Fishing with Wm: A Collection of Half-truths, Outright lies, and True Confessions

It was customary at camp to go fishing for a few hours after dark, so there was nothing unusual about the way the evening started – at first, anyway. My friend Wm and I headed down the dock where our gear and a leaky old row boat awaited us. As usual, I found myself in the rower’s position while Wm moved forward and perched on the bow of the boat like General Washington crossing the Delaware. He cast off and I began to row and at a nice even pace. At my side my fishing rod was rigged and ready to go.

Wm is the kind of person who appears to enjoy rituals, as he has a number of them. In those days some irritated me but for the most part they were tolerable. So that night, true to custom, Wm had not yet made his choice of gear and tackle. He always said he needed to get to our fishing spot and size things up before he rigged. Then he would switch on his L.L. Bean xerostrobic headlamp, complete with red lens to preserve night vision, take out his genuine Orvis calibrated fishing thermometer, and with great ceremony measure the surface water temperature. He would let out a satisfied grunt and commence to tying up his gear. I noticed that no matter what the water temperature was he always chose the same setup.

From the rower’s position, my back was to General Washington which made it difficult for me to see or hear what he was doing. It was clear to me that he was fumbling around with one thing or another but I assumed he was just readying his observation and measurement devices in preparation for arrival at our spot. So you can imagine my surprise when he momentarily deviated from his standard practices. I heard Wm clear his throat.

“Uh, I just realized that I have a little bobber.” He spoke in a voice I could barely hear over the gurgle of the water beneath the hull.

I found this to be a peculiar declaration and really wasn’t sure how to respond to his revelation, so I said,

“Well, I’m sure it works as well as anybody's.”

“It is kind of difficult to see, though. I’m hoping it will stand out anyway.” Wm’s voice sounded a bit unsure to me.

It seemed that this conversation was heading in an odd direction, but Wm was a friend, and good friends are willing to listen to one another. “Well, nobody’s looking anyway,” I replied.

Wm went quiet and resumed his fumbling. “It’s kind of red down near the bottom,” he sounded very thoughtful now.

“Maybe you should have it looked at,” I suggested.

“That’s ridiculous. Who would want to bother looking at it my bobber anyway?” More fumbling.

At this point I was becoming confused. I mean, this is the kind of conversation that has limitations, even between friends. I was thinking about how to reply when Wm continued.

“The other end is chartreuse, but it glows in the dark.”

My confusion changed to nervousness faster than it takes to say “Fish on.” Wm clearly was dealing with a problem but I wasn't sure why he thought I would be able to help him with it.

“I’m having trouble deciding which end to tie onto.” He wasn’t going to let this drop.

“Look, Wm, it’s really none of my business, but maybe you shouldn’t tie it up right now. On account of the odd colors and all.” The thought of a two-toned bobber worried me less than the fact that it apparently was luminescent as well, but I didn’t say anything about that.

I kept rowing, although a bit faster. Suddenly Wm appeared to hit upon a solution.

“I know what I’ll do. I’ll just pick one end and tie it up. Think I’ll start with the red end. I’ll toss it overboard and tug on it. If I can see it move in the dark I’ll leave it alone. Otherwise I’ll pull it in and retie it on the other end.”

This discussion was now officially weird. A minute ago Wm was complaining about his little bobber. Now he was talking about dragging it through the water along side of the boat. I tried one more time to get things moving in a different direction.

“Well Wm, maybe you shouldn’t worry about using your bobber tonight.”

“You know, John, you’re probably right. I’ll just cut it off and deal with it later.”

I could take no more of this. I dropped the oars, stood up, and went over the side of the boat into the lake faster than Jeff Bridges’ Dad Lloyd in an old “Sea Hunt” episode. I swam as fast as I could to the shore. My brother-in-law Charley heard the splash when I went in. He came down to the dock and gave me a hand out of the water. “What the hell is going on?” he asked me.

“Quick, call 911. I think Wm has cut off his bobber,” I gasped.

“Damn it, I told him just last night to stopped fooling around with his bobber and get on with fishing.”

