BigOly
Senior Nomad
Posts: 522
Registered: 10-1-2010
Location: Los Barriles, Bandon
Member Is Offline
Mood: Easy Birder
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The match before owls
I was dripping sweat from everywhere I could. We had our hands and wrists clenched together, there is no givin' in. My opponent, one that has a
presence that sends NFL players running to mama for comfort, is using a new strategy and I need to stay focused. All I can see is blood-shot eyes
staring at me like steel bearings through a cloud of cigar smoke. Everyone knows, I can't take the smoke.
My name is Oly, yeah Big Oly and this is the last annual arm-wrestling contest between two opponents that goes back to somewhere in the 1970s. Me,
well, Big Oly is a nick-name that comes from my loggin' days in Blue River, Oregon. I had this big red beard, greasy long hair, worked hard and
wasn't especially smart. Most days, I rode my Harley Davidson '51 Pan Head motorcycle to the junction by four A.M. to join the crummy (kind of a
pick-up truck taxi) filled with mostly no-good log buckers and choker setters bruised and hungover from the night before. We worked mostly for jippo
logging outfits (under the table) and the boss didn't care what you looked like as long as you had caulked boots. Had to keep your jeans tore off just
barely below the boot tops so as not to trip and to help keep the friggin' ants out of your socks. Suspenders to hold you pants up. Loggers say no to
crack, (plumbers crack).
I had a reputation. I had been the town arm-wrestling champ in my weight division for two years. I felt like a hero when I rode into the parking lot
at Save-a-Way. Then along comes someone called Nasty. A card dealer from Myrtle Point some said would cause my downfall. Myrtle Point is a small
town up the other end of the valley where most everyone is related. In Myrtle Point, a man is a good catch if he has most of his teeth, few did.
Anyway, during our first match, a non-official contest one day after work, got my arm busted. I honored the wippin', declared in public at the BRT
(Blue River Tavern) that I had met my match, hung my head and left for good, mostly.
Ahhh the BRT... Our home away from home where, after work during the week and after dinner on Friday and Saturday nights the loggers and the hoedads
would drink beer and taunt each other into little steam-letting brawls. We loggers knew we were tough and thought Hoedads were girly hippies.
Hoedads thought we were stupid red-necks. Both lines of work were more than just a job. You had the weather. Rain, snow, hot or cold. You had the
black flies and hornets. Just imagine loggers and logging, sometimes even setting chokers to have logs carried away by helicopter . Hoedads planted
trees. In their defense I'll say they were strong people. I've watched them work on a quarter-section we had logged off. Carrying a hundred little
Douglas Firs seedlings, stuffed in cigar like tubes in a sling on their side, they'ed walk. Walk quickly straight up and down the mountain section,
swinging a hoedad (a kind of heavy hoe) to plant a tree with each stroke, spaced something like nine feet apart. One big swing of the hoedad, pull it
back when it sinks into the ground and stick the baby tree in the hole and stamp it in all in one motion. Doing this all day long or until the air
got too dry for the fragile baby trees to make it. Both jobs become an extreme lifestyle.
Nothing was the same in my life after losing my title. My arm was so badly broken I gave up logging, disgraced, sold my bike and got a job at a golf
course called Tokatee. I even gave up shooting Ring-necked Pheasants with my bow and began my walk up the road to photographing wildlife, especially
birds.
I kept my distance from Nasty. Drank at a c-cktail bar named the Cougar Room instead of the tavern where loggers came after work. Wore clean clothes
and kept my hair shampooed. It had probably been five years but one day, I guess for memories sake, I went back to the BRT. The beer tasted good and
I was feeling my oats, bragging to whoever would listen about the old arm-wrestlin' days when, you guessed it, in walks ole Nasty. I was told a while
back that Nasty had retired from the game. We eyed each other and before you know, our wrists are locked. Bartender hollers "take it outside". New
owners, new rules and out we go. Face to face, on the hood of a car, we lock wrists. We were both a little softer than we had been. After a minute
or so we made excuses to call the match a tie. Being a little sauced, we made a promise to meet again in a year and settle the matter. It's been like
that for over 30 years now. We still meet, still drink too many beers on the day of the match, declare a draw for some unsupportable reason.
