The color of wheat, with deep brown eyes and a tiny black nose, a tough little street puppy found us one late night in Carthage, Missouri. She had worms and fleas and no home. That was thirteen years ago. She made us whole ever since.

You may have known her by another name. Fachini, Fachi, Dog Face, DF, Fuzzers, Fuzzy, Fuzzini, Cousin C, C Dog, Brownie and so many more.

There were the years that she went everywhere with us. And there were some days that we stepped around her as we took care of babies. But she was always there.

She loved being anywhere. She canoed the Missouri, the John Day, the Clackamas, the Willamette and the Columbia. She climbed Mount St. Helens and the South Sister. She hiked and backpacked for miles and miles. She loved the ocean. She loved any river or lake. Yet she hated getting a bath.

She battled muskrats, possums, rats, cats and dogs. She once tried to take down a vulture. We watched her stalk three turkeys. She chased cows, deer and elk and once pondered a black bear.

She’d been slowing down lately. Taking long, long naps. Eating very little. Her breathing was slow. It took a bit of effort to get up and bark at the mailman. And yet, she jumped into the car Thursday afternoon as we headed out for a weekend at a friend’s cabin on Mount Rainier.

She died, it seems, just as we arrived. She looked so comfortable, we thought she was sleeping. And so she rests there now, beneath the firs and the ferns, by a creek, near a cabin, just down the road from a big mountain.

On Clear Lake.
all content © Tim LaBarge 2010

We’ve already spent a good chunk of these summer days out camping somewhere in the Cascades. Mount Hood, the Metolius River, the McKenzie River and two different Clear Lakes.

The driving force and unexpected thrill of all of this has been watching Leo, 4, dive into fishing with the patience and hope of a man twenty times his age.

You can’t warn a child what it will feel like when a fish is on the line. We’d gone out paddling and fishing before, but came home empty handed. So while he was interested and patient, I’m not sure the hope was there before that rainy morning he reeled in his first fish. The thrill and energy of having a fish on the line hadn’t yet been inscribed in his memory.

It’s there now though. Thanks to a little trout that tugged and pulled and wiggled as Leo leaned back and reeled, smiling the whole time. The trout seemed equally excited to be released back into the lake. Later, Leo commented, “I want to be an artist and a fisherman when I grow up.”

So now we go where he can zing a few casts with his favorite lure “Lucky.” Each time he hooks a fish, it will be exciting. But for me, nothing will compare to that June morning up on the side of Mount Hood, under a sky full of clouds and rainbows.

On Clear Lake, headwaters to the McKenzie River, embodying the well know quote from Miguel de Cervantes: There’s no taking trout with dry breeches.
all content © Tim LaBarge 2010

Leo, age 4, with my dad in 2010

Photo editor and fellow PDXcrosser Mike Davis suggested on his blog just before Father’s Day to “make a picture of your dad, if you can, to remember him as he is this year, this moment. Say something with the picture about how you feel about the man”. I didn’t see his post until two weeks later, but as I sifted through images from a recent trip, I realized I snapped this image of my dad and my son on Father’s Day itself.

I’m not sure why all of a sudden, I care about fishing. I suppose it has something to do with it being an accessible, enjoyable way to pass time when I’m out in the woods with two kids under the age of five. And maybe that’s how it was for my dad when we were little. There’s enthusiasm, time together, many layers of learning and a chance for a tasty meal.

It’s a privilege to spend time with both of you. Thanks.

My dad and I, at age four, fishing in Colorado in 1974
all content © Tim LaBarge 2010

The sun was watching the calendar up here in the Northwest. On Monday, as if on cue, the weather and my attitude changed with the flip of the switch that sent us into Summer.

High lake, still snowy

We were up in the Cascades on the Metolius River when it happened. The bright, blue sky and puffy white clouds came in after after a weekend of overcast skies and mountain rain. I new it was Summer when I caught that unmistakable scent of warm ponderosa pines as the afternoon air moved through the forest .

Growth

That night, as we sat by the fire, we noted it was after ten and there was still a hint of blue in the western sky. And then just after four, a thrush woke me with an early morning call as the sky began to brighten in the East. Summer is here.

The Metolius River

Elk
all images © Tim LaBarge 2010

Yesterday’s wind and rain storm knocked out a few young tomato plants around town for sure. And sadly, it took down my favorite old plum tree. Part of the curved trunk still stands, barely. The mass of the tree tumbled into the neighbor’s yard during an especially gusty few minutes in early afternoon.

Leo learns to walk, July 2006.

Plumfest, September 2003.

We’ll miss that old tree. The fruit was delicious. In 2002 and 2003 we even had “Plumfest”, at which everything served had to include the magical plum. There were great plum wedges with cheese, dumplings, soups, glazes, sauces and desserts.

Plumfest, September 2003.

The kids in the neighborhood would graze on the fruit in late summer and early fall. A friend’s father would spend hours picking the fruit and deliver it to his friends. Sara would can whole plums and put them on ice cream as a mid-winter surprise. As the plums hit the over-ripe point, the birds moved in and cleaned up on the soft, juicy fruit.

Harvesting, July 2006.
all images © Tim LaBarge 2010

We’ll survive. There’s other fruit in the yard for snacking and saving for winter. But that old tree, with its mossy trunk and curvy spine, seemed to hold secrets and stories of the past from the neighborhood and our yard. I loved just knowing it was there.

There’s the old debate about whether or not there is a “first annual” anything. But you see it all the time. First annual festival. First annual sale. First annual meeting. The AP style book sends a quick reminder that the word annual should not be used until an event has occurred for successive years.