I’d had enough. I went up the steps and into the camp, grabbed a bottle of scotch, and poured myself a stiff one. I mean a strong one. God, fishing with Wm could turn a man into a nervous wreck.

***

Laugh? I Thought I'd Die...

Like most retired state employees, I participate in the health care programs offered to me by the Oregon Public Employees’ Benefit Board, or PEBB. Each October, during the so-called “Open Enrollment” period, we have the option of retaining or modifying our health insurance plans and coverage.


To facilitate coordination of our health care, Mare and I have used Providence Medical facilities for years. We know and trust our physicians and their staffs. Our medical records are maintained there. For the sake of continuity we’ve anticipated sustaining that relationship. The drive from St. Helens to Beaverton and back (round trip ~70 miles) affords a change of scenery and an opportunity to visit grandchildren. In short, the trip is very manageable for us. Even more importantly, the need for specialists requires us to travel because the services I need simply aren’t available in here in rural Columbia County.

This year PEBB offers three choices in medical plans. Two of the plans, appropriate for our needs, are administered through Providence Heath Plans - “PEBB State-wide” and “Providence Choice.” Like most plans these provide coverage for providers who are “In Network.” As might be expected, Providence clinics, hospitals, physicians, technicians, and pharmacies are “In Network.” Regardless then, of our choice between the two plans, we will be driving the same miles to access the same health care.

But here’s the rub. Since we live in Columbia County PEBB is forcing us into their “State-wide” plan. This is because we do not reside in Willamette, Clackamas, Multnomah, or Washington Counties, where the other plan is available. Consequently it will cost us almost two thousand dollars a year in additional insurance premiums. When the difference between plans in out-of-pocket costs for appointments and procedures is factored in this amount could easily grow by thousands of dollars a year.

So there it is. Same travel distance, same doctors, same hospital, same medicines, and same insurance company. But because PEBB gets to call the shots, our health costs – which approach $22,000 a year – will be thousands more than they need to be. And all because we live in Columbia County rather than one of the “favored” metro areas. If this isn’t urban versus rural discrimination I don’t know what is.

And if this isn’t an argument for the vilified “public option” in health insurance, just sit back and take it easy. Don’t worry about those “Death Squads” showing up at your door. Fact is they’re already here. They’re just dressed like accountants instead of executioners.

Something's Fishy Here...

I would like to begin a series in which I discuss the plight of anadromous fish – those that spawn in fresh water and return to the sea to grow to adulthood – in the Pacific Northwest.

For most people, the word “salmon” connotes a pink, saran-wrapped slab of meat found in the local supermarket’s seafood showcase. The association with salmon and the state of Alaska has been cultivated through fabulous photography illustrating the relationship between the fish and the magnificent grizzly bears of that part of the world. In truth, Pacific salmon range from California, up the coasts of Oregon, Washington, and British Columbia. At one time or another, every stream feeding into a river that entered the Pacific Ocean was likely a spawning ground for these fish. To understand their story is to understand most of the things that we have done to destroy the planet and ultimately ourselves, but I am far from ready to tackle that narrative. So by way of introduction I would like to offer a quick, non-scientific profile of PNW salmonids.

To begin with, the salmonid family includes salmon, trout, char, grayling, and whitefish. Common to all of the fish in these families is the need for cold, clear water and gravelly stream bottoms on which to spawn. The life cycle of the anadromous members takes them from the spawning beds, or redds, downstream to the vast expanse of the Pacific Ocean, where they will feed and grow and fight to survive for the next three to five years. The adults then return to spawn a new generation and die. Their decomposing bodies guarantee nourishment for the emerging larvae, or alevins, which grow eventually into smolts. These infant fish face a long and perilous journey back to the sea to complete the cycle. This process has occurred for millions of years.

