Coming and going. McCoy, Whitman County, Washington.
From American Guide:
THE WORLD’S GREATEST MINERAL SEA
SOAP LAKE, WASHINGTON
“For Stomach Troubles, Constipation, Headache, Rheumatism, or whenever a thorough constitutional remedy is needed, take Soap Lake Capsules. Price 25 cents per box.”
— 1906 advertisement for Soap Lake Remedy Company
At the south end of Washington’s ancient river bed, the Grand Coulee, you’ll find the healing waters of Soap Lake tucked among the columnar basalt cliffs and rim-rock slopes of the central shrub-steppe desert.
Containing 23 different minerals, researchers have determined that the chemistry of the lake has more in common with outer space than it does with Earth’s water. Because the alkalinity of Soap Lake resembles the moons of Jupiter, scientists have studied the lake in an effort to learn about the possibility of life on Mars.
Our human experience of the lake was nothing short of miraculous, as we polar-bear plunged the coastline on a windy day that topped off at cool 38 degrees. The soap-like waters leave behind an oily film that promises to cure what ails you. The plaque at the beach boldly declares that “…This is indeed a god-given body of water for to cure all the ills of mankind.”
And if all that isn’t remarkable enough, the city of Soap Lake plans to install a 50-foot Lava Lamp on Main Street. Just because.
The Inland Northwest, as seen by satellites at night. In the northeast of the image, Spokane and Coeur d’Alene. Move south from there through the scattered pinprick towns of the Palouse through the twin lights of Pullman and Moscow down to Lewiston-Clarkston. Go west from L-C through Pomeroy, Dayton, and Waitsburg to Walla Walla (the city shaped like a hatchet). Then west again to the crab-shaped Tri-Cities and curving along the crescent of light in the Yakima Valley. North, then, from Yakima, through Ellensburg and to the Wenatchee Valley. Then back east, skirting Moses Lake and across the dark distances to Spokane.
My main thought looking at this dark and abstracted map is that I love where I live.
From Railpictures. Photographer Blair Kooistra says of this photo:
While trains detoured around the south end of the lake via Union Paciifc’s former Western Pacific, Southern Pacific work crews valiantly regained the route across the Great Salt Lake foot by foot in the summer 1986 after storms and high water washed away the railroad. While work trains dumped “armor rock” and gravel from either end to restore the roadbed, it was earth movers and maintenance workers who raised the rock fill and brought the washed-away tracks back into alignment. On the western portion of the lake between Lakeside and Strongknob, a work crew contemplates their next move.
The study was done on land owned by Iowa State University called the Marsden Farm. On 22 acres of it, beginning in 2003, researchers set up three plots: one replicated the typical Midwestern cycle of planting corn one year and then soybeans the next, along with its routine mix of chemicals. On another, they planted a three-year cycle that included oats; the third plot added a four-year cycle and alfalfa. The longer rotations also integrated the raising of livestock, whose manure was used as fertilizer.
The results were stunning: The longer rotations produced better yields of both corn and soy, reduced the need for nitrogen fertilizer and herbicides by up to 88 percent, reduced the amounts of toxins in groundwater 200-fold and didn’t reduce profits by a single cent.
In short, there was only upside — and no downside at all — associated with the longer rotations. There was an increase in labor costs, but remember that profits were stable. So this is a matter of paying people for their knowledge and smart work instead of paying chemical companies for poisons. And it’s a high-stakes game; according to the Environmental Protection Agency, about five billion pounds of pesticidesare used each year in the United States.
Sneezing momma-to-be…
Where Finch sleeps, Palouse, WA.
Let them stand still for the bullet,
and stare the shooter in the eye,
let them die while the sound of the shot is in the air,
let them die as they fall,
let the jugular blood spring hot to the knife,
let its freshet be full,
let this day begin again the change of hogs into people,
not the other way around,
for today we celebrate again our lives’ wedding with the world,
for by our hunger, by this provisioning, we renew the bond.
“For the Hog Killing”, by Wendell Berry. Not wild about the poetry itself, but the sentiments behind it hit home for me; I’m keeping six hogs that I shall start slaughtering about seven weeks from now. From the just-posted interview, some of Berry’s commentary:
You see there was a whole system of practical acts that gathered in respect for the hog. In the culture that I grew up in, one of the firm laws of hog killing was never to make them squeal. If they squealed after you shot them, you had done a bad job. You had hurt them. Doing it well was an act of reverence—a practical, economic act—but at the same time, it was an act of reverence for the creation and for living things. You’re not going to find a big slaughterhouse with the ethical imperative, “don’t let them feel it.”
…
Bad emergent properties, bad surprises, on that scale are the result of cultural failure—the unwillingness, even the inability, to be a good neighbor to one’s neighbors. As I knew them, hog killings were accomplished by neighbors working together. And what those people understood perfectly—and I don’t think the religious connection was ever brought out in church—was that you knew if you loved your neighbor, you had to get out of your chair. If I sit here in my chair and I say, “neighbor, I love you,” what the hell difference does it make? You have to be able to help. And when you’re needed, you have to go.
The old ethic—our rule in work at home—was, “nobody is done till everybody is done.” And when it was tobacco harvest, you knew you were going to be there till you and all your neighbors were done. You were going to be working together; you were going to be sweating together. We didn’t go around talking piously about loving each other, but we did love each other. It’s like a football team: you’ve been through a lot together; you know each other’s motions. You look at the figure of your neighbor on the horizon at his work, and you recognize every gesture with this profound sympathy that you feel in your own flesh. You know what he’s going to do. This is as intimate as knowing how to dance together.
