WELCOME TO THE WEB PAGE OF ARCHIE SATTERFIELD

Books for Organisations and Families
Commissioned Histories.

My career as a book author was just getting started when a wonderful thing happened. I had recently co-authored a book on Alaska bush pilots that involved some aviation pioneers who later became members of Alaska Airlines’ board. The new management liked the book and invited me to write a warts-and-all history of the airline for its 50th anniversary.

A year or two later an advertising friend recommending me to write the history of Crescent Foods on the occasion of its 100th birthday.

Then another writer friend recommended me to the incoming CEO of Darigold who wanted a history of the dairy cooperative.

Finally the obvious occurred to me: I should seek out these commissions on my own rather than waiting for further generosity from friends. Since then I have written several other corporate histories, a family history and the history of the small town I lived in for fifteen years.”

Here is what clients say about my work:

ALASKA AIRLINES:
At the time this history was written the airline had changed quickly from one with a history of poor or inefficient management into the highest-rated regional airline in North America. With their 50th anniversary approaching, they asked me to write their history.

"He did an outstanding job. He captured living history."
James A. Johnson
Vice President


DARIGOLD
The Seattle-based dairy cooperative, one of the largest and most successful in America, wanted a history of the cooperative written as its 75th year approached.

"Thank you for the tremendous job you did with the manuscript. The book is a major factor in our 75th anniversary celebration."
Wesley E. Eckert
President & CEO

TILLAMOOK CHEESE
The Tillamook Creamery and Dairy Association liked what I had written about their competitor, Darigold, so they hired me to write their history as well.

“Archie has captured the essence of Tillamook as well as anyone could. I have lived here all my life and reading the book brings back memories I had forgotten.”
Harold Schild
General Manager

PEMCO FINANCIAL CENTER
This insurance and banking company wanted to document its success that is based on service to members. The book was never published but was used as a research document instead.

“He is an outstanding writer who brings forth historical reality for positive guidance for future generations.”
Stanley O. McNaughton
CEO


TRILLIUM CORPORATION
This timber and agricultural development company was just entering on the world stage when I was hired to write its history. The job was spread over about 15 years and is in production at this time (2010).

“Archie creates a whole new definition of concern and interest in his writing subjects. He really cares.”
David R. Syre
Founder and Chairman


CRESCENT FOODS
When the spice company's centennial was near, the owners hired me to produce a book based on interviews with the owners and longtime employees.

"Archie produced exactly what we wanted: A conservative chronicle that we used for gifts and public relations."
Dick Weaver
Vice President


SAHALEE GOLF AND COUNTRY CLUB
After the Redmond, Washington, club became well established, the founders assembled material for a book and hired me and an associate to edit, design and print it.

"Archie was delightful to work with. We are very pleased. Our book is unique."
Harry Wilson
Founder, Sahalee Country Club.


CITY OF EDMONDS, WASHINGTON
The city council created a Centennial Committee for the statewide celebration in 1989 and offered a contract to me to write and produce a pictorial history of the city.

"Archie was cooperative and understanding. He considered everyone's suggestions. That is especially difficult when working with a committee."
Linda McCrystal
Centennial Coordinator
City of Edmonds




How I write commissioned histories, as published in my brochure:

“I work directly with one person who is designated the project editor. This person knows where all the files are and how they are organized, can help arrange interviews and when the manuscript is completed, will show it to key people and decide which of the suggested changes and corrections I should incorporate.

“I do not require an office. I only need access to people, files and a copy machine. I go to great lengths to avoid disrupting the normal office routine.

“The writing process is simple but very time consuming. I go through records and scrapbooks, and I interview officers and employees about projects they have worked on and the changes they have witnessed or helped inaugurate.

“It is important that interviews be conducted in one-on-one sessions. The subjects set the time and place because it is important that we talk without interruption. I am available for interviews anytime seven days a week.

“When the research and interviewing is done, I write the first draft, often finding that I need more information and supplemental interviews. The draft manuscript is delivered to the client, who shows copies to a selection of key people to check for accuracy, make comments and suggestions. When this information is approved, I go back to work, do additional research and sometimes more interviews, and deliver a completed manuscript within a specified time frame.

“When the completed manuscript is accepted, it then goes to a book producer whose staff checks it for grammar, punctuation, spelling and consistency. At the same time a designer is at work merging text with illustrations and preparing a cover design.
When all of these things are approved, the book then goes to the printer."

For further information, please contact me at: byarchie@msn.com

Newspaper Profile
Seattle Daily Journal of Commerce
Edmonds author completes pictorial on city's centennial

BY LESLEE JAQUETTE
Special to the Journal

EDMONDS - This month Archie Satterfield, author of "The Seattle GuideBook" and many general trade books, celebrates the publication of the 126-page book he authored and produced for the City of Edmonds. "Edmonds: The First Century" offers readers a pictorial and written recollection of Edmonds' first 100 years. Available locally, the book makes Edmonds' history come alive with photos and reports Satterfield resurrected through hundreds of hours of research and interviews.
Linda McCrystal, staff coordinator for the Edmonds Centennial Committee, says “Archie was very cooperative and understanding. He considered everyone’s suggestions. That is especially difficult when working with a committee.”
The Edmonds saga is first cousin to a new kind of history book Satterfield produces with increasing regularity--the corporate history.
Author of over 20 books and countless articles, Satterfield writes histories for corporations as diverse as Alaska Airlines, Crescent Fools and Eddie Bauer. Just as the City of Edmonds wants to document its history, many corporations get a little teary-eyed as significant anniversaries roll around. Management takes the opportunity to chronicle the past for owners, employees and potential public relations use.
Satterfield, who lives in Edmonds, is a former editor and columnist for the Seattle Post-ntelligencer.
"One thing I like about corporate histories is you are dealing personally and positively with people, unlike many other kinds of books," says Satterfield from his office in Edmonds. “They are invariably fine people. They want a history because they love their company."
In 1981 Satterfield started work on his first corporate history for Alaska Airlines. The company approached Satterfield, founding editor of award-winning Northwest Living Magazine, to write a history in celebration of the airline's 50th anniversary. It was a natural union. Years before Satterfield published a number of articles and books including Chilkoot Pass, Alaska Bush Pilots and After the Gold Rush.
Alaska Airlines needed someone with Satterfield's diverse experience to piece together their history. "Archie has a knack and a flair about him,'' says Jim Johnson, Alaska Airlines senior vice president of public affairs in charge of the book. "He did an outstanding job. He captured living history.''
Johnson explains the company later used Satterfield's book as the basis for a video commemoration. Of the 1000 copies published, a tenth were special editions used by the chairman for personal gifts.
For Satterfield the Alaska Airlines Story was a benchmark. The Northwest company offered him a contract he couldn’t resist at a time he was ready for a change.
Alaska retained Satterfield for 18 months and he traveled all over the country accumulating material for the book. Together with royalties from over a dozen books, the corporate history helped Satterfield become self-employed.
In addition, the previous year, Satterfield came into contact with well-known family/corporate historian, Richard V. Sawyer of Seattle. Sawyer shared the fundamentals of writing corporate histories with Satterfield and the two writers traded clients. One of these trades started Satterfield's three-book relationship with Eddie Bauer, the first titles in the Eddie Bauer Outdoor Library Series.
"Sometimes I think I should be writing best sellers," Satterfield joked. "But I'm a journalist. I report and write. Besides, I think writing these histories is interesting and enormously useful."
There is a number of similarities when it comes to researching projects. According to Satterfield, the writer needs to interview key people, have access to company archives and allowed time to research all kinds of clippings and articles, usually preserved by a single person, "a keeper of clips."
One of a handful of writers in the region who write corporate histories, Satterfield wrote a history for Crescent Foods Inc. in celebration of the Seattle company's 100th anniversary in 1983. Former owner Dick Weaver says Satterfield produced exactly what the company wanted, a very conservative chronicle that they used for gifts and public relations work. Satterfield supplied the owners with outlines and transcriptions of every interview.
"I guess the toughest part is deciding who gets mentioned and who doesn't,'' says Weaver with humor in his voice. "Ultimately we made joint decisions in all these matters with Archie's help."
Companies interested in creating corporate histories need to be aware that it takes at least a year to put together a book. It is most helpful if one person is in charge of the publication details. This person can usually push for decisions faster and easier than “book by committee."
However, Satterfield notes one main frustration with corporate histories: It is hard to separate businessmen from work long enough to interview them. “You realize your project is a low priority for a busy company.”
A number of clients approach Satterfield not to write their copy but simply to edit and produce their story. A founders committee at Sahalee Country Club in Redmond chose that option. They wanted to save money and author their own words, yet they needed professional help to finish the anniversary history, "Sahalee Country Club: The First Twenty Years."
"It was their book," says Satterfield, who has similarly edited and produced a history for the Seattle Surgical Society. "They paid me for a variety of things but mostly I helped them do what they wanted to do. A good editor helps the writer accomplish his goals."
Chairman and founding member Harry Wilson says, "Archie was delightful to work with. He did a great job proofing our writing. We are very pleased."
Sahalee board members initially expressed doubts about Satterfield's ability to write about the club because he wasn't an experienced golfer. Satterfield says that is a common fear.
People assume you can't write about something unless you are a professional in the field. When, actually, by the time Satterfield researches a company or subject for a year or more he has become quite educated in corporate that area.
"You learn to listen," says Satterfield. "It's fun to learn about new things. In fact, it's a lot like getting a masters degree.”
Since the conclusion of the Edmonds pictorial, Satterfield has focused his energies toward a fall completion of his second World War II book, "The Day the War Began." It is largely an oral history of peoples' remembrances of Dec. 7, 1942, the day the bombed Pearl Harbor. Satterfield says the military side of the war has been covered. But his book looks at what civilians all over the country were doing on that date and how the war affected the remainder of their lives.

Commissioned Histories

Commissioned Histories.
“My career as a book author was just getting started when a wonderful thing happened. I had recently co-authored a book on Alaska bush pilots that involved some aviation pioneers who later became members of Alaska Airlines’ board. The new management liked the book and invited me to write a warts-and-all history of the airline for its 50th anniversary.

“A year or two later an advertising friend recommending me to write the history of Crescent Foods on the occasion of its 100th birthday.

“Then another writer friend recommended me to the incoming CEO of Darigold who wanted a history of the dairy cooperative.

“Finally the obvious occurred to me: I should seek out these commissions on my own rather than waiting for further generosity from friends. Since then I have written several other corporate histories, a family history and the history of the small town I lived in for fifteen years.”

Here is what clients say about Satterfield’s work:

ALASKA AIRLINES:
At the time this was written the airline had changed quickly from one with a history of poor or inefficient management into the highest-rated regional airline in North America. With their 50th anniversary approaching, they asked Satterfield to write their history.

"He did an outstanding job. He captured living history."
James A. Johnson
Vice President


DARIGOLD
The Seattle-based dairy cooperative, one of the largest and most successful in America, wanted a history of the cooperative written as its 75th year approached.

"Thank you for the tremendous job you did with the manuscript. The book is a major factor in our 75th anniversary celebration."
Wesley E. Eckert
President & CEO

TILLAMOOK CHEESE
The Tillamook Creamery and Dairy Association liked what he had written about their competitor, Darigold, so they hired me to write their history as well.

“Archie has captured the essence of Tillamook as well as anyone could. I have lived here all my life and reading the book brings back memories I had forgotten.”
Harold Schild
General Manager

PEMCO FINANCIAL CENTER
This insurance and banking company wanted to document its success that is based on service to members.

“He is an outstanding writer who brings forth historical reality for positive guidance for future generations.”
Stanley O. McNaughton
CEO


TRILLIUM CORPORATION
This timber and agricultural development company was just entering on the world stage when Satterfield was hired to write its history.

“Archie creates a whole new definition of concern and interest in his writing subjects. He really cares.”
David R. Syre
Founder and Chairman


CRESCENT FOODS
When the spice company's centennial was near, the owners hired me to produce a book based on interviews with the owners and longtime employees.

"Archie produced exactly what we wanted: A conservative chronicle that we used for gifts and public relations."
Dick Weaver
Vice President


SAHALEE GOLF AND COUNTRY CLUB
After the Redmond, Washington, club became well established, the founders assembled material for a book and hired me and an associate to edit, design and print it.

"Archie was delightful to work with. We are very pleased. Our book is unique."
Harry Wilson
Founder, Sahalee Country Club.


CITY OF EDMONDS, WASHINGTON
The city council created a Centennial Committee for the statewide celebration in 1989 and offered a contract to me to write and produce a pictorial history of the city.

"Archie was cooperative and understanding. He considered everyone's suggestions. That is especially difficult when working with a committee."
Linda McCrystal
Centennial Coordinator
City of Edmonds




How I write commissioned histories:

“I work directly with one person who is designated the project editor. This person knows where all the files are and how they are organized, can help arrange interviews and when the manuscript is completed, will show it to key people and decide which of the suggested changes and corrections I should incorporate.

“I do not require an office. I only need access to people, files and a copy machine. I go to great lengths to avoid disrupting the normal office routine.

“The writing process is simple but very time consuming. I go through records and scrapbooks, and I interview officers and employees about projects they have worked on and the changes they have witnessed or helped inaugurate.

“It is important that interviews be conducted in one-on-one sessions. The subjects set the time and place because it is important that we talk without interruption. I am available for interviews anytime seven days a week.

“When the research and interviewing is done, I write the first draft, often finding that I need more information and supplemental interviews. The draft manuscript is delivered to the client, who shows copies to a selection of key people to check for accuracy, make comments and suggestions. When this information is approved, I go back to work, do additional research and sometimes more interviews, and deliver a completed manuscript within a specified time frame.

“When the completed manuscript is accepted, it then goes to a book producer whose staff checks it for grammar, punctuation, spelling and consistency. At the same time a designer is at work merging text with illustrations and preparing a cover design.
When all of these things are approved, the book then goes to the printer."