But let me return to our grocery store filets. Most people will recognize two broad classifications of fish in the display case – “wild” and “farmed.” Farmed fish are pen-raised, pellet fed, and artificially dyed red for the commercial market. Why the dye? Because true wild fish are predators and feed on marine life, especially crustaceans, that naturally infuse their flesh with its deep rich red color. Their flesh is well muscled and oxygenated because they in turn are preyed upon and are therefore capable of explosive bursts of speed. Wild fish also build up fat reserves, rich in Omega-3, to sustain them on their long journey back to the redds.

If the distinction between wild and farmed fish was all that we needed to consider my story would be done. But there are further differences that must be noted, since there are six types of anadromous salmonids along the Pacific coast. The first is easy to identify and explain. Steelhead (also known as “steelies” or “metalheads”) are rainbow trout that spend part of their life in the sea. Unlike salmon, they do not die after spawning. While steelhead smolts will eventually return to the sea that is not necessarily the case for adult fish. In Oregon and Washington steelhead are classified as game fish – that is, they are not permitted to be commercially harvested.

They next five types of anadromous fish are the true salmon. This group includes Chinook, or King salmon, Coho, or Silver salmon, as well as Sockeye, Pink and Chum salmon. In the Pacific Northwest the most prized are the first three. They are also the most vulnerable, since they are valued by commercial and sport fishermen alike. They have been at the heart of conservation battles between these two groups and the power generating companies, refereed by Federal and state governments through dozens of regulatory bodies.  These battles have raged for decades at the cost of billions of dollars.  But that is a story for another time.

So far I have distinguished between wild and farmed fish, steelhead and salmon. Now let’s identify another variable in the equation. Salmon and Steelhead famously return to the same spawning beds from which they were hatched. The mass of fish returning to a specific spawning system is referred to as a run.  The runs occur at specific times of year, adding an additional complexity factor. Also, fish return in different sequences in different rivers. For example, in the Columbia River there are spring, summer and fall runs. To the south, the Rogue River has spring and fall salmon runs and summer and winter steelhead runs. The Columbia sees Steelhead, Chinook, Coho, and Sockeye, while only Chinook and Steelhead return to the Rogue. In the huge water system feeding the Columbia River, fish turn to the left to head up Washington rivers, to the right to enter Oregon rivers, and continue straight to get to the Snake River dividing Oregon and Idaho. This leads us to identify subsets of fish with labels like LRBs and URBs (Lower River Brights and Upper River Brights), Tules, and Redfish Lake Sockeye. All of these permutations add to the complexity of managing the fish, especially the many subsets that include threatened and endangered species. But as the guy on TV says, “Wait. There’s more.”

Now we need to get down into the weeds to understand what “wild,” means in the context of this discussion. It’s pretty simple. "Wild" can mean any fish that completed the river-to-sea-and-back life cycle described earlier. It can also have a more specific meaning in referring to fish of original native stock that complete the circle of life. There is a huge difference between the two definitions – all because of a creation known as the hatchery fish.

Hatchery fished are raised from eggs and milt extracted from fish who return to the hatchery in which they were raised. The depleted adults are killed and returned – and this is important for another discussion - not to the water to provide a nutrient base, but to iced boxes for sale to cat food producers, fish markets, fertilizer companies, and distribution to food banks. The alevins are raised in concreted pens, fed pelleted food, monitored for disease, and eventually released as smolts into their home river. For future recognition, they are marked by being fin-clipped, a process involving the mechanical removal of the small, rearmost fin along the fishes back know as the adipose fin. When an adult fish is harvested, the presence or absence of an adipose fin determines whether the fish can be kept or must be retuned unharmed to the water. This is true whether the fish is caught by a sport fisherman with rod and reel, or a commercial fisherman hauling an insidious device behind a boat known as a gillnet. But that too is a story for another day.  The point is, a hatchery fish may be considered "wild" because it has journeyed to the sea and back.  However it is most definitely not a native fish.

I hope to this point the reader has begun to see that the arena in which the battle to conserve wild and native salmon and steelhead is fought is truly multidimensional and very confusing. As the muses move me I will add my perspective on several aspects of the struggle by offering my own experiences and describing my involvement with the Coastal Conservation Association. Whether you fish or not, I hope you will find value in my account and consider why issues raised are ultimately important to you.

