Sometime within the last couple weeks, a neighbor got his house cleaned out—as in robbed. He lost virtually everything. He “knew” that the car-chopper-upper family just down the street had done it, but had no proof. In my experience, whenever I’ve been ripped off, either they did it or knew who did. On a couple of occasions I was able to apply some pressure and get them to steal my stuff back for me.
Well, one day late last week, I looked over and noticed a couple Sheriff’s vehicles and the local sergeant over at the house. Turns out they did a “routine” parole check on one of the family members and they conveniently had brought a detailed list of my neighbor’s stolen property. And there it was, in the house, along with 15 rifles and some handguns and 80 lbs of weed. They certainly didn’t grow it themselves, so you can bet it was also stolen. My friend got most of his stuff back, the cops arrested two of the thieves in the den, the parolee is back in prison and someone who just lost 80 lbs of pot now knows who to go after. It ain’t pretty…for them. For the rest of the neighborhood it’s a great improvement.
(Note: the details of the arrest came to me second or third-hand. I’ll confirm and post an update, if it matters, when I can.)
The constant gunfire had gotten totally out of hand in the last couple months. The little hamlet of Tweeker Creek where we live is just too small and populated to be shooting like that. Any bullet that missed whatever target they were shooting at over there or any ricochet could easily travel all the way across town. Funny thing is, had I not been on my way out to a meeting when I saw the Sheriff, I might have gone over and asked the deputies to ask the shooters to quiet it down. Guess I don’t have to worry about that for a while.
Indeed, it is much quieter since the arrests. Except for the one guy in back cutting up cars into little pieces. He’s still at it. Every week or so, the local disposal company drops off another empty 20 yard dumpster and hauls off the other one full of scrap. Either the County made them clean it up or the price of scrap iron has risen to the point (largely due to demand from China) that it is profitable to sell it. I figure that based on the price of iron, minus the cost of hauling it to Oakland, divided by the time it takes to cut up a car and hand load it into a dumpster, that they must be making all of 50 cents/hour.
Meanwhile, they were recently in possession of something like $200K worth of stolen weed and additional value in guns and other stolen property, but they’re working day and night cutting up cars for 50 cents/hour. Um…is there something wrong with this picture? I guess you shouldn’t expect much from people who are so stupid as to rip off their neighbors and keep the stolen goods right there in their house. While they’re on parole. While shooting off guns day and night. While also holding a boat-load of stolen weed. While they have a reputation for violating every law on the book. I’ve talked to several neighbors and we’re all enjoying the quiet since the arrest.
Speaking of chopping up cars, I have to relate this story from many years ago, shortly after I moved in to Tweeker Creek. One of the car-chopper family was out by the road and I asked him, “so, why do you chop up cars with an axe?” With a completely straight face and narry a touch of irony, he replied, “I ain’t got nuthin’ but a axe.”
Monday, May 14, 2007
Friday, May 11, 2007
Inflatable burning water tanks
There is so much I want to write about here that it’s hard to know where to start. An overview seems appropriate. So, let’s start with an overview from 4,000 feet. I got to go for a small plane ride a couple days ago with a local pilot. First time in over twenty years I’d been in anything but a jet and first time I’d seen Southern Humboldtistan from the air.
We took off from Garberville airport in late morning, flew west up Briceland Road, circled around Briceland, headed out over Whitethorn and Whale Gulch to the sea, flew part way up Black Sands Beach then up and over the King Range, over the Mattole, Duty Ridge, Elk Ridge and Salmon Creek. We flew into the Eel River Valley over Meyers Flat, crossed over into the Middle Fork drainage for a bit, back into the South Fork then swung downstream high above Miranda, Phillipsville and eventually over Garberville. One last loop above Benbow and around the hill to come back in to Garberville airport from the south and we were back.