For further information, please contact Satterfield at: byarchie@msn.com

Newspaper Profile
Seattle Daily Journal of Commerce
Edmonds author completes pictorial on city's centennial

BY LESLEE JAQUETTE
Special to the Journal

EDMONDS - This month Archie Satterfield, author of "The Seattle GuideBook" and many general trade books, celebrates the publication of the 126-page book he authored and produced for the City of Edmonds. "Edmonds: The First Century" offers readers a pictorial and written recollection of Edmonds' first 100 years. Available locally, the book makes Edmonds' history come alive with photos and reports Satterfield resurrected through hundreds of hours of research and interviews.
Linda McCrystal, staff coordinator for the Edmonds Centennial Committee, says “Archie was very cooperative and understanding. He considered everyone’s suggestions. That is especially difficult when working with a committee.”
The Edmonds saga is first cousin to a new kind of history book Satterfield produces with increasing regularity--the corporate history.
Author of over 20 books and countless articles, Satterfield writes histories for corporations as diverse as Alaska Airlines, Crescent Fools and Eddie Bauer. Just as the City of Edmonds wants to document its history, many corporations get a little teary-eyed as significant anniversaries roll around. Management takes the opportunity to chronicle the past for owners, employees and potential public relations use.
Satterfield, who lives in Edmonds, is a former editor and columnist for the Seattle Post-ntelligencer.
"One thing I like about corporate histories is you are dealing personally and positively with people, unlike many other kinds of books," says Satterfield from his office in Edmonds. “They are invariably fine people. They want a history because they love their company."
In 1981 Satterfield started work on his first corporate history for Alaska Airlines. The company approached Satterfield, founding editor of award-winning Northwest Living Magazine, to write a history in celebration of the airline's 50th anniversary. It was a natural union. Years before Satterfield published a number of articles and books including Chilkoot Pass, Alaska Bush Pilots and After the Gold Rush.
Alaska Airlines needed someone with Satterfield's diverse experience to piece together their history. "Archie has a knack and a flair about him,'' says Jim Johnson, Alaska Airlines senior vice president of public affairs in charge of the book. "He did an outstanding job. He captured living history.''
Johnson explains the company later used Satterfield's book as the basis for a video commemoration. Of the 1000 copies published, a tenth were special editions used by the chairman for personal gifts.
For Satterfield the Alaska Airlines Story was a benchmark. The Northwest company offered him a contract he couldn’t resist at a time he was ready for a change.
Alaska retained Satterfield for 18 months and he traveled all over the country accumulating material for the book. Together with royalties from over a dozen books, the corporate history helped Satterfield become self-employed.
In addition, the previous year, Satterfield came into contact with well-known family/corporate historian, Richard V. Sawyer of Seattle. Sawyer shared the fundamentals of writing corporate histories with Satterfield and the two writers traded clients. One of these trades started Satterfield's three-book relationship with Eddie Bauer, the first titles in the Eddie Bauer Outdoor Library Series.
"Sometimes I think I should be writing best sellers," Satterfield joked. "But I'm a journalist. I report and write. Besides, I think writing these histories is interesting and enormously useful."
There is a number of similarities when it comes to researching projects. According to Satterfield, the writer needs to interview key people, have access to company archives and allowed time to research all kinds of clippings and articles, usually preserved by a single person, "a keeper of clips."
One of a handful of writers in the region who write corporate histories, Satterfield wrote a history for Crescent Foods Inc. in celebration of the Seattle company's 100th anniversary in 1983. Former owner Dick Weaver says Satterfield produced exactly what the company wanted, a very conservative chronicle that they used for gifts and public relations work. Satterfield supplied the owners with outlines and transcriptions of every interview.
"I guess the toughest part is deciding who gets mentioned and who doesn't,'' says Weaver with humor in his voice. "Ultimately we made joint decisions in all these matters with Archie's help."
Companies interested in creating corporate histories need to be aware that it takes at least a year to put together a book. It is most helpful if one person is in charge of the publication details. This person can usually push for decisions faster and easier than “book by committee."
However, Satterfield notes one main frustration with corporate histories: It is hard to separate businessmen from work long enough to interview them. “You realize your project is a low priority for a busy company.”
A number of clients approach Satterfield not to write their copy but simply to edit and produce their story. A founders committee at Sahalee Country Club in Redmond chose that option. They wanted to save money and author their own words, yet they needed professional help to finish the anniversary history, "Sahalee Country Club: The First Twenty Years."
"It was their book," says Satterfield, who has similarly edited and produced a history for the Seattle Surgical Society. "They paid me for a variety of things but mostly I helped them do what they wanted to do. A good editor helps the writer accomplish his goals."
Chairman and founding member Harry Wilson says, "Archie was delightful to work with. He did a great job proofing our writing. We are very pleased."
Sahalee board members initially expressed doubts about Satterfield's ability to write about the club because he wasn't an experienced golfer. Satterfield says that is a common fear.
People assume you can't write about something unless you are a professional in the field. When, actually, by the time Satterfield researches a company or subject for a year or more he has become quite educated in corporate that area.
"You learn to listen," says Satterfield. "It's fun to learn about new things. In fact, it's a lot like getting a masters degree.”
Since the conclusion of the Edmonds pictorial, Satterfield has focused his energies toward a fall completion of his second World War II book, "The Day the War Began." It is largely an oral history of peoples' remembrances of Dec. 7, 1942, the day the bombed Pearl Harbor. Satterfield says the military side of the war has been covered. But his book looks at what civilians all over the country were doing on that date and how the war affected the remainder of their lives.

Famous First Words
What did Maggie Thatcher say to Denis the first time they were alone? What did Hilary Rodham say to Bill Clinton when they met in a library? Zsa Zsa Gabor to George Sanders? Mickey Rooney to Ava Gardner? Charles McArthur to Helen Hayes?

The answers are in this collection of first meetings between nearly forty famous couples. Some of the statements will surprise you, and all will remind you of the first time you spoke to the love of your life.

Fifteen More Trips
After the success of his first ten travel stories in Kindle, I added fifteen more stories from my travels around the world, b eginning with a curmudgeonly take on the kind of people I like to travel with, and those I do not. This essay is a good starting place for the collection, and a must-read for anyone who travels with someone else.

Ten Trips
Ten travel stories from my very frequent flier years make up this collection. They include my taking a ship to Antarctica, traveling with an extremely annoying guide in the former Yugoslavia, the beautiful Balearic Islands, New Zealand, a bad experience in Ireland, and a leisurely trip in Chile.

After the Gold Rush.
Prologue


The river had been rising steadily during the three weeks since breakup and the headwater lakes were filling with melt. Snow had left the lowlands in early May, but the ice lingered on the lakes until early June. Flowers carpeted the valley floors and new green foliage climbed hillsides up to the rockfalls beneath the granite faces of the mountains. And now we were on the swift river, drifting among rooted timber, sticks and debris swept up from the banks, silently passing trees leaning awkwardly out over the river, their roots undercut by the high water. And we watched sections of steep banks, also undercut, avalanche into the muddy, upwelling water.
During the two endless days of June we spent at Fort Selkirk, the water level dropped enough to expose the bottom of the dirt ramp that leads from the river to the high bank, and we no longer saw the trees and debris rushing past. Across
from Fort Selkirk where the Pelly River silently enters the Yukon we saw a long sandbar emerge from the water like a living thing that alternately grows and disappears with the cycle of seasons.
We reloaded our boats and moved northward with the current toward Dawson City. We saw other people at the occasional highway crossing or major river intersection, but it was too early for other travelers who each year form a patchy parade during July and August. We had the river virtually to ourselves.
There was nothing unique about our journey on the Yukon, even though we liked to think so. River travel from Whitehorse to Dawson City and beyond into Alaska was no more uncommon for Yukoners than traveling across the American
West on Route 66 during the first half of the 20th century. Before the steamboats were the Indians in their moose-skin boats, canoes and rafts, then the fur traders and trappers, the prospectors and the missionaries. After the prospectors began finding gold in the tributaries, the river traffic slowly increased until the big strike of 1896 on a small stream that feeds into the Klondike River near its confluence with the Yukon.
Then the paddlewheel flotilla came, and the White Pass & Yukon Route's narrow-gauge tracks were laid over the windy Coast Range from Skagway to the downstream end of the treacherous Miles Canyon and White Horse Rapids, establishing the Yukon River as the transportation corridor from Whitehorse to the Bering Sea.
During the winter months the White Pass & Yukon Route operated a stage line that followed the river to Dawson City, and in the spring of each year for more than fifty years all travel ceased during the awkward times of freezeup and breakup each year when the ice too thin for travel. When the ice at last cleared in the spring, they launched an armada of steamboats, canoes, rowboats, skin boats and rafts called "Float-me-downs" that they sold for lumber in Dawson City. Those going upstream had two choices: they either rode the steamboats that had wintered in sloughs near Dawson City, or they tracked their boats along the bank, unable to paddle against the swift current.
World War II altered the historic pattern. When the Alaska Highway was built across the bottom of the Yukon Territory in the early 1940s, spur highways soon stretched lines across the maps, heading for towns in the wilderness that few
outside the Yukon had heard of and bringing others into existence. When the highway from Whitehorse to Dawson City was completed, it contained one feature that stated more bluntly than any government report could that the riverboat era was over and consigned to history. The highway engineers designed a bridge to cross the river at Carmacks too low for the high-hatted steamboats to go under. When the last steamboat on the river, the Keno, was taken downstream to be beached as a museum in Dawson City, the crew had to dismantle the top deck
to clear the Carmacks bridge.
The highway also cleared the river of population. The woodcutters' camps strung at about 30-mile intervals had been abandoned a few years earlier when the supply of good spruce wood was depleted and the steamboats converted to oil. Now the towns disappeared too. Only a few trappers remained with the handful of privacy lovers on the 460-mile stretch between Whitehorse and Dawson City. Steamboat freight rates were so high that it was impractical to remove all household goods from cabins, unless they were moving downstream and could haul their belongings in their own boats. For years afterward river travelers could stop in cabins and find them equipped with cooking utensils and china, bedding, furniture, and such amenities as curtains over the windows and books on the shelves. But over the years the houses were gradually stripped of the furniture, and some caved in from the weight of snow. Others were weather-ravaged after windows were broken and doors left open by vandals in the wilderness.
We began, then, where most of the Yukon's history began: in the vast chain of lakes that form the headwater system in Northern British Columbia. True, there were entries from the interior of Canada by Hudson's Bay traders, and others went up the Yukon from its estuary in the Bering Sea. And during the two decades of prospecting that preceded the Klondike strike, men had wintered over at Circle City and Fortymile and Fort Reliance.
The Yukon as we know it today was settled by a south-to-north immigration that began in Southern Canada and Northwestern United States, arriving by boat at Skagway, Alaska, and then over the Coast Range to Lake Bennett via the White
and Chilkoot passes.
During the Klondike gold rush of 1897-98 there were several thousand—about 30,000 is the most educated guess—who survived the winter on the passes and built boats on the shores of Lake Lindeman and Lake Bennett. From there they launched more than 7,000 boats in late May 1898 and headed downstream to the Klondike.
We hiked the 32-mile Chilkoot Trail and saw the evidence of that mad winter: the abandoned town sites of Canyon City, Sheep Camp, Lindeman City; the cook stoves, boots, horseshoes and harness; the steam engine that powered an 11-mile-long aerial tramway and the tripod-shaped supports for the tramway cable; the cemeteries at Lindeman City and Bennett; the trees cut when the snow was 5 or 6 feet deep, leaving stumps nearly head-high; the tent sites dug out along the sand bank on the shore of Lake Bennett. The more evidence we saw of the special form of madness that accompanied the gold rush, the more preposterous the whole episode became. Even in his most cynical moments, Nathaniel West could not have invented a more appalling story than the Klondike. It was an event only a Dante of the North could conjure up to frighten responsible men and women into staying home in more temperate zones.
We were there in June, when the temperature ranges from 50 to 90 degrees above zero, and we slept most nights with our sleeping bags open. Those people who left so much evidence of their passing were there when the temperature dropped to 20 or 30 degrees below zero with wind that brought the chill factor down to 100 degrees below and when, in the words of one diarist, "the snow fell sideways." They suffered and died from scurvy; epidemics of spinal meningitis swept the trails. There were murders, public whippings, acts of courage and cowardice. There were avalanches that killed more than sixty stampeders in
one day. And there were brilliant, warm days when the summit was packed with humanity, each person carrying load after load over the summit from Alaska into Canada, past the Mounties who lived in the blizzard-swept summit notch to collect duties and to require that each person bring 1,150 pounds of food into the country, a year's supply.
We hiked the trail, carrying no more than 40 pounds each, insulting the memory of those stampeders by having lightweight tents, comfortable hiking boots, freeze-dried food, balanced meals and the option of calling off the whole trip and flying home. We climbed over the summit in a whiteout so absolute that we felt our way over the boulders and could not see rocks bouncing down toward us when those above shouted warnings. We descended into Canada past the high sterile lakes that are free of ice less than two months a year, through the treeless alpine meadows and over perennial snow banks, and dropped down a switchback trail into the trees again, then down another steep hill to the shore of Lake Lindeman. There we pitched horseshoes that had been left behind three quarters of a century earlier and found broken bottles, cigarette cases, belt buckles, and bones from moose, caribou, or horse steaks.
Thus we came to the river: well fed, our clothing lightweight and warm, our health in no danger of incipient scurvy. We were so far removed from the Klondike gold rush in both time and science that empathy was virtually impossible. Only geography remained the same.
Geography is the only constant in the Yukon Territory, but nearly every book written about the Yukon concerns only its history; most of those are addressed to the gold rush. Strangely, only an occasional story has appeared about the
steamboat era, and little of interest has been written about other aspects of the Yukon—the Indians, the trappers, the vast wilderness: the Yukon today.
I won’t presume to tell you this is a book about the entire Yukon Territory, nor is it an attempt to bring the Yukon's history up to date; that is a job for a professional historian with a research staff. But it is impossible to speak of the Yukon today without some reference to its past, and historical digressions
must crop up from time to time.
In an era when Canadians are seeking a strong national identity, and when there are occasional anti-American outbursts, I cannot remember a single occasion when anyone treated me as an outsider. They accepted me, as they will anyone, on my own merits. Home addresses are of no importance in the Yukon. In return for this courtesy, I do not intend this to be a book about a foreign country. I do not understand American politics any better than I understand Canadian politics. I do not have solutions to our native problems and I cannot and will not offer solutions to those of Canada.
Rather, I am simply interested in the "nouns" of the place—the people, places and events with which I have become familiar.