Central Point District 6 Redux

On his facebook page, son Jason reports that my oldest grandaughter, a sophomore student in the ever-progressive Central Point District 6, is not being issued textbooks this year. Instead, books are apparently handed out at the beginning class and then recalled at its close. Students are expected to take notes to refer to later, thus sparing them from the difficult tasks of carrying books home in their backpacks and being responsible for their condition at the end of the academic year.

What's so bad about this? Books, after all, are expensive, and budgets are tight. What's bothering me is that there are three major assumptions at work here. The first is that students at the sophomore level know how to take good notes… and that they will consistently do so. The second is that they can read effectively enough in a standard class period to grasp the essence of the printed word. The third is that the teachers are skilled and effective in lecturing. Setting aside the fact that if teachers are teaching, students aren't reading, and vice versa, it strikes me that the probability of all three of these stars aligning is somewhat low.

In my high school English classes, I was taught how to take notes. I doubt that happens today. Notes are simply ways of organizing key concepts as pointers back to the main information source... the text book. The problem with sole reliance on notes was dramatically revealed to me as a college prof. A student complained that I had asked a question that was not covered in my lecture. Confused, I pointed out that the material was in the text and that I could not possibly cover everything in class that was relevant. I pressed for an explanation, and the student declated that he never bought textbooks. “I’ve saved thousands of dollars that way, he told me. Voila. Education lite.

So now my granddaughter’s school is setting up for failure students unskilled in note taking and largely unmotivated to do so. In effect, it is also training students to disregard books and treat them as irrelevant while setting up huge obstacles to the development of effective study habits. When these same students reach college, the 30 to 50 page nightly reading assignments will simply blow them away. When cranky professors like me flunk them for producing fluff answers and superfical essays, they will feel crushed and betrayed.

My suggestion is that parents call the school and request a copy of the syllabus for each and every class. If that is too big a word for the staff’s vocabulary, break it down for them. If the teachers don't have lesson plans on file with the principal that include course objectives, home work due and test dates, and required reading and homework assignments, get other parents involved and escalate! And, oh yes. If the reply to your challenge is that “we supplement the book with internet assignments,” run, don't walk, to the school board. Yes, asynchronus learning has its advantages. But even at the collegiate level it demands extraordinary self discipline, a trait most second-year high school students are not particulaly noted for.

But what the hell. We know that District 6 has its priorities straight, as evidenced from its four day school week. This, coupled with text book savings, will allow administrators and community to concentrate on truly important issues - like whether or not the team will maked it to state this year.

What are We Paying For? The High Costs of Medical Service in the USA

On the blog referred to below, My good friend Bill offers an approach to addressing the question of who pays for health insurance coverage. I am equally concerned with the cost side of the equation, especially the incredibly insane cost of procedures. Before I proceed with commentary on this aspect of the health care story, I need to set the stage by providing some personal background.

First, let me ‘fess up. When it comes to health, I am not your typical Baby Boomer generation specimen. I had my first heart attack at age 46. No, I did not have a cholesterol problem. I wasn’t buff, but I wasn’t obese either. I lead a physically active life. Thanks to my attentive wife Mary, we ate healthy, balanced meals… although I did enjoy the occasional steak. But when you find the proverbial elephant sitting on your chest it gets your attention right away. And so it was that early in the evening of June 17, 1996, while sitting relaxed in front of the tube with Mare,I realized I was having a myocardial infarction, or in Doctorspeak, an "MI." Can you say "heart attack?" Sure. I knew ya could.

Following my scare and hospitalization I religiously attended cardio rehab. Visits to my cardiologist became as ordinary as visits to my dentist. Mare shifted us to a Mediterranean diet. I parked at the end of far end of the lot from my office. Took stairs instead of elevators. In short, I was really into “prevention.” No more elephants on my chest.