There were three things that struck me right off about seeing this place from high up—besides that it was quite pretty. The first was the sheer number of people living in the hills around here. Sometimes on a winter night, when everyone has lights on at 5pm (powered by their independent energy systems) and you’re standing on a high ridge, you can get some sense of the hill population. Still, I had no idea until I was able to look straight down. There are a lot of people in them thar hills.
And everyone of us is taking water from Redwood Creek or Salmon Creek or the Eel River or the Mattole or whatever watershed we live in. Whether it’s from a spring, a well or pumped directly from the creek, it’s not going into the river. Seeing the number of homesteads from a few thousand feet, it’s easy to see why the creeks around here dry up in summer. It’s not logging or grazing or dams or export of water to L.A. It’s homesteaders. We all know this, but it’s hard to grok the cumulative impact of “my little spring diversion” until you see all of them at once. I had a similar epiphany flying into Seattle in a jet at rush hour last winter. In every direction, on every road for as far as the eye could see (which is quite far from that altitude) there were car lights. Little global warming machines, by the hundreds of thousands, each spewing exhaust.
There are a damn lot of us, but it takes seeing it all at once to really get perspective on the impacts.
The next major revelation was the embarrassing number of what I refer to as “Inflatable Homesteads™.” I’ve always thought that someone could make a business out of marketing the whole package: small beat-up trailer; 30’x40’ greenhouse and enough soil to fill 5 trenches 30’ long; 500’ of curtilage fence; a pre-filled-out Proposition 215 doctor’s recommendation; 20 plants; a dead car and some other props to make it seem like someone lives there. Just add water.
Lots and lots of water, all coming out of the creek. What I didn’t see enough of was water storage tanks. We do not live in a desert and there is absolutely no water shortage. We get enough winter rains here (60” to 200” depending on the watershed) that we could have rice paddies and swimming pools if we wanted to. All we have to do is store water during the winter rainy season. I’d like to think that people who are putting up all the Inflatable Homesteads™ would also include enough water tanks to get them through the summer without sucking the creeks dry. Not like they can’t afford it. (We’ll revisit this subject in more detail some other time.)
Lastly, I was amazed at the lack of fire-kill in the forest from the famous Canoe and Honeydew Fires of a few years ago. Despite the number of total acres burned, very few trees died. I had pictured vast swaths of dead trees, but the reality was that most of the fire burned through the understory, leaving the largest trees standing. Here and there, patches of completely dead trees stand weathered and gray above the green of the new brush and young trees below. But these are isolated patches, the textbook “mosaic” pattern that fire usually leaves in its wake.
Along some ridge tops, the fire restored meadowland that had become grown over since the end of Native American burning and the beginning of systematic fire suppression in the last century. When Douglas firs grow in a dense forest, they usually have few if any lower limbs. The dearth of sunlight provides no incentive for the plant to put sunlight-catching leaves way down there. But out at the meadow’s edge, the trees have branches to the ground. When a fire moves through the grass, those branches provide a ready “ladder” for the fire to move up high in the tree and burn hot enough to kill it. Once the trees on the forest’s edge die, the meadow plants recolonize the newly opened ground. Meadows, fire and the edge of the forest are in a dynamic, feedback-heavy relationship. Not “balance,” but a somewhat predictable cycle of constant change.
I haven’t read or heard anything about any studies being done (I’m sure they have been), but my guess is that once all the hoopla over Sudden Oak Death dies down, we’ll come to see that the result is likewise not total devastation, but a wild-fire-like mosaic of living and dead trees. Most likely, some tanoaks (the species most susceptible to the fungus) will survive and eventually a resistance will develop through natural selection. Of course, I’m hoping my big, lovely live oaks don’t succumb once the fungus makes its way up the creek to my place, but I’m not near as worried as I was a couple years ago when the hype was raging like wildfire.