Henri and the Old American

Guy and Henri Attend a Wedding

Guy loved Henri in the same illogical manner an elderly person loves a stinking old dog or a parent loves a perpetually petulant child who in turn loves a tattered blanket she will not permit to be washed. Guy could not explain it to himself and was glad the French seldom ask personal questions. He was constantly reminded that deux chevaux are neither practical nor comfortable. Just getting into the car was difficult because the seat and steering wheel were too close together for ease of entry, and after he was seated and ready to drive, the steering wheel was so close to his middle that it was difficult to reach forward to pull the starter handle or to turn the toggle switch on the dash that operated the turn signals. Guy finally admitted to himself that whoever designed the turn signals must have been mean in spirit because they only blinked five times before turning off automatically, meaning that when he was in a town with traffic lights and he wanted to make a turn, he had to repeatedly struggle forward against the steering wheel to keep turning on the signal. Had that designer never heard of traffic lights? Perhaps not.
But Guy didn’t dwell on Henri’s shortcomings, and he still laughed aloud sometimes when he operated the silly gearshift that came out of the dash like a misplaced umbrella handle. He also felt guilty each time he settled into the car because he knew his weight gave it a slight leftward tilt, and sometimes Henri seemed to sigh when he got in, much like Rowdy, a tired old plow horse his family owned when he was a child, whose dread of being harnessed was a pitiful thing to see each morning. Guy silently apologized to Henri and told him he was in need of daily, small adventures.
Each time Guy drove Henri somewhere beyond the nearest village an adventure, great or small, invariably happened that made Guy glad he had moved to France. He lived in a constant state of mild astonishment at how the French commit so many small courtesies and at the same time remain so reserved, if not aloof. He learned that just because someone does an act of kindness for you, it does not mean you are friends and the next time you see them on the street that you must stop and chat with them. The act was not a personal favor. Instead, it was what a civilized person does, nothing more, nothing less.
After Guy absorbed this cultural lore and he stopped feeling snubbed by previous benefactors, he looked forward even more to his outings. At least once a week he stretched his trips into two or three days, avoiding cities and large towns, and staying at small country hotels. He also learned to watch for truck stops, called routiers. In them there were no choices on the menu, except perhaps the dessert, and in many the food was served in the manner of boarding houses with platters heaped with meat and vegetables and several kinds of cheese, and big pitchers of water, coffee and house wine passed from table to table.
After he had been in France a few months he often forgot to take a map with him, secure in the knowledge that as long as he stayed on paved roads, he would go somewhere worth seeing and remembering. France had more paved roads than any country he had visited and he learned that when he reached the pavement end, he was at or near the end of the road and must turn around and retrace his route. He never let the fuel gauge fall below half and carried a liter bottle filled with gasoline as an insurance policy against getting too far from a village.
When he and Henri reached the main highway to begin these trips, only then would he decide which direction to drive. It became a little ritual with him to pause at the highway and make this decision. Sometimes he simply followed the first car that went past. The direction made no difference because he knew that all roads led to lovely villages and natural scenery.
On one autumn morning he decided to drive west on the narrow road that followed the bottom of a canyon straight down the mountains to the valley rather than taking the other road that was a squiggle on the map as it followed the crest of the mountain, then tumbled into the steep foothills where he would have to share the narrow road with logging trucks. He drove Henri slowly through the dark forest, permitting him to coast as much as possible. The little engine hardly made a sound when it was idling, but the loose sheetmetal of the body warned all of their approach.
Once they were on the valley floor, Guy patted the dash as a form of apology, much as he did when he rode horses in his youth, then spurred Henri onward, working his way through the four gears gradually until Henri was near his top speed of about 85 kilometers an hour. Traffic was light and they sped onward, past farmers on tractors, sheep grazing on sloping pastures and small villages crowded against the road. Eventually he turned off the main highway onto a smaller road that almost immediately began climbing into the foothills of the Pyrenees.
Guy loved approaching mountain ranges almost as much as he loved standing on the deck of a ship to watch islands rise slowly out of the ocean. Arriving was always a mixture of promise and mystery, and Guy often wished he could spend more of his life arriving in new places to begin new adventures.
When he reached the highway that ran along the foot of the main mountain range, Guy double-parked outside the bakery in a village and bought a picnic lunch of cordon bleu, an apple tart and a bottle of Orangina. After driving around the village, searching in vain for a place to park, at last a deux chevaux truckette left its parking space just ahead of Guy and Henri. It was still morning but he was hungry so he found a place to sit on the stone steps beneath a small monument to resistance fighters in the last world war and began eating slowly. He liked to believe that an old man in an old deux chevaux became immediately invisible to local residents, allowing him to sit and watch people going about their normal lives without attracting attention.
Then the reason for all the cars in town revealed itself. The central plaza, or place, began filling with people wearing their best clothes. The bar emptied of its patrons, a photographer placed a large camera on a tripod outside the mairie, or city hall. A man wearing a suit with a red rose in the lapel, who Guy assumed was the mayor, came out to chat with the photographer. The men strolled away from the square and down one street and the women went down another street. The group of women stopped outside a house on a narrow street and the men were gathered at the gate that was once part of the city ramparts. Guy didn’t want to be in the way so he put the remains of the picnic in Henri and stood beneath a tree to see what was going to happen.
Now only the mayor and photographer, and Guy, remained in the center of town. A dark blue deux chevaux suddenly, noisily approached and the mayor bustled to the end of a line of cars and removed a wooden sawhorse that had been reserving the last spot. The deux chevaux was festooned with crepe paper, flowers both real and of paper, and balloons that bounced and jerked at the end of their strings much like small leashed dogs. After some maneuvering, the little car was in line. It fell silent and a young woman got out. She chatted with the mayor for a moment, and they walked toward the mairie laughing. The woman saw Henri and Guy and said something to him. He began his litany of “Je ne parle pas français” but she interrupted him. “Oh, sorry. English?” she asked in perfect English. She asked if Henri was his car and Guy said yes, but more accurately he was probably the car’s human. The young woman laughed.
“What is its name?” she asked.
“How did you know it had a name?” Guy asked.
“Just a guess,” she said, laughing. “Mine is named Monique. Today Monique is the voiture balai so tell Henri not to follow.” Before Guy could respond, she said she must go to the wedding, and was quickly gone, leaving Guy both enchanted and confused.
“May I help you? ” a voice asked. Guy looked around and finally saw another young woman with a bag of groceries getting into a car.
“Does everyone here speak English?” Guy asked, laughing.
“No, it is just your lucky morning,” she replied.
“What is a voiture ballet?” Guy asked, trying to imagine dancing cars.
“Oh, the voiture balai. That means the broom car. In French weddings only one car is decorated and it is always the last one in the procession. It is like the little man in a white suit with a bucket, broom and dustpan who follows the elephants and giraffes in the circus parade.”
This made Guy laugh, loudly enough for several people to turn and look. The woman said nothing. She lit a cigarette and prepared to start the car.
“Yours would make a good voiture balai,” she continued. “Maybe someone painted it that color just for the occasion.”
“Aren’t you going to the wedding?” he asked.
“No,” she replied. “I am not invited. I was his first lover but not the last.”
With that she started the engine and drove away.
The church bell rang the eleventh hour and while the tolls were still echoing down the streets of the stone village, the door where the women were standing opened and a young woman wearing a white dress with a long train appeared. Guy looked in the other direction and a group of young men strolled through an archway to merge with the waiting men. In the middle was a young man, obviously the groom, wearing a tuxedo with a long white scarf around his neck. He carried a large bouquet. The men shook hands all around and were very quiet as they approached the mairie. They talked and once all laughed quietly but there was none of the joking and jostling one usually sees in groups of young men in their physical prime. One walked with his hand on the groom’s shoulder.
Guy turned his attention back to the bride who had walked down the steps and into the middle of the street, two women behind carrying the train. They began walking slowly toward the center of town. They had gone only a few steps when the bride stopped and called out a name. Guy believed she was saying Marie-Pierre. A girl of about ten came out of a house and stood on the steps. The bride said something else and the young girl ran to her and they embraced and kissed each other three times on their cheeks. The bride said something to the girl and Guy saw her nod her head. The bride spoke to the two women holding her train. The girl took the train from them and proudly, shyly carried it alone as they entered the square.
The bride and groom met in front of the mayor and photographer and stood silently looking at each other and smiling. Then she pointed to him and Guy could tell by the tone that she asked the mayor a question. Everyone, including the groom, laughed and the mayor said something in a stern tone of voice and everyone laughed again.
The photographer organized the group into three lines with the bride and groom in front, and the bride made certain that the young girl was beside her. Guy liked to imagine that the girl and the bride had some kind of bond that transcended their age differences, and that the bride knew this moment, preserved by the photographer, would always be a special memory to the young girl.
Most of the party crowded into the city hall for the civil ceremony, and Guy went on his way. The road out of town was downhill and Guy coasted down the hill so Henri would not interfere with the ceremony. He drove only a short distance before he found a place to park beside a stream. He was sitting on a rock finishing the bottle of Orangina when the bride and groom came past in a car, followed by several honking cars filled with laughing young people. Guy stood and bowed to them. He watched for the voiture balai and when it appeared, the young woman had rolled the top back and she was wearing a scarf. She saw Guy and honked and waved gaily and threw him a kiss. Then Guy was alone again.

Commissioned Histories.
“My career as a book author was just getting started when a wonderful thing happened. I had recently co-authored a book on Alaska bush pilots that involved some aviation pioneers who later became members of Alaska Airlines’ board. The new management liked the book and invited me to write a warts-and-all history of the airline for its 50th anniversary.

“A year or two later an advertising friend recommending me to write the history of Crescent Foods on the occasion of its 100th birthday.

“Then another writer friend recommended me to the incoming CEO of Darigold who wanted a history of the dairy cooperative.

“Finally the obvious occurred to me: I should seek out these commissions on my own rather than waiting for further generosity from friends. Since then I have written several other corporate histories, a family history and the history of the small town I lived in for fifteen years.”

Here is what clients say about Satterfield’s work:

ALASKA AIRLINES:
At the time this was written the airline had changed quickly from one with a history of poor or inefficient management into the highest-rated regional airline in North America. With their 50th anniversary approaching, they asked Satterfield to write their history.

"He did an outstanding job. He captured living history."
James A. Johnson
Vice President


DARIGOLD
The Seattle-based dairy cooperative, one of the largest and most successful in America, wanted a history of the cooperative written as its 75th year approached.

"Thank you for the tremendous job you did with the manuscript. The book is a major factor in our 75th anniversary celebration."
Wesley E. Eckert
President & CEO

TILLAMOOK CHEESE
The Tillamook Creamery and Dairy Association liked what he had written about their competitor, Darigold, so they hired me to write their history as well.

“Archie has captured the essence of Tillamook as well as anyone could. I have lived here all my life and reading the book brings back memories I had forgotten.”
Harold Schild
General Manager

PEMCO FINANCIAL CENTER
This insurance and banking company wanted to document its success that is based on service to members.

“He is an outstanding writer who brings forth historical reality for positive guidance for future generations.”
Stanley O. McNaughton
CEO


TRILLIUM CORPORATION
This timber and agricultural development company was just entering on the world stage when Satterfield was hired to write its history.

“Archie creates a whole new definition of concern and interest in his writing subjects. He really cares.”
David R. Syre
Founder and Chairman


CRESCENT FOODS
When the spice company's centennial was near, the owners hired me to produce a book based on interviews with the owners and longtime employees.

"Archie produced exactly what we wanted: A conservative chronicle that we used for gifts and public relations."
Dick Weaver
Vice President


SAHALEE GOLF AND COUNTRY CLUB
After the Redmond, Washington, club became well established, the founders assembled material for a book and hired me and an associate to edit, design and print it.

"Archie was delightful to work with. We are very pleased. Our book is unique."
Harry Wilson
Founder, Sahalee Country Club.


CITY OF EDMONDS, WASHINGTON
The city council created a Centennial Committee for the statewide celebration in 1989 and offered a contract to me to write and produce a pictorial history of the city.

"Archie was cooperative and understanding. He considered everyone's suggestions. That is especially difficult when working with a committee."
Linda McCrystal
Centennial Coordinator
City of Edmonds




How I write commissioned histories:

“I work directly with one person who is designated the project editor. This person knows where all the files are and how they are organized, can help arrange interviews and when the manuscript is completed, will show it to key people and decide which of the suggested changes and corrections I should incorporate.

“I do not require an office. I only need access to people, files and a copy machine. I go to great lengths to avoid disrupting the normal office routine.

“The writing process is simple but very time consuming. I go through records and scrapbooks, and I interview officers and employees about projects they have worked on and the changes they have witnessed or helped inaugurate.

“It is important that interviews be conducted in one-on-one sessions. The subjects set the time and place because it is important that we talk without interruption. I am available for interviews anytime seven days a week.

“When the research and interviewing is done, I write the first draft, often finding that I need more information and supplemental interviews. The draft manuscript is delivered to the client, who shows copies to a selection of key people to check for accuracy, make comments and suggestions. When this information is approved, I go back to work, do additional research and sometimes more interviews, and deliver a completed manuscript within a specified time frame.

“When the completed manuscript is accepted, it then goes to a book producer whose staff checks it for grammar, punctuation, spelling and consistency. At the same time a designer is at work merging text with illustrations and preparing a cover design.
When all of these things are approved, the book then goes to the printer."

For further information, please contact Satterfield at: byarchie@msn.com

Newspaper Profile
Seattle Daily Journal of Commerce
Edmonds author completes pictorial on city's centennial

BY LESLEE JAQUETTE
Special to the Journal

EDMONDS - This month Archie Satterfield, author of "The Seattle GuideBook" and many general trade books, celebrates the publication of the 126-page book he authored and produced for the City of Edmonds. "Edmonds: The First Century" offers readers a pictorial and written recollection of Edmonds' first 100 years. Available locally, the book makes Edmonds' history come alive with photos and reports Satterfield resurrected through hundreds of hours of research and interviews.
Linda McCrystal, staff coordinator for the Edmonds Centennial Committee, says “Archie was very cooperative and understanding. He considered everyone’s suggestions. That is especially difficult when working with a committee.”
The Edmonds saga is first cousin to a new kind of history book Satterfield produces with increasing regularity--the corporate history.
Author of over 20 books and countless articles, Satterfield writes histories for corporations as diverse as Alaska Airlines, Crescent Fools and Eddie Bauer. Just as the City of Edmonds wants to document its history, many corporations get a little teary-eyed as significant anniversaries roll around. Management takes the opportunity to chronicle the past for owners, employees and potential public relations use.
Satterfield, who lives in Edmonds, is a former editor and columnist for the Seattle Post-ntelligencer.
"One thing I like about corporate histories is you are dealing personally and positively with people, unlike many other kinds of books," says Satterfield from his office in Edmonds. “They are invariably fine people. They want a history because they love their company."
In 1981 Satterfield started work on his first corporate history for Alaska Airlines. The company approached Satterfield, founding editor of award-winning Northwest Living Magazine, to write a history in celebration of the airline's 50th anniversary. It was a natural union. Years before Satterfield published a number of articles and books including Chilkoot Pass, Alaska Bush Pilots and After the Gold Rush.
Alaska Airlines needed someone with Satterfield's diverse experience to piece together their history. "Archie has a knack and a flair about him,'' says Jim Johnson, Alaska Airlines senior vice president of public affairs in charge of the book. "He did an outstanding job. He captured living history.''
Johnson explains the company later used Satterfield's book as the basis for a video commemoration. Of the 1000 copies published, a tenth were special editions used by the chairman for personal gifts.
For Satterfield the Alaska Airlines Story was a benchmark. The Northwest company offered him a contract he couldn’t resist at a time he was ready for a change.
Alaska retained Satterfield for 18 months and he traveled all over the country accumulating material for the book. Together with royalties from over a dozen books, the corporate history helped Satterfield become self-employed.
In addition, the previous year, Satterfield came into contact with well-known family/corporate historian, Richard V. Sawyer of Seattle. Sawyer shared the fundamentals of writing corporate histories with Satterfield and the two writers traded clients. One of these trades started Satterfield's three-book relationship with Eddie Bauer, the first titles in the Eddie Bauer Outdoor Library Series.
"Sometimes I think I should be writing best sellers," Satterfield joked. "But I'm a journalist. I report and write. Besides, I think writing these histories is interesting and enormously useful."
There is a number of similarities when it comes to researching projects. According to Satterfield, the writer needs to interview key people, have access to company archives and allowed time to research all kinds of clippings and articles, usually preserved by a single person, "a keeper of clips."
One of a handful of writers in the region who write corporate histories, Satterfield wrote a history for Crescent Foods Inc. in celebration of the Seattle company's 100th anniversary in 1983. Former owner Dick Weaver says Satterfield produced exactly what the company wanted, a very conservative chronicle that they used for gifts and public relations work. Satterfield supplied the owners with outlines and transcriptions of every interview.
"I guess the toughest part is deciding who gets mentioned and who doesn't,'' says Weaver with humor in his voice. "Ultimately we made joint decisions in all these matters with Archie's help."
Companies interested in creating corporate histories need to be aware that it takes at least a year to put together a book. It is most helpful if one person is in charge of the publication details. This person can usually push for decisions faster and easier than “book by committee."
However, Satterfield notes one main frustration with corporate histories: It is hard to separate businessmen from work long enough to interview them. “You realize your project is a low priority for a busy company.”
A number of clients approach Satterfield not to write their copy but simply to edit and produce their story. A founders committee at Sahalee Country Club in Redmond chose that option. They wanted to save money and author their own words, yet they needed professional help to finish the anniversary history, "Sahalee Country Club: The First Twenty Years."
"It was their book," says Satterfield, who has similarly edited and produced a history for the Seattle Surgical Society. "They paid me for a variety of things but mostly I helped them do what they wanted to do. A good editor helps the writer accomplish his goals."
Chairman and founding member Harry Wilson says, "Archie was delightful to work with. He did a great job proofing our writing. We are very pleased."
Sahalee board members initially expressed doubts about Satterfield's ability to write about the club because he wasn't an experienced golfer. Satterfield says that is a common fear.
People assume you can't write about something unless you are a professional in the field. When, actually, by the time Satterfield researches a company or subject for a year or more he has become quite educated in corporate that area.
"You learn to listen," says Satterfield. "It's fun to learn about new things. In fact, it's a lot like getting a masters degree.”
Since the conclusion of the Edmonds pictorial, Satterfield has focused his energies toward a fall completion of his second World War II book, "The Day the War Began." It is largely an oral history of peoples' remembrances of Dec. 7, 1942, the day the bombed Pearl Harbor. Satterfield says the military side of the war has been covered. But his book looks at what civilians all over the country were doing on that date and how the war affected the remainder of their lives.

