Just One of Those Things

The day was clear and beautiful. Visibility was endless with the hum of the Cessna's engine making my eyelids heavy. I don't know who the pilot was or what we were even looking for. Off to my left I spot a slight glimmer from the ground about a mile from our location. I point it out to the faceless pilot and we bank and descend slowly circling a small aircraft which laid upon the flat brown prairie at the edge of a small ravine. It resembled a child's toy that had been stepped on by a carless passerby. Next to the aircraft, stood two people, waiving to us. I don't know who the woman was but the tall man in the gold sport coat was without a doubt, Mr. Robert Fields. I smiled when I recognized him, the pilot of my aircraft tipped the wings back and forth, then without ceremony, I woke from the dream. How odd this was to dream of a person from such a long time ago. Mr. Fields was a prominent teacher in the Libby school system but one that I actually never had as a teacher. My memories of Mr. Fields were limited to one single morning during what was called Mini Week, while I was in High School in 1970. Mini week consisted of activities other than the boring school routine and in my case, I had signed up for my first ride in an airplane. The pilot was Mr. Fields, the same man who 30 plus years later, I would dream of as being one of two survivors of an apparent plane crash. The dream struck me funny but it did not warrant deep pondering until I went online the next day and brought up my hometown newspaper, The Western News. This is something I still do to check the status of my little hometown. I think we all have a tendency to check the obituaries to make sure we are not in them. As I began to look through the short list of the deceased, a chill ran down my spine and I will admit my eyes began to tear up a bit. Staring at me from the screen was an oversize photo of the man that had given me my first plane ride and who the night before had sent me a message. According to the obituary, he had died from the effects of Alzheimer's while in a nursing home. It would be interesting to get other peoples perspective of the circumstances surrounding this dream and the obituary entry the next day. It is difficult for me to write this off as "Just One of Those Things." For whatever the reason he decided to send me a message after his passing, I was thankful then and I am thankful now. On a side note, I hope he wasn't giving me a heads up on how my life might end. I do a lot of flying, but I suppose that if I were seated in an aircraft that was headed toward its demise, I would be perhaps a bit more relaxed because of the vision of Mr. Fields wave signaling that everything is ok. Thank you Mr. Fields, until we cross paths again.

“Close Call on the Cold Floor”

Spring is always a pleasant time of the year, not necessarily my favorite,
but close. Sundays, however, were one of my favorite days to be on patrol in Colville and maybe the other cities I would later work for as well. People seem to get along better on Sundays. Usually it required no more than driving around and waving at the taxpayers as you cruised through the city streets. However, there was one Sunday where my life could have come to an abrupt end. During my nineteen years as a cop, this was the closest I came to being on the receiving end of the medical examiner’s gloved hand.
It started out pretty normal for a Sunday morning. I stopped at a restaurant to have coffee and while I sat sipping away and enjoying the sun through the window, I was interrupted by the dispatcher. I was advised that the custodian at the Stevens County Courthouse, which was an old, large two-story brick building located in the middle of Colville, had seen and heard someone inside as she unlocked and opened the door. On a Sunday? Of course my thoughts turned to the possibility that what she had seen was a ghost which would be pretty cool and wouldn’t require any paperwork. It was wishful thinking as I left my seat at the restaurant and drove to the courthouse.
The custodian met me outside one of the doors and appeared to be shaken up. A Stevens County deputy was just leaving his house and advised me that he would be there shortly to assist in doing a building check. As I asked questions of the young lady, I saw movement at the end of a hallway. Okay, so it wasn’t a ghost. I advised the deputy that I was going to have to enter the building without him and did so with my .45 Colt Commander in hand. Moving quickly down the long corridor, it became apparent just how noisy my feet were on the cold, hard floor. No matter how hard I tried to soften my steps, there was a loud echo throughout the building. It worked both ways, as I also heard the steps of the person who was trying to avoid
me, while the sound of both of our footsteps bounced around the hollow hallways.
I repeatedly went up the stairs and back down on the other side of the building for what seemed like an eternity. I decided to see what would happen if I doubled back and waited on the second floor at the top of the stairs. I took a low position and sure enough, the idiot taking two stairs at a time bounded near the top just as I brought my 45 around the corner and into his face. He dropped to his knees and I saw for a terrifying moment that he also was armed with Colt .45 automatic that was within inches of my nose. I would have been well within my rights to pull the trigger, but I didn’t and to this day I don’t know why I didn’t. If it happened right now, I would send that massive hollow point round into that young man without hesitation. He could have done the same thing, but for some reason he lowered his weapon and his head onto the cold floor.
That was without a doubt the closest I came to getting myself killed while on duty. The young man was taken into custody without further incident. As it turned out, he was trying to find the records office so he
could destroy his criminal file. The deputy arrived just in time to help me get the cuffs on the bonehead.
I spent the next few hours completing my report and then returned to the sunlight in the window of the restaurant, enjoyed another cup of coffee and the rest of my Sunday shift.

Ripples

The death of a friend can take one by surprise and after our initial emotions are done flowing, most of us reflect on our own lives and contemplate our own end as if we are constructing the basis of a novel that few will read. We are all but a drop of rain in a big pond, but for some, the ripples that will emanate from that drop as it strikes the surface can go on for a long time. In some cases they will reverberate from shore to shore many times having an untold affect on the stillness of the body of water which it strikes. I suppose this is my metaphor, describing how we all have an effect on those around us.
Bruce Robertson, left Sitka, AK on a hunting trip on August 25th and just before he left he posted the following on his Facebook page:

Today is the day! heading out to the woods to chase deer. If you don't hear from me, it's only because a bear got to me. Will post photos later. Have a good day
everyone! Mom, I love you!