Speaking of touching down on solid ground, did anyone else feel the earthquake the other night? I was up writing and felt three of them. First time in a while and it was a bit disconcerting. Since the last shake, I’ve acquired some electronic devices that I had to think about. Before going to bed, I thought it would be a good idea to put the computer, printer and so on in safe places where they wouldn’t fall to the floor if a big shake happened during the night. I’ve always liked living where even the ground under your feet won’t hold still.
The neighbors seem to have stopped chopping up cars, so maybe I can get to sleep.
We took off from Garberville airport in late morning, flew west up Briceland Road, circled around Briceland, headed out over Whitethorn and Whale Gulch to the sea, flew part way up Black Sands Beach then up and over the King Range, over the Mattole, Duty Ridge, Elk Ridge and Salmon Creek. We flew into the Eel River Valley over Meyers Flat, crossed over into the Middle Fork drainage for a bit, back into the South Fork then swung downstream high above Miranda, Phillipsville and eventually over Garberville. One last loop above Benbow and around the hill to come back in to Garberville airport from the south and we were back.
There were three things that struck me right off about seeing this place from high up—besides that it was quite pretty. The first was the sheer number of people living in the hills around here. Sometimes on a winter night, when everyone has lights on at 5pm (powered by their independent energy systems) and you’re standing on a high ridge, you can get some sense of the hill population. Still, I had no idea until I was able to look straight down. There are a lot of people in them thar hills.
And everyone of us is taking water from Redwood Creek or Salmon Creek or the Eel River or the Mattole or whatever watershed we live in. Whether it’s from a spring, a well or pumped directly from the creek, it’s not going into the river. Seeing the number of homesteads from a few thousand feet, it’s easy to see why the creeks around here dry up in summer. It’s not logging or grazing or dams or export of water to L.A. It’s homesteaders. We all know this, but it’s hard to grok the cumulative impact of “my little spring diversion” until you see all of them at once. I had a similar epiphany flying into Seattle in a jet at rush hour last winter. In every direction, on every road for as far as the eye could see (which is quite far from that altitude) there were car lights. Little global warming machines, by the hundreds of thousands, each spewing exhaust.
There are a damn lot of us, but it takes seeing it all at once to really get perspective on the impacts.
The next major revelation was the embarrassing number of what I refer to as “Inflatable Homesteads™.” I’ve always thought that someone could make a business out of marketing the whole package: small beat-up trailer; 30’x40’ greenhouse and enough soil to fill 5 trenches 30’ long; 500’ of curtilage fence; a pre-filled-out Proposition 215 doctor’s recommendation; 20 plants; a dead car and some other props to make it seem like someone lives there. Just add water.
Lots and lots of water, all coming out of the creek. What I didn’t see enough of was water storage tanks. We do not live in a desert and there is absolutely no water shortage. We get enough winter rains here (60” to 200” depending on the watershed) that we could have rice paddies and swimming pools if we wanted to. All we have to do is store water during the winter rainy season. I’d like to think that people who are putting up all the Inflatable Homesteads™ would also include enough water tanks to get them through the summer without sucking the creeks dry. Not like they can’t afford it. (We’ll revisit this subject in more detail some other time.)
Lastly, I was amazed at the lack of fire-kill in the forest from the famous Canoe and Honeydew Fires of a few years ago. Despite the number of total acres burned, very few trees died. I had pictured vast swaths of dead trees, but the reality was that most of the fire burned through the understory, leaving the largest trees standing. Here and there, patches of completely dead trees stand weathered and gray above the green of the new brush and young trees below. But these are isolated patches, the textbook “mosaic” pattern that fire usually leaves in its wake.
Along some ridge tops, the fire restored meadowland that had become grown over since the end of Native American burning and the beginning of systematic fire suppression in the last century. When Douglas firs grow in a dense forest, they usually have few if any lower limbs. The dearth of sunlight provides no incentive for the plant to put sunlight-catching leaves way down there. But out at the meadow’s edge, the trees have branches to the ground. When a fire moves through the grass, those branches provide a ready “ladder” for the fire to move up high in the tree and burn hot enough to kill it. Once the trees on the forest’s edge die, the meadow plants recolonize the newly opened ground. Meadows, fire and the edge of the forest are in a dynamic, feedback-heavy relationship. Not “balance,” but a somewhat predictable cycle of constant change.