GROUND EFFECT
CHAPTER FOUR

The small lake was shaped like a pair of elongated eggs connected by a narrow strip of water. One side was much larger than the other. The whole thing appeared to be cantilevered out of the ice-covered mountainside on a large shelf at the end of a long, steep spire of a peak that split the glacier into two tongues. The lake was at the downhill end of the split, protected by the northeast end of the spire. The glacier rejoined below the lake and remained intact for perhaps half a mile before it petered out into a canyon with sheer walls and a floor that was a jumble of boulders. This eventually led to the vast plain left by receding glaciers. The whole area around the small lake was littered with boulders protruding from the snow. The only living plants, other than moss and lichen that coated all rocks, was a cluster of willow bushes and three scrub mountain spruce where the lake flowed over into a waterfall. The other end of the lake was guarded by a wall of ice that made a takeoff impossible. One glance was enough to tell both that a landing might be possible from either end but there was only one way to take off.
When Tim at last saw his father, he was standing on a bare rock that jutted out into the lake like a peninsula giving the lake its double-egg shape. Grant’s right arm was high in the air, still flashing the mirror.
“That’s him,” Frank said, looking at Grant through the spinning propeller. Then he added, smiling at his own command of the obvious, “Not likely to be anybody else, is it?”
Frank came in low over the full length of the lake, getting an extra few seconds to look at Grant and the plane. He revved the engine a time or two by way of greeting. Grant stopped waving and stood watching as the plane roared past no more than fifty feet from him. Tim didn’t say anything because now that he knew not only that his father was alive but he had also crashed his plane. Frank didn’t bother waving at Grant as they went past. Tim doubted that he even tried to make eye contact. In Frank’s way of thinking, Grant was alive, he was standing and signaling. That was enough for the moment. It was more important that he study the lake. An instant after passing Grant they passed the plane at the far end of the lake.
“There’s not much left of it,” Frank said.
Tim barely got a glimpse of it before Frank had to open the throttle to climb and bank away from the lake. He turned in the seat and looked back and saw the wreck long enough to know the plane would never fly again. The Fairchild lay on its left side just beyond the edge of the lake and was partly sheltered by three scrub spruce trees. The impact had spun the plane slightly to the left. The right wing was intact, sticking up at a 45-degree angle but the left was folded back beside the fuselage neatly as the wing of a swimming duck. The floats were knocked off and lay together just between the plane and the lake, one crossed over the other like a dog’s paws. The fuselage seemed to be intact but the engine was lying in the snow completely separated from its mounts, face down with the mangled propeller almost hidden in the snow.
It wasn’t necessary for them to speculate what happened. Grant had to make a forced landing and ran out of lake, and in doing so he had made the traditional bush-pilot choice while trying to exercise control over his crash. He apparently lifted the plane out of the water just before hitting the protruding boulders, trying to clear them and reach the trees to let them be his brakes. He didn’t make it. The boulders knocking off the floats would have slowed him some, and then if he had been luckier the trees would have taken the wings. That tactic had saved some lives in Alaska and northern Canada, and every bush pilot swore by it; find two trees and go between them. But Grant hadn’t reached the trees and the unyielding boulders had stopped him. Why he was forced down was a question that would have to wait until they rescued him, but it was obviously the engine. For now, the why of his being there was irrelevant? That was a topic for future conversations, after he was home again.
All of this registered in Tim’s mind after he got a good look at his father standing on the smooth boulder. He was wearing his heavy sheepskin coat, a black wool watch cap and high-laced boots. He had strung a tarp between two boulders behind him for shelter, and Tim thought he could see the smudge of a campfire near the tarp. He wondered what he found to burn since wood was not in abundance here at the very edge of the tree line. Grant didn’t wave as they flew past, but Tim waved and tried to make eye contact. He was certain his father gave him an embarrassed grin.
“Okay,” Frank said. “We are going to scare the hell out of him. I’m going to come in as though we are landing so we can see if it will work. I don’t think it will. There just isn’t enough water. He’ll probably think we’re going to try to do what he couldn’t.”
Tim said nothing. Now he knew what had to be done to rescue his father. Furthermore, he knew who would have to do the rescue.
A light cross breeze was blowing up the mountain and over the glacier, sending a vague ripple across the lake when they came in. There was no room for a long, textbook approach and Frank had to kick the right rudder to turn tail into the cross wind and side-slip the Fairchild to lose speed and altitude, then straighten again and let it glide down to the lake. When Grant saw what Frank was apparently going to do, he began waving his right arm wildly while keeping the rest of his body rigid. Frank came in low and slow, and had he actually landed, he could have dropped the floats on the lake less than 10 feet from the edge. He then counted aloud, “One thousand one, one thousand two, one thousand...” and they were almost at the end of the lake. He shoved the throttle all the way ahead and pulled back on the wheel and banked to the right at the same time, then lifted the left wing to just clear the boulders jutting from the mountainside. Then he quickly lifted the right wing to be sure he cleared the trees. The trees whipped beneath them with several feet to spare.
“Not a chance,” Frank said. “Need eight to ten seconds on the water, and we didn’t even have four.”
Tim had been counting, also, in his own way and he was as frightened as he was satisfied.
“Okay, we play Santa Claus on the next pass,” Frank added, as if he wanted to change the subject.
“Are you hungry?” Tim asked.
“No,” Frank answered, then laughed. “We’ll make two passes.”
Tim loosened his seat belt and reached back to wrestle the duffle bag onto his lap. He held the leather strap with his right hand and prepared to open the door with his left because the bag was too big to go through the window. Frank brought the plane around and came in low and slow, and a little uphill from Grant so the package wouldn’t roll into the lake.
“Say when,” Tim said, “I can’t see anything over here.” He opened the door slightly, letting in a blast of cold air.
“Get ready,” Frank said. Tim pushed the door open against the wind and held it open with his right foot. There was little chance that Tim would fall out but Frank grasped his belt to be sure.
“On three,” Frank said. “One. Two. Almost, annnnnd...Three!”
Tim heaved the bag out with both hands and closed the door, then re-buckled his seat belt. Frank released his grip on Tim’s belt and in the same movement banked into another long turn. When they came back Grant was struggling through the snow, dragging the bag slowly, post-holing, breaking through the crust every step and sinking almost to his thighs. Then Tim noticed that his left arm was hanging loosely.
“It looks like his arm is broken,” Tim said. Frank didn’t reply.
“Take the wheel,” Frank said. “If we’re going to donate our meal, the man should have something to read while he eats.”
Frank took a notebook out of the briefcase he carried wedged between the seats and scrawled a note on the back of a blank receipt, speaking the words aloud as he wrote them:
“Having wonderful time. Wish you were here. Be back soon with brilliant plan for your rescue. Signed, your rescuer and devoted son.”
“He’ll like that,” Tim said.
Frank rummaged beneath his seat and came up with what he called his favorite garment--which he had never worn--a tattered, oil-stained, ankle-length bright yellow rain slicker he bought in a pawnshop. He just liked the idea of it, he said. Made him feel like a real cowboy. He wrapped it around the paper sack and used electrician’s tape to secure it. Tim didn’t say anything but it looked like something rescued from the Juneau garbage dump.
“Ain’t that pretty?” Frank asked. “My turn to drop.”
Tim came in a little higher and faster than Frank because he didn’t trust the wind that could lift the plane if it came in from the east, or pound them down like walking into a waterfall if the wind was coming in over the top from the west. Frank popped open the window and held the package outside with both hands so Grant would know who was flying and gave it a push when Tim said, “Three!” Now Grant knew what they were doing and had stopped the frantic waving.
Tim looked at the fuel gauge. More than half a tank. He hadn’t felt anything unusual with the wind.
“One more pass?” Tim asked. “I want to come in lower from the other end.”
Frank looked at Tim and shrugged. “Sure.”
Tim made a long, easy turn, lined up as much as the canyon walls would permit and glided in, the engine barely above idling, giving it almost no power. He wouldn’t let himself think of anything except the plane and the target he would have to hit. He had never concentrated so completely, and was totally unaware of Frank or anything else except the lake and the feel of the airplane. He brought the plane in just over the boulders that looked like lumps beneath a comforter, followed the contours of the glacier with ten to twenty feet to spare, one hand on the wheel, the other on the throttle, giving it just a little extra now, then back to idle again. Tim was unaware of his own movements that caused the plane to raise one wing slightly, then drop just a bit lower, then rise again a foot or two in the aerial ballet.
Toward the end of the approach, Tim had to rise a bit to clear the low trees and boulders that guarded the lake’s outlet. Instead of giving it a shot of power, he used the maneuver to slow the plane even more, the wheel feeling dangerously loose in his hand, almost all resistance gone, on the very brink of a stall. Shortly before the trees whipped beneath them, Tim stamped the left rudder pedal against the firewall, twisted the wheel to the left, felt the tail swing around and the left wing drop, and now he was looking out the window almost straight down at the lake. They were barely beyond the trees and the Fairchild was wallowing sideways like a shoebox flung into the wind. They were dropping rapidly, the lake rushing up at them. In the same smooth motion he had practiced with the Stearman many times, he straightened the plane and gave it enough throttle to give the elevators something to work with. The floats kissed the water, skipped, then stuck. Tim jerked the wheel back and held it in his lap and kept the plane on the water for no more than two seconds, too fast for the floats to form a suction and sink below the step. Then he jammed the throttle all the way open with the heel of his hand, held the plane on the water for two or three beats, then pulled up and away, banking to the left and down the canyon. It was a remarkable bit of flying and Frank had remained calm through the whole procedure, even putting his hands over both eyes for Grant’s amusement as the Fairchild skimmed over the lake in front of him.
“I don’t want to know what you are thinking,” Frank said. “And I don’t think I want to be there when you tell G.P.”
They both laughed and settled back from the flight back to Jeffersonville.
“Oh, one thing more,” Frank said. “I think we’d better have a closer look to see what the chances are of walking out. Go around again and stay on your side of the canyon at about 200 feet. I know the answer but we’ve got to look.”
Tim turned and came in over his father again, made a banking left turn and glided down the canyon toward Lake Atlin. It was as bad as they feared. The glacier was deeply crevassed all the way from above the lake to its broad snout. Below the glacier for perhaps half a mile was a field of boulders that gradually smoothed out to the broad plain. A rescue party might get in and out but Grant would need both hands to get up and down the ridges of the rotten glacier. He was stranded. If he came out it would have to be in an airplane.
“That’s enough of a death-defying air show for your father,” Frank said, and leaned back and closed his eyes. “Let’s go home and talk about this. Finding him was the easy part. From now on we earn the right to call ourselves aviators.”

Curriculum Vitae

CURRICULUM VITAE

FICTION
HENRI AND THE OLD AMERICAN. Ann Arbor MI: Fatcat Books. 2004. The story of an American who moves to France, buys a Citroen 2CV, and learns the culture of his adopted country.
GROUND EFFECT. Lincoln NE: iUniverse. 2002. An adventure story about a teenaged boy who rescues his bush pilot father with an open cockpit Stearman biplane. It is also the story of how a group of lonely misfits have helped raise the boy.

HISTORY, CURRENT AFFAIRS
THE HOME FRONT: An Oral History of the War Years in America 1941-1945. New York: Playboy Press. 1981; Authors Guild backinprint.com. 2000. More than 200 persons from all over America were interviewed for this portrait of the United States during World War II.
THE DAY THE WAR BEGAN. New York: Praeger. 1992. A day in the life of America on December 7, 1941, the day Pearl Harbor was attacked, as revealed in more than 200 interviews, excerpts from books, news stories, radio programs and official documents.
AFTER THE GOLD RUSH. Philadelphia: Lippincott. 1976; Authors Guild backinprint.com. 2000. The description of a trip down the Yukon River today compared with the Klondike gold rush of 1897-98.
CHILKOOT PASS. Anchorage: Alaska NW Publishing Co. 1973, 2004. A history and guide to the 33-mile trail that is the only overland portion of the route to the Klondike. Illustrated with the author’s photographs.
THE ALASKA AIRLINES STORY. Anchorage: Alaska NW Publishing. 1981. A history of the airline and much of Alaska aviation.
ALASKA BUSH PILOTS. Seattle: Superior Publishing Co. l969. Authors Guild backinprint.com. 2000. A history of the pioneer float-plane pilots of Southeast Alaska.
THE LEWIS AND CLARK TRAIL. Harrisburg: Stackpole. 1978; Authors Guild backinprint.com. 2000. A history of the expedition with a guide to the route today, illustrated with drawings of plants and animals the explorers discovered.
WORK BOATS OF THE PACIFIC COAST. Seattle: Sasquatch. 1992. An illustrated guide to the major types of work boats on the West Coast; fishing boats, tugs, ferries, pilot boats, etc.
COMMISSIONED HISTORIES
THE TILLAMOOK WAY: A history of the small dairy cooperative in Oregon that makes some of the best cheddar cheese in America.
DARIGOLD: The largest dairy cooperative in the western U.S. and the fifth largest in the country wanted a history written for its 75th anniversary.
ALASKA AIRLINES STORY: One of America’s most colorful airlines commissioned this history for its 50th anniversary.
CRESCENT FOODS: The centennial history of the Seattle spice company perhaps best known for inventing the imitation maple syrup called Mapleine.
EDMONDS: THE FIRST CENTURY: Edmonds, a small town north of Seattle, commissioned this illustrated history for its centennial.

