Over the last 50 years of owning two agricultural businesses in the western part of the state, my wife and I retired to Wasco for several years before owning the ranch here in Unity. I have had Border collies for many years, trailing and teaching stock dog herding to ranchers and 4H kids. We raise California red sheep, a new breed within the past 10 years and have a high quality breeding program for the Border collies.

Having an interest in my family’s journey and how they got here, I have always felt the same about how the Border collie got here and their heritage in Oregon. Contrary to belief, all of the sheep and cattle did not come overland from the east. Dry John MC Glauphlin imported some of them from Europe to Clatsop County up the Columbia River, and as the sheep and cattle increased, the Boarder collie was brought into Oregon from England. Today, the west coast is a showcase for the top trials and Klamath Falls is one of the top trial areas in the U.S.

I never met a Border collie I did not like; our last litter, we had some of the toughest pups I ever had to train and was the challenge of my life. The first pup I was going to sell is the one that evolved into the best dog I ever had- he had one blue eye, was long and skinny, with short ears, big feet and a long tail and is the hardest biter I have ever seen. To me, he is worth a million dollars. My Abby is the pride of my life as she is my best friend in life (next to my wife). We got her from a breeder in Klamath Falls seven years ago and I can remember the breeder saying he thought she would be able to read my mind and he was right on that one.

Oregon’s history is rich with one of the legacies left from the pioneers- the sheep dogs that helped build the west yesterday and into the future. I feel very fortunate to spend part of my life with the greatest dog of all time.

As a machinist he did many things: built fish screens and paddle wheels for our river systems, constructed tanks and installed refrigeration units for the fish liberation trucks, scuba dived for a river diversion project, checked licenses during hunting and fishing seasons, and drove trucks from fish hatcheries to lakes and streams.

The highlight of his career came when his name was chosen for the “High Lakes Cascade” trip where everything was packed in on horseback. Annually, biologists did research in areas only accessible by foot or horse. Names were on that list for years. Dad felt so fortunate that, just once before his retirement, he was able to fly fish on lakes so few people had even seen.

Although he was born in Michigan, Dad considered himself a native Oregonian. His mother was born in Medford in 1897 and he returned with his parents and sister while he was still a baby. Except for his military service during World War II, he lived his life in Oregon.

Youngs River Falls, a majestic waterfall, was at back end of the property I lived on. I spent days sitting by God’s creation watching the water rushing over the rocks in total awe. It sure beat watching the New York City fire hydrants gushing water after having been hit by cars!

One night with my girlfriend and my friend Steve and his girlfriend, all former New Yorkers, we sat by the waterfall in awe of our good luck of having landed in Oregon at this place, at this time. In a flash, my friend jumped up, stripped off his clothes, jumped into the water and headed toward the waterfall. And after he jumped in he said to me, “Come on, and jump in too!”

I’m as competitive as the next guy so off with the clothes, and in I went. I would not be shown up with my girl watching! As I swam to the waterfall, I saw my friend get to the waterfall, reach up to grab at the rocks and quickly turn and begin to swim back to the place where our girlfriends sat laughing at these two kooks for boyfriends, swimming at night and in pretty cold mountain water. He swam past me not saying a word, but had a look of absolute panic in his eyes. I thought to myself as I passed him, “I will not only get to the waterfall, I will sit underneath it too. I’ll show him!”

I reached the waterfall and grasped for a rock to steady myself.

Or so I thought.

I had grabbed an eel! It slithered through my hand and back into the water. When I looked at the rocks behind the waterfall they were covered with eels. I understood Steve’s panic and I was now in a panic too!

I swam back with the sound of laughter cascading down on me.

At nine years old I was one of a large number of Girl Scouts from all over Oregon wearing outfits, complete with calico sunbonnets, celebrating as Oregonians observed our 100th birthday February 14, 1959.

Nearly 50 years later, I am still here to witness our sesquicentennial celebration. I wonder how many of those other little girls from so long ago were descendents of pioneers.