I haven’t read or heard anything about any studies being done (I’m sure they have been), but my guess is that once all the hoopla over Sudden Oak Death dies down, we’ll come to see that the result is likewise not total devastation, but a wild-fire-like mosaic of living and dead trees. Most likely, some tanoaks (the species most susceptible to the fungus) will survive and eventually a resistance will develop through natural selection. Of course, I’m hoping my big, lovely live oaks don’t succumb once the fungus makes its way up the creek to my place, but I’m not near as worried as I was a couple years ago when the hype was raging like wildfire.
Speaking of touching down on solid ground, did anyone else feel the earthquake the other night? I was up writing and felt three of them. First time in a while and it was a bit disconcerting. Since the last shake, I’ve acquired some electronic devices that I had to think about. Before going to bed, I thought it would be a good idea to put the computer, printer and so on in safe places where they wouldn’t fall to the floor if a big shake happened during the night. I’ve always liked living where even the ground under your feet won’t hold still.
The neighbors seem to have stopped chopping up cars, so maybe I can get to sleep.
Thursday, May 10, 2007
Intro to Humboldtistan Daily News
Greetings From Most Glorious Humboldtistan!
A blog about life behind Northern California’s Redwood Curtain.
A blog about life behind Northern California’s Redwood Curtain.
Why “Humboldtistan?”
Imagine a remote, mountainous nation, somewhat isolated and cut off from the rest of the world, technologically behind the times, governed by tribal, warring factions vying for power over obscure local institutions virtually unheard of in the outside world. In these internecine conflicts, democratic process is routinely subverted by manipulative, insider cliques. Much of this remote region’s population seems to be living in a bygone era, clinging to archaic worldviews and dated traditions. Strangers are viewed with distrust by a populace fearful of outsiders and it is difficult for newcomers to move there or get established unless they are accepted into one of the secretive social circles. Perhaps the most cosmopolitan aspect of this country is its export of illegal drugs. This persists despite the occasional and ineffective intervention attempts by U.S. government forces or their local proxies. The ever-widening economic divide, between those who have drug profits and those who do not, creates a situation where conspicuous wealth resides side-by-side with poverty, hunger and homelessness. The remoteness and isolation from the rest of the world creates a situation where technology, information, culture, health care and common services and material goods that most modern societies take for granted are often difficult to find or overly expensive to obtain. Superstition is rampant.
Welcome to Humboldtistan, California, U.S.A.
Don’t get me wrong, I love our little country and its quaint and quirky ways. I love the Eel River, the Redwoods, the nice summers, the views, the Lost Coast, the salmon, the rebellious, outlaw culture where most anything goes. I’m grateful for fact that diversity of opinions and cultures is widely tolerated. I appreciate those aspects of small-town life that are conducive to community and a sense of belonging. There is a lot here that makes it a good place to live, but there is also a lot missing and a lot that needs changing. There is trouble in paradise and this is my opinion on it.
Since I live in Southern Humboldt, that’s primarily what I intend to write about. The above description of the mythical Humboldtistan is based on my view of SoHum and Northern Mendocino and The Community Formerly Known As Mateel (Tcfkam). There are things here that we all take for granted that others will find quaint, bizarre or terrifying—or all of these at once. I know this because I travel frequently and whenever I describe this place, the reactions are always extreme. Like, for example, when I matter-of-factly described how my neighbors stay up all night cutting up cars with axes. By my listeners’ jaw-dropping expressions of disbelief, you’d think cutting up cars with axes in the middle of the night wasn’t normal behavior. Huh? It’s not? Oh. Welcome to Humboldtistan.
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