PHOTO, ART BOOKS
ELTON BENNETT: His Life and Art. Seattle: Writing Works. 1979. A biography of the most popular artist who ever lived in the Northwest with more than 30 of his silk-screens reproduced.
PACIFIC SEA AND SHORE. (Ray Atkeson photos). Seattle: Writing Works. 1982. A photo-essay book covering the entire Pacific coastline of North America.
PORTRAIT OF SEATTLE. (Ed Cooper photos.) Portland: Graphic Arts. 1980. A selection of Cooper’s best Seattle photos with my text.
LEWIS AND CLARK COUNTRY. Portland: (David Muench photos.) Beautiful America. 1978. My text describing the route today interspersed with selections from the explorers’ journals.
WYOMING. (Russell Lamb photos.) Portland: Graphic Arts. 1978. A coffee-table photo book with my text.
CALIFORNIA: It’s Coast and Desert (Robert Reynolds photos.)Portland: Graphic Arts Center. 1974. A coffee-table book with my text.
OREGON II. (Ray Atkeson photos.) Portland: Graphic Arts. 1974. Another in the series of coffee-table books on each state.
WASHINGTON II. (Ray Atkeson photos). Portland: Graphic Arts. 1974. Coffee-table book on Washington.
OREGON COAST. (Ray Atkeson photos.) Portland: Graphic Arts. 1972. Another in the coffee-table books by the Portland publisher.
MOODS OF THE COLUMBIA. Seattle: Superior Publishing. 1969. A selection of the best black and white photographs by regional photographers of the Columbia River.
TRAVEL, OUTDOOR RECREATION
THE SEATTLE GUIDEBOOK. Seattle: Globe Pequot Press. 1975-1994. This guide has been in existence longer than any other in Seattle and is updated every two years. It also has a chronology of Seattle’s history and an almanac.
SEATTLE, VANCOUVER AND VICTORIA: A Guide to The Evergreen Triangle. Vancouver, BC: Greystone Books. 1995. A guide to the three major cities of the Northwest: Vancouver, Victoria and Seattle.
COUNTRY ROADS OF WASHINGTON. Castine, ME: Country Roads Press. 1993. More than 40 of my favorite rural roads all over the state.
COUNTRY ROADS OF OREGON. Castine , ME: Country Roads Press. 1993. The best scenic and historic drives in Oregon.
COUNTRY ROADS OF MISSOURI. Castine, ME: Country Roads Press. 1994. The state’s most beautiful rural drives.
EXPLORING THE YUKON RIVER. Seattle: The Mountaineers. 1979.A guide and history of the Yukon River from headwaters to Dawson City. Illustrated with my own photographs.

Fragments
The Hickory Tree


We had several trees around the house and barn, but I remember only one in any detail: a large, very old hickory tree that stood between the fence and the road. In truth it was illegal because its roots bulged out into the dirt county road and when I think of the tree I remember the sound of iron-tired wagons thumping as they ran over the roots. We must have had walnut trees around the house because I remember eating a lot of walnuts but now I am not certain where they came from. Across the road on Uncle Paul’s property was a persimmon tree that we visited frequently during the few days the persimmons were ripe enough to eat before they rotted. What we didn’t eat, dogs and wildlife—raccoons and opossums in particular—did eat. Competition was keen for the sweet fruit that spoiled so quickly after falling. A common sight around the tree and wherever animals, wild and domestic, congregated was their droppings pocked with persimmon seeds.
It is the hickory tree that holds my attention, though, because it was involved in the departure of my eldest sister, Marie, whom I did not even recognize when she returned after a four-plus year absence from our lives. When she returned with her small auburn-haired daughter, Marie was so beautiful and so sophisticated, her husband so handsome and so confident and decent, and her daughter beautiful in a different way than her mother that I felt like we were being visited by royalty.
To tell this story, however, it is necessary to first understand the geography of Howards Ridge before World War II. It was in essence a peninsula protruding northward from the Arkansas state line with Lick Creek and its long curve forming two sides and Norfork River the third. No bridges adorned Lick Creek, and the crossings—fords—were difficult for cars, trucks and even wagons in times of low water and impossible during the wet seasons. Much of the time we were isolated by the creek. Consequently, children on Howards Ridge did not have automatic access to the high school in Gainesville, the county seat, because busses had to run on a regular schedule and Lick Creek made that impossible. Also, there were seldom more than three or four children of high school age on Howards Ridge at a time.
The situation for my family was complicated by another factor: Marie was a beautiful, fully developed and very intelligent girl by the age of fourteen. My parents had to be wary of all males in the area to keep them away from her. Once when my father was away working in Iowa, the neighborhood bully, Howard Culpepper, walked into our house without bothering to knock and told our mother that he was taking Marie with him to do his cooking and cleaning. Mom was terrified of Howard, as was nearly everyone in the area because he was very large and very strong and popular opinion meant little or nothing to him. He had a history of simply hitting people who annoyed him. So she invoked the scariest thing she could think of: She told Howard that “Homer Satterfield will kill you if you so much as touch any member of his family.” Howard apparently believed her because he left the house without uttering another sound and never came near a member of the family again. Many years later when my father died and was buried on Howards Ridge, to our surprise Howard Culpepper came to the graveside service and peered into the casket. Neil, my eldest brother, ventured the opinion that Howard wanted to be certain one of the few men he feared was indeed dead.
When Daddy came back from Iowa that summer, he insisted that Mom learn how to shoot the over-and-under .410 shotgun/.22 rifle because it was the lightest weapon he owned. He took Mom outside and had her shoot at the persimmon tree about 100 feet away. She fired and the gun literally fell apart in her hands; Daddy had neglected to check it over before handing it to her and the bolt holding the barrel to the wooden stock had not been secured after the last cleaning. She was so unnerved by the incident that she never fired another gun.
On another occasion Louis and Elsie Stutsman, who were close friends of my parents, walked by on their way to an evening revival meeting being conducted in the school house by an itinerant preacher. Daddy didn’t like it but our religious mother let Marie go with them after they promised to watch over her.
Daddy stood on the porch and could hear the singing and the true believers shouting in glossalalia, which we called speaking in unknown tongues. He hated that form of worship and believed it was silly and pretentious and that those who did it were not to be trusted. So he trekked across his half-brother Shadrack’s field to the schoolhouse and through the window he saw a group of people clustered around his beautiful 14-year-old daughter, trying to “save” her. He stormed in and took the terrified girl by the hand and walked her home across the field with waist-high Johnson grass. For the rest of her long life, Marie never spoke harshly of her father, the only member of our family she accorded this courtesy. He remained her hero because of the night he came charging into the schoolhouse and rescued her from the religious fanatics, all without uttering a single word.

To jump ahead many years, I think this is a good time to tell of the man’s dignity that did not leave him, even as he lay dying in 1967. Dr. Jack Wiles of West Plains called each of us because he had gone to school in Ozark County with Neil, and perhaps Tressa, and he felt it would be best for him to make the calls instead of our mother. So I flew from Portland to Denver to meet Wayne and we flew on to Kansas City together and rented a car for the drive that took us the rest of that night. Neil drove up from Ada, Oklahoma. Marie drove down from St. Louis and for some reason did not pick up Tressa, who also lived there. Consequently Tressa was the only one of us who did not arrive in time to see Daddy before he died.
Marie told a story about her last visit that sounded too dramatic to be true, especially knowing her adventures with facts. But Mom said it was true.
When Marie went into his room at the hospital, she bent over to kiss him and he turned his head slightly away:
“Oh no, girly,” he said, “I haven’t shaved.”
Those were his last words.

Back to our childhood, Mom was ever alert for a solution of what to do about Marie’s high school education. It soon came but it came in a convoluted manner.
Clothing was a major expenditure for people as poor as we were. Women could make shirts for the men and skirts and blouses for the women from flour sacks. In those days flour sacks came in a wide variety of patterns and colors so the women could pick through them. Sometimes they would tell the storeowners to shop for specific patterns when they went to wholesalers. But few women could make pants and overalls, coats and hats and gloves. Cash had to be raised for these things. Thus, hand-me-downs were a way of life as children grew. Some families were too poor to own a foot-powered sewing machine and women who did own one would either take in sewing or permit neighbor women to use the machine for some form of barter.
The winter of Marie’s eighth grade, Mom and two other women hatched a partial solution to the clothing problem. Someone had the idea of trading hickory nut and walnut meats for children’s’ clothing. They knew that well-to-do families routinely threw away clothing when their children grew tired of them, so they gathered in our house several evenings and cracked walnuts and hickory nuts and stored the meats in fruit jars while they gossiped. Then they wrote to newspapers all over the Midwest. They offered these delicacies to people in exchange for used clothing for their children, and gave the age range of the children. When they didn’t know the name of the newspaper, they simply addressed the envelope to The Newspaper followed by the city and state. It was in this manner that my parents became acquainted with a minister and wife in Hastings, Minnesota, who read the notice in The Newspaper, St. Paul, Minnesota. They had a little boy around the age of my brother and me. Like nearly all of the respondents, the minister did not want the meat from the nuts. The women were very successful with this campaign and when clothing came that fit none of their children, they shared it with other families.
The next summer the minister came by for a visit with the family he was helping and I have a photo showing my brother and me wearing quite nice clothing, shorts with belts, nice shirts and knee socks. Standing with us is the little boy to whom the clothing first belonged. No doubt the minister showed the photos to his congregation when they returned to Hastings because until well into the 1950s the Ozarks were as remote and exotic as Vanuatu. The thought of this annoyed my father because he didn’t like the idea of being used to make someone feel like a good Christian, and the thought no doubt shamed my mother as well. But she took a longer view than he did and believed it was a small price to pay.
This in turn led to a very important event. Mom asked the minister and his wife if they knew someone who might let Marie live with them and work so she could go to high school far away from the Ozarks. He made a few inquiries and found a family for her. And this is how, against her will, my sister Marie came to be sent away to live in the home of people she had never met. It was an act of love by our mother, but she had such low people skills that Marie never forgave her for the manner in which she was sent. About ten years later I would experience that same manner under similar circumstances.
None of us visited Howards Ridge after we moved to West Plains. It was from my parents that I acquired the attitude that when you leave a place, it is bad form to go back except on business or for funerals. Our departure was further darkened by the bitterness toward our cousins, who let our old dog starve to death, which I will tell you about in another chapter.
But the hickory tree haunted my mother and she worried about its safety, knowing it was too close to the road. Somehow she found out that the road was going to be widened and she knew that meant the tree would be removed. I don’t remember if she went to Gainesville or if she made her pleas in letters or phone calls, but somehow she begged the highway engineers to spare the tree by moving the road westward a few feet. Her love of the tree did not carry enough political weight to make the highway department redraw maps and negotiate new rights of way. The tree was removed and the road widened. We expected to hear endless lamentations from her but she never mentioned it again.

The Home Front: An Oral History of WWII
The Home Front

Introduction

WITH THE BITTER EXPERIENCE of two unpopular and unfinished wars in Asia now a part of our national heritage, we have come to think of World War II as the last of the good wars and the only one we can understand. Like a short story from almost any popular magazine of that period, the war had a dramatic beginning, a middle fraught with conflict, and a happy ending. Our concept of it is not fogged by the gray areas of morality that plagued our wars in Korea and Vietnam. Nostalgia has seeped in to replace the facts of history, and many of us look back on those four years with a longing unequaled by any other period in our history.

The war years of 1941-45 are unique in our national experience: Never have we been more united with a common goal on which to focus our attention, our energies, and our hate. Unlike economic or natural disasters, World War II had a definite goal and definable enemies to overcome. So convinced were we that our cause was just that the war has become firmly lodged in our national conscience as a crusade against evil, a united effort by free people to save the world from dictatorship. It was the last of our holy wars.

Thus has nostalgia clouded our memories of a period that was not really as pleasant as we choose to remember it. We forget how many men were killed or maimed. We forget how many personal freedoms were abruptly suspended for the duration of the war, based only on race or religion and involving whole peoples who were thrust into prison or camps that today we can only call concentration camps. We forget the fear of invasion of our coasts, the panic-stricken evacuation of our far-flung territories, the loneliness of young widowed mothers, and that excruciating waiting and worrying about sons, brothers, husbands, fathers, friends, and lovers. We forget the immediate aftermath of the war when the economy was staggering under the pressure of the diversification brought on by peace. And we forget how those men who only weeks before were heroes suddenly became ordinary men let loose on the uncertain job market; heroes become anachronistic the moment war ends.

We also forget about the injustices we heaped on 4-F’s; and when we talk of our national unity at that time, we forget the draft dodgers, black marketers, and the pious, holier-than-thou minor bureaucrats who ruled ration boards and the surly waitresses and clerks who had no fear of losing their jobs during the wartime boom. We forget how enraged we became when we heard that catchall question: "Don't you know there's a war on?" The weapon of the incompetent, the arrogant, and the smug, that question was flung in our faces anytime we complained or asked for a product or service we thought should be available.

Yet those four years were for many of us the most important years of our lives and made an indelible impression. Those years colored our concept of America and left us unprepared for brinkmanship, détente, and limited warfare. It is inconceivable that anyone could experience the intensity of that period and remain unchanged. Many of us were liberated from the prison of poverty that had been our legacy. Those who were not already poor became so during the Great Depression that occupied the entire decade of the 1930s and gave the nation despair, just as the war gave us hope. We were deeply divided by the Depression and strongly united by the war as one disaster was replaced by another. It was a special time in our history and we have never been quite the same since.

One definition of "history” might be "an anthology of personal experience," and this book was begun with that in mind. Although I was a child during World War II, I knew its impact on me and my family was enormous. Yet I found no satisfactory answers to basic questions about the era in the books I read or the people I talked to. Since I was brought up on the oral tradition of the Missouri Ozarks at a time when the only radios we could use were powered by batteries, I decided to use the oral-history approach. This seemed the only way to take the book away from policy- and opinion-makers and return history to the people who lived it. I did not want to reduce the period to the confines of an author's set of restrictions or personal viewpoint.

But after interviewing more than 200 people all across the nation, over a two-year period, I found that pure oral history with no attempt by the author to explain the background can leave gaping holes and create as many questions as it answers.

I do not pretend that this is both an oral and a formal history of the American home-front period. Instead, it is a selective history, concentrating on the events and circumstances that seemed to affect the most people. The experiences and thoughts and opinions of the individual are dominant.

I began by collecting stories without discrimination. I simply asked people what they did during the war years-and no strictly "war" stories, please. I asked newspapers around the country to run stories about the project so people could contact me, and in this manner I obtained wide geographical coverage with stories unique to particular areas. After nearly a hundred interviews had been conducted, the subject matter began to divide itself into separate categories.

Still, there were whole topics missing that I believed should be included, and I called on friends, organizations, agencies, and more newspaper editors for assistance and suggestions. In every case they responded, sometimes with information or experiences not found in any of the documents relating to the period. The subject and approach appealed to people, and almost invariably they were willing, if not anxious, to help.

Most people I interviewed were less interested in having their names published than in trying to help define this vital period of American history. Several said they hoped the book would help explain how life was back then to their children, because members of the postwar baby boom seem to find it difficult to believe war could ever have been so clear-cut and simple.