Walter Parks, April 2010

And so it’s difficult for me to say that I am starting a “long-term project.” It can’t really be a long-term project until I have worked on it for some time. However, I am intrigued by the house concert. After hosting a show at our home last month, I decided I would try to slip into a few and make some pictures to see what happened.

Walter Parks is a great guitarist based on the East Coast who played a little house concert the other night. He plays guitar for the legendary Richie Havens, he’s in Swamp Cabbage and he plays soulful, thoughtful tunes as a solo artist. It was a thrill to be in little dining room in southeast Portland watching him perform.

I love this and want to dig deeper. I hope to continue with it for some time. A long time.

Walter Parks, April 2010
all images © Tim LaBarge 2010

At least once a day, something happens around here that makes me kind of cringe. Markers, crayons, water, paint, sand and on and on. Something happens.

And this is normal, I tell myself. I remember my mom sweeping the kitchen floor as the five of us would track pounds of dirt and grass through the house. We’d even run through the little mounds of dirt she’d neatly organized with no regard for the effort or the frustration of just having cleaned up for the tenth time that day.

So it’s my turn. I watch this destruction and this deconstruction daily. And we clean, we tidy, we encourage ‘clean up, clean up.’ And then this morning, the boys were at the zoo with Sara and I walked into an empty house and saw these two beautiful little hands. A remnant of chaos. I left it there, just because…

I was just looking through the line up for the concert series out at The Edgefield. A couple of the shows should be a good time.

Willie Nelson is, of course, legendary. I’ve seen him play a few times and it’s always interesting. Nothing beats the time I saw him play in a tavern near Columbia, Missouri. After making a few quick pictures on his bus as part of project on family farms the show started. And the show kept going and going and going.

They played Whiskey River three times that night. And some of that river found its way into the blood stream of the fellows across the room. Suddenly a table was flipped over. Beer bottles shattered on the floor and a full on bar fight ensued. Willie and the band never missed a beat. He’s got some experience under his belt…he’ll be 77 at the end of this month.

The Avett Brothers will be rolling into town in July. They can get room to tremble as well. But just a few short years ago, you could catch them at little venues like in the barn at Pickathon. They’ve hit the big time now, filling arenas and big theaters. But if the weather is just right and you’ve got your blanket in a good spot, a night at The Edgefield could be a great show.

The Avett Brothers, Pickathon 2007

The Avett Brothers, Pickathon 2006
all images © Tim LaBarge 1998 - 2007

It was the end of a sweaty day. In fact, according to the ‘time stamp’ on some of these images, it was the beginning of another warm day. Pickathon 2009. What a blast…as in blast furnace. But we survived. And the later it got, the wackier things got. About midnight, my friend Tom Boyd and I set up shop in a horse stall next to the Galaxy Barn and made a few portraits of late night revelers who were holding out for the Blitzen Trapper set to begin. And if you waited long enough for band member Marty to be drawn back to the light, you know there was some serious heat in that barn.

We hope to see you all again this year. Odds are real good it won’t be any warmer than last year.

Around here, we call it “Living the Dream.” It’s code for taking care of the kids. There’s a loose knit group of us and we LTD weekly at the zoo or at the museum. We hit the park or a coffee shop. We love our kids and our time together. And swapping dinner recipes and tips on who makes the best cloth diapers is awesome…but we dads and moms also have little chats about hitting the road. Each of us has stories that involve bikes, backpacks, skies and canoes from the days before kids. It’s kind of fun to reminisce.

But you can’t get caught up in the reminiscing too much. We’re in a different phase now. Not only are there children everywhere I look, but we have to deal with jobs, homes, cars and trips to the grocery store. Grown up stuff.

Home, this past Sunday

We’re lucky to have a space big enough in our house that a little band can set up and play. A few nights ago, Breathe Owl Breathe rolled into town, dropped their bags in the guest room and set up their gear in the sun room. They’d been in California, Arizona and beyond. Soon there were fifty neighbors, friends and strangers gathered to watch them make music.

The hypnotic, meditative ‘Home’, from the album Climb In, struck an immediate, obvious chord for me as I leaned on the door frame leading into my backyard. I had to walk away from that song at Pickathon last year when they played it as an encore on the Starlight Stage. It’s so simple and so beautiful and I was exhausted. It was one in the morning, I still had work to do and I didn’t have time to be reduced to a puddle of tears. But on Sunday night, I couldn’t walk away from my own home. The song, I believe, is about love, aging and being together forever. Listening to a chorus of friends help Andrea and Micah chant “hooooome” was powerful. I know I smiled.

New age dog

Some time after midnight Sara and I were tidying up the house with cellist-vocalist Andrea. Her bandmates Micah and Trevor had slipped off for a late night of editing a new video for their upcoming release. I grabbed the trash and recycling and headed out to the curb. Andrea, feeling cozy in our kitchen after a few weeks on the road, said, “I want a trash and recycling day.”

The next afternoon, I returned some chairs to my neighbor’s house. She opened the door with a nursing baby in her arms and a two-year-old just waking from a nap. She asked about the band. I told her they seemed content and rested and they’d just packed the van and headed north into Washington. “Oooh. That sounds nice,” she said.

The grass is always greener, they say. But we couldn’t do this whole life thing without each other. You live my dream, I’ll live yours. Together we make it all work out. We’ll entertain each other with stories and songs, we’ll share meals and a spot to rest. Maybe we’ll even cross paths.

Breathe Owl Breathe on the Starlight Stage, Pickathon 2009
all images © Tim LaBarge 2009-2010