or die,” she’d say putting out of spread of eggs, venison sausage, toast, jam, and fruit she’d canned herself before we piled into the station wagon for a dusty ride to the fields where there was money to be made picking berries and beans.

In those days there was no minimum wage for kids. Your pay was determined by how much you picked. You could make as little or as much as you wanted. As kids we wanted to make as much money as we possibly could for vital supplies of fireworks and fishing gear. There was only one way to do that.

“Root hog or die.”

After about an hour of picking anything a kid’s knees get sore, it gets awful hot and lunchtime seems about a million hours away. When it does finally come you are about hungry enough to eat a dirt clod so you wolf down a sandwich made with the most heavenly bread that Aunt Stella might have baked that morning, filled with some kind of lunch meat shot or raised in the back field.

Eventually, after what seemed like a million years it was time to go home. That meant a long ride down a dirt road with the windows closed to try to keep the dust out. The heat, the dust and the exhaustion of the day was instantly relieved with a trip to the swimming hole.

Stella didn’t swim. She did not have time. If she wasn’t cooking, canning or cleaning she was volunteering at the church, the school or the community. She lived a life of self reliance and service to others. We miss her now that she’s gone but it’s enough to know that somewhere in heaven there’s a root cellar with gleaming rows of her canned preserves where you don’t have to root hog or die anymore.

Let Them Eat Tuna.

Imagine a small camp fire burning along a bend of the river beneath a grove of big trees, out where the bull trout rise. I only mention the bull trout because that is about all I’ve been catching lately. How many times have I had to endure the slings and arrows of unkind remarks which all boil down to the same thing,

“If Bull trout are so threatened and or endangered, how come that’s all we catch?” There could be many reasons for this. Having been protected for years in our Olympic Peninsula waters where they were never really endangered in the first place, the Bull trout has multiplied to the point where at any given time in can be the most prolific fish in the river. All of which serves to beg the question, at what point would a threatened and or endangered species or subspecies such as the Dolly Varden/Bull trout, (we aren’t even sure what to call it) be considered “recovered?”

Unfortunately, even what is considered “the best available science” is not able to answer this question. It has become one of the greatest mysteries of the natural world. Would the Dolly Varden/Bull Trout be declared “unthreatened and or un-endangered” if this predatory fish was threatening other endangered species like the steelhead and the chinook salmon?

To answer this question. we need look no further than our beloved Dungeness River. Once home to legendary runs of salmon and steelhead the Dungeness, a river that is home to three fish rearing facilities is closed to fishing for most of the year.

At first, we were told the closure would only be temporary. We were assured the river would reopen as soon as the fish were restored by building log jams, buying property from willing sellers and planting native vegetation. Millions of dollars were spent. Millions more are about to be spent on a new innovative experiment in the salmon restoration industry, taking out the flood control dike along the Dungeness River.

It seems that the Bull Trout is a free spirit. The best available science tells us that the Dungeness in its’ present condition is too constricted by the dike. In fact, building the dike was a bad idea in the first place. All it did was protect some farm land from flooding. Now thanks to the miracle of world trade we can purchase our produce from developing third world nations leaving our surplus farmland for its highest and best use, Bull Trout habitat. 

It is hoped that removing the dikes will allow the Bull trout to roam free and swim where the meandering current will take it. There is a fervent consensus of belief that spending millions more on what has so far been a failed experiment will save the Bull Trout but this is not a perfect world. It is a cooperative effort that will need many more studies and consultants.

All of which serves to remind us the more endangered a species becomes the more it is worth in salmon restoration funds. In fact, endangered species have become one of our most valuable natural resources. Meanwhile our angling heritage, a tradition of generations of kids who grew up fishing the Dungeness in the summer, has been exchanged for the only angling opportunity left in the Sequim Dungeness Valley, the sewer water reclamation pond at Carrie Blake Park. They’ll get over it. There are millions of dollars at stake. Endangered fish are worth more than healthy runs of fish. A dead river is worth more money than a live one. Let them eat tuna.


I’ll have to admit when I first saw the baby raccoons curled up in the middle of the road my first impulse was to run over them. Because if there is one creature on Earth that I can’t stand it is the raccoon. If you ever went out to check your chicken house and found what was left of your pet laying hens after the raccoons ate them alive, or seen an orchard or a corn patch that’s been clear cut by a ‘coon party, you’d understand.

Things could be worse. You’d know that if raccoons ever came down your chimney. Then there were the loggers who lured the raccoons into their cabin after they’d been drinking beer, the raccoons that is. Raccoons were made for wide open spaces and tend to run amuck when trapped indoors for any length of time.    

So, I wanted no part of any raccoons, baby or not. I drove right on by and left them. Still, I thought I should check on them later and sure enough. The poor baby raccoons hadn’t moved. They were getting cooked in the middle of the gravel road. They might have been dehydrated. A raven flew over and gave a lone croak, probably just waiting for someone to run the coons over and tenderize them for a noon day meal. What could I do? What would you do? 

Then there were two ravens circling. I moved the baby raccoons out of the middle of the road to a hollow cedar stump.  The three of them stayed rolled up in a little ball. I drove away thinking I’d done the best thing you can do for baby wild animals, ignore them, they’ll go away. It’s illegal, bad and wrong to mess with baby wild animals.  I wouldn’t recommend it to anyone. Still I couldn’t just let the little fellows curl up and starve after their mother hadn’t come back to get them the next day. I poured some milk in a (sterile) rigging glove and breakfast was served. They ate like starving wolverines.  This was very messy but they groomed each other clean in no time. 

After a few days in the cedar stump it was clear the mother raccoon was not coming back.  I thought it was up to me to find the baby raccoons a new home. I took them into town in a box marked “Kittens $5.” They didn’t find a new home but it’s a great way to clear out a Laundromat.

It was too late. By then I had built an emotional bond. They had adjusted to solids, chicken flavored cat food. We spent a lot of time together grooming, feeding and bonding. I tried to train the raccoons by enrolling them in a dog obedience class. I thought with those little hands they could be a lot of help. They could make good seeing- eye coons.

One day at the feed store in town I was talking to a flatlander from down in the valley. Somehow the subject of raccoons came up. The old guy went off. When he began talking about raccoons his fists were clenched his face went red. He became so angry he started spitting so we had a lot in common when it came to raccoons. It turned out he was a retiree who lived on a golf course. The raccoons had made a stinking mess of the golf course.

So, he live trapped a bunch of them using chicken for bait and dumped them up in the woods as it turned out, near my chicken house. It all made sense now. But it was too late. By the time I figured every thing out all my hens had been eaten. It was time for a little payback. I began teaching the baby raccoons how to retrieve golf balls. I started live trapping moles. That’s when things got ugly but like I said by now I was out for revenge. I began collecting slugs from the endless supply in my garden.

By the end of summer the raccoons were shagging golf balls like Labrador retrievers. I had a six pack of live moles ready to dig in and a five-gallon bucket of slugs. I drove into the flatlands with blood in my eye. I dropped the raccoons off in the lobby of the clubhouse to create a diversion while I sprinkled the moles and slugs out on the fairway.

It was good to be alive