There were large areas of experience I expected to hear more stories about but did not-due in part, I suspect, to my own misunderstanding of what was considered important by those interviewed. I expected to hear from women who lost their sons or husbands in the war, but I have come to believe that most do not care to talk about those things. More than one told me there was nothing they could add beyond the bald fact that their son-or husband or lover-was killed. Also, our patriotism was whipped to such a frenzy then that it wasn't unusual for the mother of a dead soldier to tell reporters she wouldn't hesitate to send another son to the war if she had one to send. Now it is difficult for us to believe that our patriotism was so intense, and few, if any, mothers would say such things today about Korea, Vietnam, or any other war to which America sends its soldiers.

I expected to hear how we were manipulated by government propaganda, but seldom did. The fact of Pearl Harbor erased the memory of maneuverings between our government and that of Japan before the war, and there are still a few who become agitated about the possibility of our intentionally leaving our Pacific bases vulnerable to attack so the war could start on a note of deep hatred. Some believe that, but most do not. Most feel that we considered ourselves so immune to attack that absolutely nobody expected it.

Concentrating as I have on the so-called ordinary people of the country, there is very little material on some subjects, such as the death of President Roosevelt and the sudden emergence of a relatively unknown politician named Harry S. Truman. Everybody said essentially the same thing: how saddened they were by Roosevelt's death and how at first they couldn't stand the sight of Truman's eyeglasses or the sound of his voice.

Another area of interest I did not touch upon at all was the destruction of Hiroshima and Nagasaki with atomic bombs. With the exception of a Quaker I interviewed, I distrust people who speak of those bombings today as an atrocity they strongly opposed in 1940s. If we are to believe what we are told, almost everyone in America was appalled that we would treat anyone that way, even though our propaganda machinery had boasted of the devastation of Dresden, Berlin, and most of Germany. Today most people who were adults during that period say they were shocked, ashamed, horrified, and strongly opposed to using the bombs.

I don't believe them. At that time virtually everyone was delighted that we dropped the bombs, not only because they shortened the war and saved thousands of American lives, but also because the "Japs" deserved it for the terrible things they had done to our boys at Pearl Harbor, Bataan, Guadalcanal, and all the way through the Pacific. Many of us today are suffering from a delayed, and perhaps unnecessary, guilt over those incidents.

Another subject I expected to yield an outpouring of complaints was rationing. I was under the impression that some people had suffered because of it. If they did, they did not tell me. The rationing system seems to have provided people wit enough food, clothing, and gasoline, although the American love affair with transportation made the word "enough" difficult to define. Another factor was the ability, developed over a decade, to get by, to make do, to "Hooverize." There were the usual complaints, by now expressed with good humor-about the quality of shoes and the scarcity of stockings an good cigarettes, but most admitted the system was generally fair. Part of the rationing problem was the fact that the sudden abundance of jobs and paychecks coincided with governmental restraints on spending. This led to inevitable abuses, but on much smaller scale than one might expect. Most people believed strongly in helping the war effort and saw a direct relationship between the rationing program and the comfort an safety of loved ones fighting the war.

During the years I interviewed people for this book, the role of oral history has been questioned repeatedly. Used sparingly in the past, it has become a familiar device during the past decade. Can oral history be trusted over traditional history? Is it history or only nostalgia?

In college I was taught that interpreters of events are a least as important as the participants. Oral accounts were considered curiosities, evidence but not conclusions.

Although I have not relied totally on the oral history approach, the book is heavily laden with information from historical eyewitnesses. As I progressed, my doubts about the accuracy of historical material gathered from eyewitness were eased when I found that the interviews had a way of merging, of complementing each other, until there was little room for doubt that, for example, displaced persons from Europe were roundly disliked by Americans because it was felt they didn't appreciate America enough. As one reads these accounts, one is reminded of a parent discussing an unimpressed and ungrateful child.
I also found that what might be of interest to a historian is often of little or no concern to those who experienced the events. Formal historians too often write for peer acceptance and forget the average reader. The people will tell you that their daily affairs often have their own drama, one that some-times overshadows the headlines of the day. Thus, while men are being killed in foreign countries, women stateside may worry about that ghastly fluid they applied to their legs to simulate hose, and stateside men wonder how they are going to go on a hunting trip without sufficient gasoline and good tires.

Throughout the interviewing process I used George Orwell's dictum on autobiography as a barometer for truth: that autobiography is to be trusted only when it reveals something disgraceful; that when we give a good account of ourselves we are usually lying. I constantly watched for the Orwellian Law to be broken, and I think it only seldom was. Sometimes the disgraceful acts were concealed by an apologetic laugh, or were tossed into the conversation as jokes, but the statute of limitations on our consciences usually runs out after three decades and we are now able to discuss the sometimes shameful matters of the Second World War with only a token apology.

Early in the interviewing I wondered why people would tell a complete stranger the stories I heard from all over America. I asked some people, and their replies were varied but revealed a few basic needs on the teller's part. A major factor is that most of us are lonely and paradoxically become more so with the increase in population and mobility. Each of us is at least partially alienated from the present and we long for the virtues of the past, even though we can't always prove those virtues ever existed. Talking about the past can give it
a firmer reality. Our memories are selective and the pains and joys stand above the valleys of the ordinary. We do not want our memories to die with us. Many of these memories are singular; an event or an impression will represent an entire era for us. We remember what we want to remember, and we want to share it.

At the extreme we become evangelists for the past. Some people spoke to me to explain themselves to others, and to themselves; to sort out their lives by putting them into words and into print. We do not grant interviews to absolute strangers for immortality alone. We do so to share a part of our lives and to understand it better by doing so. In such eases the printed word takes on a vivid reality that film can never duplicate.

Documents such as this must have limitations imposed by the author. Thus, I have concentrated on the people. Accounts by the powerful and the famous do not interest me, because power surely corrupts and fame usually does. Those who possess either become so accustomed to speaking through a public-relations filter that interviews with them are always suspect. They have formed the survival habits of covering their tracks and giving Orwell's good account of themselves. I wanted the defense workers, not the Henry Kaisers; the sidemen and fan-club members, not the Artie Shaws and Red Foleys; the people who voted for politicians, not the politicians themselves.

As you read these accounts of that four-year period, I think you will frequently ask yourself, as I have, whether we are any happier than we were during the Depression and the war; whether we have made any real progress in our quality of life, or whether we have simply changed our addresses and style of clothing. There is a statement near the end of the book that will always disturb me. One woman tells of the fellowship during the war and how people cared for one another, strangers helping strangers. But when the war ended, she found that people no longer cared, that we lost our inhumanity. Repeatedly people interrupted their narratives to offer an apology for enjoying themselves during a war. They said they did not like wars and did not like the thought of having to be at war to see the country united. World War II was different, they said. Somehow it was better.



Remember Pearl Harbor

Let's make Hitler
And Hirohito
Look as Sick
As Benito.
Buy Defense Bonds.

BURMA-SHAVE




We are the sons of the rising guns.

The U.S. will take the Nip out of the Nipponese.

Let's blast the Japs clean oft the map.

Be smart--act dumb.

Loose lips sink ships.

Once a Jap, always a Jap.

Use it up, wear it out, make it do or do without.

Pay your taxes and beat the Axis.

Weed 'em and reap (Victory Gardens).

Bye-bye, Benito.



V-MAIL


DEAREST SWEETHEART:

Reporting on the first St. Louis blackout-a huge success much to everyone's surprise! The lights all over the city were off and the city looked like a big piece of barren land. The blackout extended all over nine Mid-west states and was pronounced really good which just proves what we've always said, that the Midwest is in this war lots more than we know.

Last night Fred Waring dedicated his program to the P.1. Marines and played the songs they requested:
"For Me and My Gal" from that last picture we saw, "Silent Night" and the Marine hymn, which made me cry with pride. You don't know how wonderful it is to tell people your husband is an officer in the Marine Corps serving overseas. They all just look at me in awe and then I show them your picture and they believe me. I'm so proud and so are all the folks-Dad is so busy telling everyone about us that they all think the war is all over now that you're in action-well, so do I. Thank heaven you chose the right outfit and got your commission, too-just remember you're tops in the top outfit.

Lots and lots of love,




YESTERDAY, DECEMBER 7, 1941--A DATE THAT WILL LIVE IN INFAMY
--THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA WAS SUDDENLY AND DELIBERATELY ATTACKED BY NAVAL AND AIR FORCES OF THE EMPIRE OF JAPAN.


THE UNITED STATES was at peace with that nation, at the solicitation of Japan, was still in conversation with its government and its Emperor looking toward the maintenance of peace in the Pacific.
The attack yesterday on the Hawaiian islands has caused severe damage to American naval and military forces. Very many American lives have been lost. In addition, American ships have been reported torpedoed on the high seas between San Francisco and Honolulu.
Yesterday the Japanese government also launched attack against Malaya.
Last night the Japanese forces attacked Hong Kong.
Last night Japanese forces attacked Guam.
Last night Japanese forces attacked the Philippine islands.
Last night the Japanese attacked Wake island.
This morning the Japanese attacked Midway Island.
Japan has, therefore, undertaken a surprise offensive extending throughout the Pacific area. The facts of yesterday speak for themselves. The people of the United States have already formed their opinions and well understand the implication to the very safety and life of their nation.
I believe I interpret the will of the Congress and the people when I assert that we will not only defend ourselves to the uttermost, hut will make very certain that this form of treachery shall never endanger us again.

FROM PRESIDENT FRANKLIN DELANO ROOSEVELT'S SPEECH ON
RADIO, DECEMBER 8, 1941



ON THAT WINTER MORNING AMERICA, the sleeping giant so feared by cautious Japanese and Nazi officials, was slowly stirring as the thunder of distant guns and the rattling of armor grew louder and more threatening. In Europe, America's womb, the German war machine was erasing national boundaries, exterminating leaders, and trampling over lesser armies with the force and finality of a hurricane. When Hitler's Nazi party came to power in 1933 and immediately began organizing a war machine, it took less than six years to become the most powerful military force in Europe. In 1939 Germany defeated Poland in an eighteen-day war, and by 1940 Germany controlled Denmark and Norway to the north. Belgium, the Netherlands, and France followed. Then came North Africa and the bombardment of England that continued throughout the summer, fall, and winter of 1941.
To the west lay another threat, a potential enemy America did not know so well. Orient culture was as exotic to us as an undiscovered Indian tribe in the High Andes, and Japan itself had been as insulated from Western thought as America was from the Oriental culture.

This closed, remote island empire had earned a reputation for sneak attacks when on February 8, 1904, at nearly midnight, the Japanese fleet smashed the Russian navy that lay at anchor off Port Arthur, Manchuria, without benefit of formally declared war. Most Americans did not know their Asian military history, and American leaders ignored this trait so foreign to our more polite, formal methods of starting wars. Foreign wars were remote events in those days, tragedies that happened to someone else in another country. We did not care much what the Japanese, Chinese, Mongolians, and Russians did to each other. It was inconceivable that anyone in the world would attack us; and as to us attacking them, we didn't start wars, we only finished them.

But Japan was on the march, moving down the Asian mainland from French Indochina (which another generation of American soldiers would know as Vietnam) toward Malaysia and the islands of the Pacific. The movements were swift, unannounced, and as impersonally brutal as a tsunami. That was a problem on the far side of the world to be worked out by culturally and mentally inferior nations, we believed. No American boys would be lost in that war. We paid little attention to the reports on radio and in newspapers about the exchange of threats, deadlines, and ultimatums between the Roosevelt administration and Emperor Hirohito.

We had better things to think about. For more than a decade America's dreams and waking thoughts had been directed inward. The worst depression in our history had slowed technological and industrial growth to a crawl. There were 4 million men out of work that morning, and those with jobs were subservient to their employers. The threat of unemployment hung heavy and made men willing to swallow their pride and sacrifice self-respect in order to keep a job. There was too much truth in the old chestnut about there being at at least three other men waiting for the job if you didn't like it.

A generation of younger people was growing up with no promising future, and adults were faced with a future as bleak as their past. Opportunity hardly existed. More or less typical was a young woman, the eldest child in a family of three daughters and parents who had no jobs. Nearly four decades later she could not speak of those years without bitterness, and her life was permanently marked by injustices by her family and American society.
She was almost eighteen, a high-school senior with a year of typing and stenographic skills behind her, when one night her parents called her into the dining room. The family had $2.80 in the house and no prospects of work for the parents. She recalls:

"From the time I was fifteen I had worked for people as a housekeeper when they had money to pay me, or bedbugs to donate, which happened. My dad had been a timekeeper for the county and made seventy-two dollars a month for a family of seven. Now he had nothing.

"I had also worked for nothing. I walked two and a half miles every day after school to work for nothing for a county road district commissioner to learn secretarial skills. Once in a while his wife gave me five or ten dollars a month, but not very often. They didn't have any money either. I worked for the experience.

"So that evening while we sat around the dining room table, I asked, 'Should I drop out of school?' and that was what they were waiting for someone else to suggest. I said I would, my dad cried and stopped hunting for a job, and we owed a big grocery bill at two stores that took me two years to pay off.

"I got a job at the WPA {Works Progress Administration]. When the man told me what I'd be making a year, I had no conception. I went out of his office into the hallway and leaned against a wall, got a piece of paper, and divided twelve into the figure he gave me as my annual salary, and came up with eighty-five dollars a month. I couldn't believe it. I went back in and said there must be a mistake because was good at figures.

"When I cashed my first check, I got it all in one-dollar bills, took them home, and went into the kitchen. I threw them all over the kitchen and everybody grabbed those dollar bills. They hadn't seen that much money in I don't know how long. I handed my checks over to dad until 1937, when I tool the bit in my teeth and left home.

"We lived thirty miles out of town and I commuted for the first six weeks, two and a half hours each way on a rinky dink bus. When I got home I was too tired to eat. I was' skinny and nervous (now I'm fat and nervous and still stupid) and I would collapse on the bed and fall asleep. My mother had to shake me awake to feed me.

"I moved to town and still sent money home. Dad figures out just how much I needed for rent, food, and occasionally5 some clothes. But never entertainment. So I learned to wall everywhere. I visited the morgue, the art museum, skid row everywhere. I was never molested on those excursions. I was only molested in offices by successful businessmen and bureaucrats.

"I was the only one in the family my parents leaned on The rest got violin lessons and baton-twirling lessons. Violin' are okay-but batons? I went home one night and here's m~ kid sister twirling around with her baton, bought with m~ money, and I can't have anything for myself. That was the end of supporting my family. After that I was gone for good.”

There was a bitterness across the nation that ran deeper than resentment between the haves and have-nots. There was a feeling of despair; that things were never going to improve., that there was no point in life, that the country could not care for its own and should not try to solve Europe's problems again. . .

Commissioned histories

COMMISSIONED HISTORIES

THE TILLAMOOK WAY: A history of the small dairy cooperative in Oregon that makes some of the best cheddar cheese in America.
DARIGOLD: The largest dairy cooperative in the western U.S. and the fifth largest in the country wanted a history written for its 75th anniversary.
ALASKA AIRLINES STORY: One of America’s most colorful airlines commissioned this history for its 50th anniversary.
CRESCENT FOODS: The centennial history of the Seattle spice company perhaps best known for inventing the imitation maple syrup called Mapleine.
EDMONDS: THE FIRST CENTURY: Edmonds, a small town north of Seattle, commissioned this illustrated history for its centennial.