Those last four words are so powerful and so important. I got into the habit a few years ago of saying I love you to my kids and sisters whenever we finish talking either in person or on the phone. My first born is still uncomfortable with that because I am sure that when he was a little kid I didn't say it much and for that I am sorry son. I have an idea that a number of people that were close enough to Bruce to feel the ripples of his life will say "I love you," more often. Consider it a beautiful reminder and a gift from Bruce, I know that his mother does.
Bruce failed to return from his hunting trip. On August 30th, he was discovered at the base of a ravine by friends and search and rescue personnel. The announcement was made on his Facebook page by Gary White in a heartfelt way. Gary pointed out that Bruce was doing what he loved to do; he was hunting in some of the most beautiful country in the world. Bruce was truly a real Alaskan outdoorsman and what better way for him to depart this life and send out that last ripple. As fitting as it was Bruce, that ripple kept a number of people under water for a bit too long, mainly because it came too soon my friend, it just came too soon.
Since Bruce's last ripple spread throughout the pond, some of his very close friends and relatives struggle to reach the surface, and I worry about them. The message from Bruce is that you must take advantage of his strength and remember how tall he stands. Stand on his shoulders until you reach the surface and breathe, you will be okay.
Something strange about writing this story, one of the few people I would normally be sending this to for an opinion was Bruce. We exchanged a number of writing projects looking for approval of our written thoughts, and ideas, pardon me as I prepare for another one of Bruce's ripples.
Bruce did not choose the time of his passing but if he had, it would have been at the end of an August month while he was hunting in the mountains that surround Sitka Alaska. In a number of ways that is a comforting thought. For me, a nice fall day would be preferable. I love the color and smell of fall just like Bruce loved the smells and challenges of a good hunt in his beloved Alaska Mountains and one more thing, thanks Bruce for choosing our pond, love you buddy!

Bruce Robertson 1969-2010

Alaska Photos by Dan Rutan

All photos posted with Dan Rutan's permission


Small brown bear print




Snow Owl




Chopper view of big mama and cubs




Dan told me the story on this one. The photo was taken over his shoulder as he attempted to exit the area. Unfortunately another brown bear was at the other end of the walkway and Dan had to crawl over the rail. The bear passed with-in inches of him. This photo was taken on the Russian River.




Large carabou heard




Big ass Skeeters!



The Crossing, Caribou in action!



Nice Red



Deadhorse Airport, Alaska
The place where a sloper usually starts his or her tour or ends it.





One of the great things about working on the North Slope in Alaska is the people you work around. I am posting a few photos from one of the guys that works for our project, "Point Thomson." The location is remote and requires a great deal of support from helicopters as well as ocean going vessels. The guy who took these photos is Dan Rutan, retired Air Force rescue chopper crew chief. He served two tours in Afghanistan and is now living a true Alaskan life. I usually do not use any one else's photos but my own but I do not get out enough anymore to get these kind of shots. Enjoy them.

Oh Nancy

While searching for new music to put on my blog, I was fortunate enough to type in Nancy Sinatra. I am so glad that I did. I picked up a few classics but also found her web site. What an interesting human being she is and I had no idea how much time and effort she has put in for all of these years supporting our military including her involvment with the "Rolling Thunder" ride to DC. I encourage you to go to her site and take a look. This lady is amazing! I have provided a link in my link section.

One Call

Back in January of 1997, I was a police officer with the City of Bothell WA. I remember hearing the news that the first black man from WWII was going to receive the Medal of Honor for his bravery. Actually seven were to receive the medal but because of the delay, only one was still living. His name is Vernon Baker. I told one of my fellow workers, at the department, Mike Stone, that I was overwhelmed with the courage this man had been recognized for. My then wife Julie and I were raising my grandson at the time, who is part Black and part Chippewa, which made these events seem very personnel. Vernon lived in a small town in Idaho. I remember saying to my work mate, Mike, "I bet that his phone number is still listed," and I was right. I received his number from information and promptly called Mr. Vernon Baker's residence. His wife, Heidy answered the phone. I explained to her who I was and that I wanted to say thank you and congratulations to her husband. Mr. Baker came to the phone and I was able to spend a good 10 minutes talking to this remarkable hero. I asked him if I was ever in the area where he lived if he would mind if I called him again and met with him so my grandson could shake his hand. He readily agreed however I admit I dropped the ball and never made the trip. I have some serious regrets about that. At any rate I feel good that I had a chance to talk to Mr. Baker on the phone. It will truly be one call I will keep close to my patriotic heart.

Update: Vernon Baker passed away on July 13th, 2010

The Sad Little Duck

“The Sad Little Duck”

The attractive little fellow pictured is a King Eider duck. One of the 258 species of birds that spend the summer in the Arctic, giving birth to new generations. The unfortunate truth this year is the birds returned to their birth place a little too early. The North Slope is still covered in ice and snow and is very slow to turn into the normal spring the birds are accustomed to. This photo was taken yesterday and most likely he has already fallen victim to the hunger pains of the Raven or perhaps a red, or arctic fox. Mother Nature can be cruel and in the arctic it is demonstrated on a regular basis.