As a child, visiting my maternal grandmother’s family in Baker City always involved discussion about our heritage. A trip to the historic Haines cemetery was more than just a chance to see the graves; it was also a time to glimpse some of Oregon’s past by reading the headstones. I like to think that the women in my family were all from strong, courageous pioneer stock.

My great-great-grandmother, Julia Ann (Taylor) Long, was born in Linn County on September 6, 1853. I am proud to know I had relatives in Oregon when statehood was obtained. Julia Ann probably carried memories of that historic occasion her entire life.

My grandfather Mount Hood became a boxer. Whether this began in self-defense because of his name, we’ll never know, but the yellow newspaper clippings note “Mount Hood Bottler was well known as an athlete in his youth. Boxing under Multnomah Amateur Athletic Club colors, he won lightweight and welterweight championships.

I am still in my room, swallowing the rage at the helplessness I feel when I look upon this horrible travesty wrought upon nature. I feel sick with grief at the connection I have and the responsibility I feel for the drowning of a culture. I keep my guilt and anger tucked away, afraid of being seen hypocritical if I let it show. I was born too late to stop the event I loathe with my entirety now. Though I long to see the falls, I see nothing but cold, grey cement and the lake behind it.

I cannot remember, but I know. Fifty years ago, the ground trembled with the force of the dynamite as the center of the falls was blasted out of existence. The dam went up. The spill gates closed. The people of Celilo village stood weeping on the banks as the water rose, silencing the thunder of the falls. Their ancient village, along with homes, graves, memories, was buried beneath the mockingly placid pool of water. They were left with nowhere to live, squished between railroad and rock, in the deserted barracks of the people who built the concrete beast that destroyed their old homes.

Their children were taken, forced to attend boarding schools where they were not allowed to practice their religion or speak in their native tongues. They were force-fed English and Christianity, and verbally and physically abused.
The village of Celilo wilted. With barely enough salmon to support Celilo, the tribes that had once come from as far away as the Great Plains to fish and trade stayed away. The once booming economic hub became a sad recollection of grander days; the ghost of something once remarkable.

The native word for Celilo Falls, Wyam, means “sound of water upon rocks,” or “echo of falling water.” To me, Celilo means sorrow; irrational guilt; irrevocable destruction of a landmark, a people, a culture, a history. It is the most disgusting display of power, greed, and utter indifference that I have had the displeasure of encountering. It is a billboard of the white mans money lust; profit from progress for progress’ sake. I close my eyes and submerge myself in the magnificence of the falls, which I can only ever see and hear inside my head.

 My other favorite town is Seaside. It is only an hour and a half from my house so it’s pretty close if you just want to go for the day. The beaches in Oregon are most definitely some of the prettiest I have ever seen. The sounds of the waves crashing against each other, the seagulls soaring, kids laughing, and families playing, it’s all so surreal that sometimes I forget I’m still in Oregon.

 I have been throughout the West side of Oregon, and my number one favorite town is Yamhill. Every year my family goes to Flying M Ranch at least twice a month, give or take a few trips. We spend most of our time riding four-wheelers, building campfires, playing catch, and talking. My family and I love the smell of the mountain air- nothing like in New York where all you smell is nasty trash and icky gas from old mufflers. In the mountains, you don’t have to worry about traffic or if you’re running late, all you have to remember is to bring bug spray! The beautiful mountains are just one of many spectacular things about Oregon.

 Oregon has some amazing landmarks that people all around America come to see. For example, North America’s largest Sitka Spruce tree was located in Seaside Oregon. The tree was a landmark known across the United States, this past Winter the tree toppled to the ground during one of Oregon’s infamous windstorms. The storms might be horrible, but I personally love them. My favorite thing about them is, seeing people help complete strangers rebuild homes and cleanup fallen trees in the aftermath.

 It seems like the worst things are the things that bring us Oregonians closer together. Happy 150th Birthday Oregon!