The Tillamook Way

TILLAMOOK CHEESE
By Archie Satterfield


The history of Tillamook has been that when problems arose, when things needed to be done, there was an overabundance of common sense, fairness, and a desire to excel.
--Beale Dixon



Chapter 1
Beginnings

There were three dairies in operation in the county at this time. Dougherty’s, Trask’s and Wilson’s, the latter a bachelor. Captain Ketchum paid forty cents per pound in trade for butter here and sold it for fifty cents in Astoria.
--Warren M. Vaughn diary, 1853


It would be nice if history told us the first batch of cheese in Tillamook was made by a kindly, wise man who had the welfare of the community in mind. But history can be revised only up to a point and we have to live with the facts. The first vat of cheese was made in either 1855 or 1856 by a man named William W. Raymond, who was in the valley because he was the first Indian Agent. Sadly, it must be reported that this gastronomic pioneer was also a scoundrel. The Bureau of Indian Affairs issued him more than $3,000 in trade goods--flour, sugar, coffee, blankets, hickory shirts, calico, pitchforks, rakes and even two large cast-iron plows--and instructed Raymond to use these goods to buy Tillamook Valley from the local Indians.
If he bought any land from the Indians, no record of the transaction survives. Instead, he kept the piles of goods for his own use. Consequently, the three tribes in the region--the Tillamooks, Nehalems and Nestuccas--were never paid for their land. A scoundrel to the end, Raymond told the Superintendent of Indian Affairs in Portland, General Joel Palmer, that he had bought the entire valley from the Indians. General Palmer passed along this false information to his superiors in Washington, D.C. Also, Raymond did not sign receipts for the $3,000 worth of goods from Portland, so Palmer had to make up Raymond’s shortages out of his own pocket.
At this late date we have no way of knowing what kind of cheese he made but we can be certain the only resemblance between it and the cheese made in Tillamook today is that they both happened to be made in the same geographic area.
The only other reference to cheese from this pioneering period was what they called “Dutch cheese,” which was probably what they later called pot cheese. It was similar to cottage cheese, according to Floyd Bodyfelt, the Tillamook County farm boy who became a world famous Oregon State University specialist in cheese. Cottage cheese was developed in Tigard, Oregon, in 1915 by the Red Rock Cheese factory. “People used to call it pot cheese,” Bodyfelt said. “They skimmed the milk and sent the cream to the creamery. Originally they used the skimmed milk to slop the hogs. But to make pot cheese, they put the skimmed milk on the back of the stove and let it clabber. Then they cut it into curds, cooked it to force out the water then ate it with a milk or cream dressing.”
Life was harder in the remote valley than in the rapidly filling Willamette Valley and along the Columbia River, but the land was free. So they came. The first settler of European descent, Joe Champion, arrived in 1851 and lived in a hollowed-out tree while he built a proper house for himself. When the first official census was conducted on January 1, 1854, it showed a population of five or six families and eleven bachelors for a head count of 50. Champion, the first and most famous citizen, had by this time packed his meager belongings and wandered out of Tillamook history. Several other pioneers were questioning the wisdom of their choice of a place to live. Tillamook Bay is still somewhat remote, but when the pioneers came it was at least a three-day march through brush, over fallen trees and back and forth across rivers from the Willamette Valley. Walking or riding a horse north to Astoria was a major undertaking because crossing Neahkahnie Mountain was almost as formidable as crossing the Rockies.
The only other real choice was by the small coastal sailing vessels that took passengers and their produce out of the safety of Tillamook Bay into the open Pacific, north to the treacherous Columbia River bar, then upriver to Portland. Nearly all of these small boats were future misfortunes, waiting their turn to run aground along the coast and perish.
Although several of the first settlers, especially lonely bachelors, gave up and left, most stayed on and began the agonizingly slow process of clearing their land for crops. For decades this clearing continued in the valley: cut down a tree, saw it into firewood or lumber, then begin digging up the stump. The first generation of settlers seldom had the benefit of explosives, so they had to use axes, shovels and saws, slowly digging up each root until the stump was clear. They had to hitch a team of horses to the monster to add it to a pile of stumps, branches and other combustible debris stacked around a tree, slowly building a giant pyramid that was called a Tillamook Volcano. When the wood was sufficiently dry, the pyre was set afire and it would burn hot and bright for days.
This laborious land clearing continued for more than a century in Tillamook County and anyone over the age of 60 has vivid memories of this hard, seemingly endless work. Fritz Marti’s father bought a 93-acre farm in 1928 that was covered with trees, logs and brush and the family spent the next 20 years clearing the place. His father bought a steam donkey to help with the clearing, and in 1941 he and his father build a monstrous pile they were going to set afire that winter.
“It was more than 100 feet through,” Marti said, “but World War II broke out in December and the government wouldn’t permit such big fires, so the pile sat there until 1946 before we could burn it. Andy Anderson, an old-time farmer who lived near us, said that if we could can that heat we would stay warm for a long time.”
There were disappointments upon disappointments for the first settlers. It did not take them long to discover that the land they were working so hard to clear also had limitations imposed on it by the damp and cool climate. There weren’t enough growing days in the average year to support row crops. Few vegetables had a chance to mature before autumn, and every diary of the period mentions killing frosts in mid-summer, constant rainy and overcast weather, frequent floods and days or weeks with no sunshine. But the land did grow one important crop very well, and that was grass. It grew almost the year around and remained green even in the middle of the wet winters. Cattle thrived on the lush grass. The valley soon had a surplus of milk and the settlers knew that dairy products and salted salmon were the only reliable sources of cash.
Since nearly everyone had at least one cow, the local market for milk and butter was limited. The only solution was to ship their goods to the growing city of Portland by small trading vessels. They shipped potatoes when the growing season cooperated, maybe some grain, always barrels of salted fish and wooden kegs of butter called firkins. This wasn’t very satisfactory, either, because the ships were not at all reliable, and the butter they so laboriously churned and packed was often rancid before it could reach the market. Some farmers took their butter to Portland, Sheridan or McMinnville over the torturous wagon roads at the end of the milking season each summer.
Butter posed several problems related to storage and undesirable flavors. Cows ate wild onions and various strong-flavored weeds and butter makers tried numerous methods of counteracting the taste. Some added chlorine to the cream before it was churned. Artificial flavors were tried. But the end result was the same; bad butter.
Seeing the need to own their own ship, a group of farmers and fishermen formed a company and in the summer of 1853 bought the sloop Rogers in Portland for $800. They filled it with provisions and sailed down the Columbia River, across the bar into the ocean, then south to Tillamook Bay without incident. They decided the Rogers should be enlarged, so they hauled it out of the water, removed the deck, raised the sides about a foot with lumber they had made, then replaced the deck. They proclaimed it better than new. There remained a problem, though: nobody in the valley was a professional seaman and if ever a stretch of ocean required expert seamanship it was the north Oregon coast and the Columbia River bar which nearly every year earned its nickname, Graveyard of the Pacific, by wrecking another boat or two, often claiming lives as well.
Then came a fortuitous event that probably caused Tillamook residents to believe in good luck. During the winter of 1853 a storm delivered a group of experienced seamen to Tillamook. A bark named the General Warren was enroute to the Columbia River when the storm dismasted her about 50 miles south of Tillamook Bay and all rigging was lost. The seamen stayed aboard the dying ship for about 10 days before she finally went aground south of Tillamook Bay. Eight survived the event and were rescued by a group of Indians who guided them north to the settlers in Tillamook. There they were fed and clothed and permitted to rest for a few days before continuing their journey overland to the mouth of the Columbia. Two of the seamen decided to stay on in Tillamook and help the settlers with the sloop they had just bought.
At last, the settlers thought, their transportation problem was solved. They loaded the sloop with dried fish and butter and set sail for Astoria. That night a gale came up and the sloop was wrecked on Clatsop Beach, boat and cargo a total loss. Fortunately the crew got ashore and the two sailors walked on in to Astoria and caught a ship to England and were never heard of again.
This left the Tillamook residents in worse conditions than ever. They were stranded with no hope of getting more provisions for at least four months. The company they had formed was broke and the 25 barrels of dried salmon would never sell so the word was passed through the community to come and get as much of the dried salmon as they needed. Free.
With some luck still with them, they found a small wrecked sloop named the McEwing in Skipanon Slough near Astoria. They bought it for $50 with hardly a glance at it, then found that in addition to the obvious problems of no sails or rigging, it had many broken timbers and planks, no rudder, no booms or bowsprit. It was indeed a wreck and probably should have been left to rot in peace, but somehow they raised enough money to have her rebuilt in Astoria and sailed down to Tillamook. By still another stroke of good luck, they found two experienced Danish ship carpenters in Astoria, Charles Hendrickson and Peter Morgan, who agreed to come to Tillamook, file land claims and become partners in the plan to build a community-owned schooner.
The Danes’ first order of business was building homes for themselves, and this kept them occupied for the next three months while Tillamook citizens waited. Once their homes were built and the men settled in, it was time to begin building the ship. Four men, the carpenters, Hendrickson and Morgan, and two residents, Warren N. Vaughn (from whose diary most of this information was gathered) and O.S. Thomas, formed a company to build the ship. They began work on September 24, 1854, by cutting a stern, stern post and keel, which they hauled down to Vaughn’s Landing on Hoquarton Slough. There they built a crude shelter called a salmon house to use for cooking and shelter from the frequent rain. A jovial blacksmith named Stephen Clark trudged across the mountains with his family and he was immediately hired to work on the ship.
In the meantime, the small sloop the settlers had rescued was kept busy that fall hauling out four tons of butter and some wheat and barley over a period of several weeks. Just after work began on the new sloop, the skipper said the McEwing was leaking badly and needed to be hauled out and repaired. But winter was almost on them and there was still butter and grain to be hauled, so with misgivings the skipper, Sam Howard, set sail again for Astoria. He unloaded, then took on a load of material for the new sloop and some provisions for the settlers and departed for Tillamook. While crossing the Columbia bar, the wind failed and the little McEwing drifted onto Peacock spit and broke up. No lives were lost but Tillamook was without a contact with the rest of the world again. The loss so demoralized the community that three more bachelors gave up and walked out of the valley, never to return.
The partners worked even harder on the new sloop and when the keel was laid, she measured 37.5 feet with a hold of 6.5 feet and was registered at 31.5 tons. “But she could carry fifty tons with ease,” Vaughn proudly wrote.
A sailing vessel requires a lot of hardware and they hoped they would not have to ask the blacksmith to make it all. So their luck, which seemed to ricochet wildly from terrible to good, improved when someone told them that a British man ‘o war named the Shark had been wrecked on the Columbia Bar sometime between 1843 and 1846. The deck and parts of her hull had drifted south and grounded on Arch Cape. The shipbuilders wasted no time in getting up to Arch Cape on horseback to look over this treasure chest. They found many pieces of hardware that could be used on the sloop, and more than enough other iron to be fashioned by the blacksmith as needed. They hauled four loads of the iron--all brass fittings had been taken by earlier scavengers--on pack horses, learning how to properly balance and secure loads as they went along. Before they learned completely, one horse almost fell off the narrow trail around Neah-Kah-Nie Mountain when a cinch broke and the pack swung down under his belly.
After they had all the ironwork they needed, good luck intruded again when they heard of another shipwreck, this one loaded with stores for a lighthouse. It had also wrecked on the Columbia bar and split in half. One half drifted all the way down to Netarts Bay where the Indians stripped her of her iron bolts and standing rigging. More important, they also found several bolts of canvas for sails. The Indians walked up to Tillamook Bay to talk to the ship builders and sold everything to them for $10.
The ship was ready to launch on December 29, 1854, but one important item was missing; the tallow to make the ship slide down the ways. Hendrickson, by now referred to as Captain Hendrickson, was certain the slippery mud from the bay would be sufficient. So on January 1, 1855, with nearly everyone in the community watching, the ship was readied for its launching. A speech was made George Scott, who was also given the honor of naming her.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he intoned, “it has fallen to my share in the program to name this craft. Now as we look to the east early in the morning, we see a beautiful bright star ascending. We all know it to be the harbinger of a new day, and as we all look at this sturdy craft, we hail it as the blessing of a new day in Tillamook County. We therefore name this schooner the Morning Star of Tillamook.”
He had no bottle of wine to break over the bow, but Tillamook had lots of water, so he improvised with a bottle of water. The blocks were loosened to let her slide into the water. The ship just sat there. It didn’t move an inch on the muddy planks. The crowd cheered anyway. Suddenly a hard rain began falling and the citizens dashed for cover. The shipbuilders stayed in the shelter and partied all night to the sound of Sam Howard’s fiddle while the rain poured and a flood developed. The next day Adam Trask, one of the community leaders, told the group he would kill a steer so they could use the tallow to launch the ship. They agreed it was a good idea and several went with him, fighting their way to Trask’s home through the hard rain and acoss the flooded valley. Trask killed a steer and fried off enough tallow to make the ways slippery.
The ship was launched on January 5 with no further fanfare, which is just as well. It immediately ran aground because the flood had changed the channel. No matter. It was pulled off the mud and she floated majestically on the bay. Soon they had her loaded and were out of the bay and on their maiden voyage to Astoria. Just as they cleared the Tillamook bar, they met the revenue cutter Carvin, which heeled over to come for a closer look at this sloop with no paint and splotches of pitch marring her sides. The owners were surprised that the cutter didn’t board the Morning Star on the grounds she looked like something smugglers or thieves would own.
Thus the first ship built and registered in the Oregon Territory began her career. Sadly, the ship that became such a strong symbol to the Tillamook community in the pioneer period, and remains a vivid symbol today on the logo of Tillamook Cheese, did not long remain in Tillamook ownership. Two of the owners were in financial difficulty, and one owed so much money in Portland that creditors were threatening to attach the schooner. The other owners didn’t have enough money to buy out their partners, so the Morning Star was sold to the merchants Leonard and Green in Astoria, who also were owned money by one of the owners. They soon sold the Morning Star to a company on Puget Sound and she was lost in the Strait of Juan de Fuca in November, 1860.