Right. About 8 years later, in the fall of 2004,in spite of my preventative measures my heart attacked me again. Within a couple of weeks of the event, my pulse dropped to an alarming 46 bpm. (Think clot and stroke time.) A pacemaker fixed that, and the old ticker purred like a kitten at a steady 60bpm. To my doc’s chagrin, and in spite of her orders, two weeks after the implant I succumbed to the lure of one of my lifetime passions. After some thirty years I began playing hockey again. Fully 25% of the players were from the medical community – internists, surgeons, and nurses – so I figured if I got into trouble on the ice I was in good company. I skated at least three times a week, and additionally played in one full-fledged, moderate contact game. It sure wasn't the NHL, but with former college players on the team the pace was fast and the shots were hard.

Before the start of the second season, I weighed 225 pounds and felt good. In anticipation of hitting the ice, I had been doing moderate cardiovascular and strength conditioning throughout the year. Except for a lower back problem that had begun to be troublesome, I was rarin' to go. But then, while engaging in my other huge passion, something strange happened to me. I was fly fishing in a small mountain stream, working my way along the shoreline. As I had done since childhood, I progressed by hopping from one boulder to another as I worked the water. I readied myself to leap from the top of one rock to the next, but nothing happened.

My legs wouldn’t work.

Oh, I could walk alright. But when my brain said “Jump legs, jump,” they declined the invitation. Nothing happened. I felt like I was stuck in concrete. I finally gave up, opting instead to simply step down from the rock that I was perched on. When I attempted to do so, my sense of balance made it feel like I was about to plunge down an elevator shaft. I finally sat on my butt and squirmed my way off the rock. It was all of four feet high.

I was mostly irritated and blamed lower back problems for the "inconvenience." Eventually hockey season started. After a couple of weeks I noticed that my legs were feeling sluggish. Whenever a check or a lost edge put me on the ice, I had to struggle to get up. I became embarassingly slow. Once, leaning on the boards before the start of a game, my legs inexplicably came out from under me. My puzzled team mates looked down at me. One said, "What the hell was that all about, John?" Not sure myself, I could only shrug. As it turned out, more than two years would pass before I found the answer that question.

Now I need to step back in order to make this story relevant to Bill’s blog. To this point my medical bills – hospital, ER costs, ambulance costs, cardiologists, ER physicians, rehab, and meds – were well into six figures. Almost all of this was covered by health insurance. I was staggered by the magnitude of the bills, but impressed by how little it cost me out-of-pocket. The tale of the next two years of my life will have to wait for another entry. For now, let’s just say that things went downhill rapidly. My relationship with the medical community intensified. Only this time I began to pay more attention to the processes of the health care system, as well as to the procedures I that I began to endure.

That's when the real fun began.

***
To see Bill’s blog on this subject please go to http://blog.williammchone.com/Wm

Fill in the Blanks....

Here's one for you, Dear Readers, to ... Hey! Wait just a minute! Who says you're so dear, anyway? And doesn't that hackneyed, transparent effort to bond with the audience have the distinctive ring of a North Korean despot’s title? But I digress.

If you are following along, please fill in the blanks to complete the following sentences:

Q. How many (your response here) does it take to (your response here) Rush Limbaugh’s (your response here)?

A. (Your response here.)

Off Again, On Again...

Well, as I feared I went into serious melt-down after a few days of Facebook. For one thing it has what is without a doubt the crummiest explanation of feature usage of anything I have ever seen. For another, I had to relearn on old lesson with respect to the joys of asynchronous communication. I'll ignore the former and focus on the latter.

Here's what happened. A fast-paced exchange with an old friend turned from witty (to me anyway) give-and-take to confusion and misunderstanding... at least on my part. Horrified that I had overstepped the fine line between teasing and goading, I wrote a hasty note apology and shut down my Facebook page. All of my reasons for avoiding setting one up in the first place appeared to have been validated. The lack of real-time feedback through body language and verbal cues opened wide the door of misunderstanding.

But, now I'm back. It took a couple of days for my friend and I to backtrack and sort out what actually transpired. Friendship trumped miscommunication and all is well with us. I still have a lot of thinking to do about how and why I will use this strange mode of communication, and I find mistrust still rides on my shoulder as I'm typing - I mean, key-boarding.