On Still Waters
Chapter Two

Canals obviously must have lots of water to exist and the European continent north of the Iberian Peninsula has ample supplies. Spain had one or two modest canals, and although Italy was a pioneer in canals, its water supply is limited to the northern part of the country within the Alps drainage. France and the Low Countries are fed by many rivers originating in the Alps, the Pyrenees and the Central Massif.
The Dutch have always had a water supply that goes beyond abundant. They have had no choice but learn to manage water as they gradually reclaimed land from beneath sea level. Their first canals were dug for drainage, and transportation on them was a necessity that became a bonus. Over the centuries the Dutch devised many kinds of locks, beginning deep in the Dark Ages. They also build a wide variety of boats and barges, using the wind, various animals and men and women for propulsion. In fact, many of their sailing barges, usually called tjalks, are still in use and can be seen on all canals of Europe with their distinctive sideboards, or leeboards, that look much like the wings of a floating swan. Or, as E. Annie Proulx described them in her novel, The Shipping News:
“From above, the barge looked like a low tub with strange and gigantic shoehorns on its side.”
Their hefty masts are so perfectly counterbalanced that a small woman can steer the boat with one hand while hauling down the mast with the other to go beneath a bridge, all accomplished without having to stop. Boats were built according to their uses, and scattered along the canals today you will see converted Dutch-built barges of many shapes and sizes, reflecting the original reasons for being built, such as to transport animals, flowers and vegetables, cheese or grain. Aside from the work habits that are part of the Dutch tradition, this abundance of water as a transportation corridor has always been a major factor in Holland’s success in business and shipping. Holland had few raw materials, but its transportation network enabled it to import materials, process them and ship them back out again.
As an aside, Holland is famous for the great tulip bulb boom and bust, but a less well known success story is how Holland built a strong economy in the 17th and 18th century because the country had an enormous source of energy in the form of peat. The forests of Western Europe had been ravaged by the Thirty Years War (1618-48) and wood prices went up beyond the reach of most people. So Holland became the prime source of energy and fuel for friendly neighbors, and the same barges that brought peat into the cities were used to transport night soil back to the countryside for fertilizer.
Earlier the Dutch worked at improvements not only of the canal locks but also the boats on them. One of the major developments in the 15th century was the trekvaarten, canals built with towpaths so that boats and barges pulled by horses or oxen could carry passengers and freight on regular schedules throughout the year. During the winter the same service was offered on the ice, but the only exceptions were during the spring and fall when the canals were frozen but unsafe.
Once the first trekvaarten was established on a route between Haarlem and Amsterdam other cities wanted their own routes, so many more canals with towpaths were built and for at least a century the Low Countries had the best transportation system in Europe. The trekvaartens were built in straight lines between the major cities and the owners were obsessed with punctuality; skippers used sandglasses and when they were at a dock and the last grain of sand drained downward, the boat left, no matter if someone wasn’t aboard yet. Because of their straight lines many towns were missed entirely, so it soon became a case of towns moving to the canals, or more common, new towns being built.
The boats, called trekschuits, 32 to 49 feet (10 to 15 meters) and only 6 to 8 feet (1.8 to 2.6 meters) wide. They could hold 24 to 30 passengers and most were divided into two classes. Some provided straw mattresses for night journeys. The boats were towed by a horse at a trot, usually ridden by a boy, and they averaged about seven miles an hour.
This system, with numerous variations, lasted for more than 200 years, until the advent of the steam engine and railroads. During the centuries the system was in use passenger volume was substantial--the Amsterdam-Haarlem route carried up to 288,000 passengers a year in the late 1600s--and was the envy of other countries that had to rely on rough roads and untamed rivers for inland transportation.
France didn’t have the flat landscape that made canals so economical to dig in the Low Countries, but it had sufficient water supplies throughout the entire country to make canals practical. Apparently the first canals were efforts to connect rivers. The first such effort is believed to been the idea of Adam De Craponne, an engineer born in 1519 who made his reputation with irrigation canals in Provence. He wanted to join the Durance and Rhone Rivers with a canal. He also designed what became the Burgundy Canal to link the Loire and Saone Rivers. Neither project was completed during his lifetime, and the Durance and Rhone canal was never a success.
All early canals were related in some way to Paris. Like all roads to Rome, all of the first canals were designed to improve transportation facilities for the national capital, and all canals were part of the spokes with Paris being the hub of the wheel. Plans to link the interior to the Mediterranean via the Rhone River and a series of canals began in Paris, and when the great Canal du Midi was completed, it soon had a feeder canal through the flat Camargue to link with the Rhone, then on to Paris.
The first major French canal was the Canal de Braire that connected the Loire and Seine Rivers. It was finished in 1642 after 38 years of labor, and was the first summit-level canal built in Europe, meaning that traversing it was something like going over a mountain pass, one lock at a time. On the canal summit was a large reservoir that fed both sides of the canal. Paris responded to this accomplishment by building the first quays on both sides of the Seine. Its success guaranteed further canals, the first of which was the Canal d’ Orleans from the Loire at Orleans to the Loing River at Montargis. These canals were so busy that the locks couldn’t handle the traffic, so the lateral Canal du Loing was built beside the Loing to its confluence with the Seine.
Without these successes, it is hard to imagine that the most ambitious of all canals in France, perhaps in Europe, would have been approved. But a salt tax collector named Pierre Paul Riquet from the old Cathar town of Beziers in the far southeastern part of France had an idea that he would not let go. He wanted to build a commercial waterway completely across France, from the Atlantic to the Mediterranean, in the most narrow part of France. Such a waterway would save weeks of travel for cargo going from the Atlantic around the Straits of Gibraltar to Marseille and then up the Rhone River, and it would be an antidote to the high tariffs charged by the Spanish to go through the Strait of Gibraltar.
How or why Riquet became interested, then obsessed with the canal remains a mystery. Long after he passed his 50th year, a very advanced age in the 1600s, he took on the canal project that had been discussed, studied and abandoned by numerous professional engineers. Riquet was not a trained engineer but he was intelligent, resourceful, imaginative, and best of all, determined. He got serious about the canal sometime in the late 1650s. Actual construction began on July 9, 1666, when the first stone was laid for the Port of Sete, then spelled Cette. Riquet was 62. The canal opened in 15 years later in 1681, five months after his death in 1680.
In essence, Riquet wanted to use water from the Aude River, which comes down from the Pyrenees near Toulouse and empties into the

Quiet time on the Canal du Midi

Mediterranean with the Garonne that flows west through Toulouse and empties into the Atlantic at Bordeaux. Some subsidiary streams were also going to be used, but the general route of these rivers would be followed. His canal would begin in Toulouse and end in the Mediterranean while the Garonne River leading from Toulouse to the Atlantic Ocean at Bordeaux would be left alone since it could be used for commerce much of the year. However, from the very beginning Riquet insisted that the canal be a still-water canal in that it would be a series of manmade lakes, or pounds, instead of canalizing any of the rivers that followed the general direction.
The water supply from the Aude wasn’t dependable enough for the canal, so Riquet, who by this time had moved to a chateau near Toulouse, tramped all through the Montagne Noire where all rivers except the Aude were born, devised a scheme and then began taking powerful political and religious leaders on tours to enlist their support. On the grounds of his chateau he built a model of his canal, emphasizing the summit level where he needed a reliable source of water that would be used from there west to Toulouse, and east to the Mediterranean. He found it in the Sor River that flows through Revel. By building one or two dams on it, he would have a reservoir of water for use in the dry summer months.
Riquet hired a brilliant engineer named Francois Andreossy who had experience on other canals. The two men got along well most of the time, although Riquet was enraged when Andreossy presented the King with a signed map of the canal without Riquet’s knowledge, but in general they worked so closely together that today nobody can be certain who should be credited with the many innovations the canal brought into being. Only after the deaths of both men did problems arise, and that was because the descendants of Andreossy and Riquet fought over income from tolls on the canal, and the battle continued long after the canal was sold to a railroad.
Between the two men they could always find a solution to problems they faced. For example, not long after the digging and leveling began, one of the new locks collapsed. Riquet’s solution had the simplicity of genius. To be certain it didn’t happen again, he ordered all locks, including those already in place, to be built in the shape of an oval, reasoning that if bridges and doors were strong because of the arch, the same principle would keep lock walls from collapsing. No other locks did.
Once Riquet obtained approval and funding from the government, work began on his Canal royal de Languedoc (the name was changed to Canal du Midi during the French Revolution). The construction was one of the largest undertakings of the Middle Ages. When work began in the mid-winter of 1666-67, Riquet had 2,000 employees. Soon the number increased to more than 12,000, including 600 women because the supply of men ran out. Mechanization hardly existed. Nearly all the work was done by part of the crew using picks and shovels, and the others hauling the dirt and rocks away in baskets carried on their heads. Forerunners of the wheelbarrow were probably used, as they were 200 years later when the canal-building spree hit Britain. Clay was the material of choice for the bottom and sides of the canal, sometimes as much as six feet deep. Fortunately good clay was found in abundance in the area, as shown by the millions of bricks used in the construction of Toulouse and other smaller cities and towns. In the more critical areas such as bridges and aqueducts, masonry or bricks were used on the bottom. Modern civil engineers love to travel along the canal and study Riquet’s accomplishments; his bridges, aqueducts, overflows, spillways and the one tunnel.
Riquet kept a staff of at least six surveyors working throughout the project, and it was their job to not only mark the canal’s route but more importantly, to determine the depth and level of each section of the canal, and where to place locks. In one of his many money-saving schemes that also turned the canal into a work of art, Riquet decided to follow the contours of the land as much as possible rather than imposing his will on the

Malapas Tunnel, with fearless jumper, near the eastern end of Canal du Midi

land by having a straight canal with many more locks. This made the canal longer than necessary, but it made it more a part of the landscape and enabled Riquet to build with fewer locks, which translates into faster transportation. Today it takes between 20 and 30 minutes to go through a lock. In Riquet’s time it probably took twice or three times as long.
The project took so much money over so many years to complete that at last the government withdrew its backing when the canal was only a short distance from its end. Also, in fairness to the government, Riquet was often a pest and some of his letters to the King reveal a man who was often reduced to poor-pitiful-me laments. Cruelly, it seems, just after he ordered the tunnel at Malpas dug, the government cut off his funds. From the hill above the tunnel Riquet could literally see his goal, the Mediterranean. Not to be denied at this late stage, he sold all his property and used the proceeds to complete the canal. He told a friend that, “It is said in the world that I have made a canal in order to drown myself and my family.” Shortly afterward he became terminally ill and his last words were with his son, Jean Mathias.
“Where is the canal?” he asked.
“Just one league from the Etang de Thau,” his son answered. The Etang de Thau, a broad and sheltered bay, was his goal on the Mediterranean coast.
“One league,” the old man is said to have repeated, and died a few minutes later.
To build the canal, Riquet had to invent and create as he went along. The aqueduct near Paraza is the first known aqueduct built for a canal to cross a river. The Malpas was the first canal tunnel; apparently Riquet ordered it dug as an act of desperation because he was using his own funds by that time. The du Midi had the longest pound in the world at the time it was built—33 miles (54 kilometers) on its last run from the village of Argens to Riquet’s hometown of Beziers. It is still the longest pound in France. The canal is nearly 150 miles long (40 kilometers) and has 101 locks. Because it follows the contour of the landscape as much as possible, it has always had a sinuous beauty enhanced by the thousands of plane (sycamore) trees planted along its entire length. The British canal expert Charles Hadfield called it the “greatest canal built west of China and Europe’s finest seventeenth-century engineering work, perhaps her greatest since Roman days.”
It was with good reason that UNESCO declared it a World Heritage Site in 1996. The following year another site on the Midi, the magnificent walled city of Carcassonne, was also chosen as a World Heritage Site. According to statistics compiled for UNESCO, the canal still carries more than 40,000 tons of goods each year, about 1,200 tourists daily, and more than 8,000 pleasure boats and barges are counted each year at the Argens lock, the last one between Toulouse and Beziers. One relatively unknown statistic is that Riquet’s quest for an adequate water supply was overly successful; the surplus water from the Montagne Noire is used to irrigate almost 100,000 acres of farmland along its route.
The canal building continued throughout France. The engineers learned to canalize rivers and avoid rapids by building canals and locks around them. The Rhone, the Seine, Saone, Marne, Sarre, Yonne and others were tamed and turned into transportation corridors. Napoleon had dreams of being the first since Charlemagne to unify Europe so he was directly involved in the planning of France’s transportation system. He insisted that all canals and locks be of the same dimensions. Another of his projects was the Canal du Nord to link the Meuse with the Rhine. It has been said of Napoleon that his love of canals was so great that while he was in exile on Elba, when someone told him of the poor communications between the two harbors on the island, he said, “I will dig a canal.”
Among the last canals built in France were those criss-crossing Brittany. They were dug under Napoleon’s orders primarily for protection against British navy ships and assorted pirates preying on coastal ships. The major canal was the Canal d’Ille-et-Rance, which begins on the northern coast at St. Malo and runs south through Rennes and Messac and ends in Nantes. Another canal ran from Brest on the western side of Brittany to Pontivy, then southeast to join the Rance at the La Villaine River. A few more branch canals added, and nearly all were a combination of canals and canalized rivers.
One more great figure in the history of France’s canals must be noted. Charles de Freycinet became Minister of Public Works in 1877 not long after a government commission reported the obvious problem that the canals could not support much economic growth until something was done about standardizing the size of the locks. Napoleon’s dreams notwithstanding, the lack of standardization continued to plague the government and industry. Shipments had to be transferred from one barge to another due to the differences in lock dimensions. This led to the inevitable delays and also to outrageous shipping prices, tolls and taxes. A government inquiry revealed that canals were unable to compete with railroads, and the commission also noted, perhaps with a touch of sarcasm, that railroads needed adequate competition to keep shipping rates within reason. In 1879 de Freycinet, a persuasive and also practical man, was able to get the government to authorized an enormous outlay of funds to improve the nation’s transportation system. He received funds to build 5500 miles (8848 kilometers) of railroad lines, to improve 2485 miles (4,000 kilometers) of rivers and 2397 miles (3600 kilometers) of canals, and to build 870 miles (1400 kilometers) of new canals.
Of equal importance, Freycinet established these minimum dimensions for the main routes of waterways:
Depth -- 2 meters (6.5 feet)
Locks -- 38.5 meters (114.6 feet) long by 5.2 meters (16.5 feet) wide
Draft of locks -- 1.8 meters (6 feet)
Bridge clearance -- 3.7 meters (10 feet)
Of all Freycinet’s directives, it is the last that has caused modern canal travelers the most grief, and is the main reason so one sees so many sailboats being transported from Bordeaux to the Mediterranean on the highways between two seas rather than on the canal between two seas; even with their masts down they are too tall for the bridges or their keel is too deep for the canals. In one celebrated case, the owner of a barge was almost stranded in Capestang because the bridge there is the lowest on the Canal du Midi. He recruited virtually everyone in the large live-aboard boating community to go aboard his barge to help weight it down. He barely, and literally, scraped beneath the bridge.
Freycinet became a towering figure in France’s history through his standardization and his construction program. He caused the Canal de l’Oise a l’Aisne to be built to gain access to Northwestern France and on north into Belgium’s coalfields. The canal is only 29 miles long (48 kilometers) but it was a challenge for engineers to design. When completed, it crossed the River Oise on a 230-foot (70-meter) aqueduct, took 13 locks to the summit and then went through a tunnel 7,759 feet (2,365 meters) long. He also caused the world’s longest canal aqueduct to be built across the Loire at Briare. It was designed by a mostly unknown engineer/architect named Mazoyer and the stone work was done by Eiffel. It opened in 1896 and is 2,172 feet (662 meters) long. It even has its own pair of electrical generators powered by a waterfall that keep electric lamps always burning.
One notable exception to Freycinet’s standardization was the waterways of Brittany. They were never linked to the rest of the French system, and their usefulness fell into decline when the threat from Britain diminished. So the locks remained at their original dimensions, 15 feet (4.70 meters) by 85 feet (26 meters).
As the 19th century wound down, France had more than 7,700 miles (12,400 kilometers) of navigable waterways, including its rivers, and nearly all were controlled by the State. Today the total is down to about 5,200 miles, but it is still the most extensive and certainly the most beautiful system in Europe.