This year things are different. No excuses accepted. A match to the end. Like I was saying, Nasty lit a cigar when the match started. We were
struggling fair and square until Nasty started chewing and swallowing the dog goned cigar! Blowing that gawd-awful smoke in my face! There was not
that much left of the stogy but it was going down. If I laugh I'll lose focus and likely the match. With the amber getting too close to her lips I
have to give. My wife, Nasty, had finally won! "All right, all right! I'm beat. I give. Anyway honey, Walter has some owls he's just achin' to
show us. Let's go birding".
Debbie, is fine looking woman. Beauty and integrity no one can compare. Of course she didn't break my arm in that first contest. During a match
break, I tripped on the way to the head and broke my wrist, bad enough. Plenty embarrassing! We got hitched back in '95. Black Jack dealing Nasty
lost that nick-name a long time ago. Except for some old friends, BigOly is just a moniker I use now. We sell canvas prints of our bird photos at
art fairs near our second home in Baja Sur, Mexico. We've also won several bird photography contests, even one or two on WhatBird.com. Dr. David
Goodfellow, the famous zoologist and owner of a publishing company from Great Britain, purchased one of our Xantus's Hummingbird images to use in his
soon-to-be-published "Hummingbirds of the World" book. We both contributed to our best selling book, "Birds We See" in Baja California Sur, Mexico.
Part of the profits from this book goes to support ovarian cancer research at M.D. Anderson University Cancer Center in Texas.
Debbie was diagnosed with ovarian cancer and given six months to live nine years ago. With that prognosis in mind, we pulled all the stops and
traveled much of the world to see and photograph birds. Her cancer will never be cured but we are thoroughly convinced that the joy of photographing
birds everywhere we travel has been the right medicine. Like arm-wrestling with me, she'll never give in to that cancer demon and for the love of
birds, we live on, together.
Late at night, when the moon is easing through our bedroom window, I might roll over and say "Debbie, do you hear that Cape Pygmy Owl callin'?". I
can see her smile in the filtered light while she softly whispers something nasty in my ear.
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Paulina
Ultra Nomad
Posts: 3810
Registered: 8-31-2002
Location: BCN
Member Is Offline
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Beautiful story. Thank you so much for sharing that with us. My dad worked in a logging camp in Oregon in the late 1950s. I liked reading your version
of the logging lifestyle as I don't remember much of my dad's stories. I only remember going on a family vacation when I was about 5. We went to the
camp, ate in the dining hall, there were big bear skins on the timber walls. The camp cook was like a mom to all the young men working there. I
remember how happy she was to see my dad again and his family.
You and Debbie are so lucky to have each other and this love of birds that you so generously share with us. Thank you again.
P>*)))>{
\"Well behaved women rarely make history.\" Laurel Thatcher Ulrich
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Keri
Super Nomad
Posts: 1393
Registered: 10-31-2002
Location: La Mision, Baja Norte
Member Is Offline
Mood: muy contento
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Great story, Love it,k
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Skeet/Loreto
Ultra Nomad
Posts: 4709
Registered: 9-2-2003
Member Is Offline
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Fantastic Story!!
Reminds me so much of when I "Set Chockers" when we were logging out for Dodge Ridge" in Calif. and then again Falling, Skidding, and loading and
hauling from Taos NM to Roswell Nm, What a life!!
God Bless you!!!
Skeet/Loreto
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jbcoug
Senior Nomad
Posts: 709
Registered: 9-24-2006
Location: Vancouver, WA
Member Is Offline
Mood: Needing Baja!
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Great story, thanks for sharing. There was a lot of life shared in that short piece!
John
\"The average dog is a nicer person than the average person.\" Andy Rooney
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wessongroup
Platinum Nomad
Posts: 21152
Registered: 8-9-2009
Location: Mission Viejo
Member Is Offline
Mood: Suicide Hot line ... please hold
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Thanks ... tough job ... with a nice ending 
Something we got in the mail today
http://www.nwf.org/News-and-Magazines/National-Wildlife/Phot...
[Edited on 11-19-2013 by wessongroup]
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shari
Select Nomad
Posts: 13047
Registered: 3-10-2006
Location: bahia asuncion, baja sur
Member Is Offline
Mood: there is no reality except the one contained within us "Herman Hesse"
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that was a magnificent story....just beautiful. Thank you so much for sharing it with us....you two deserve each other...what a team!
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DanO
Super Nomad
Posts: 1923
Registered: 8-26-2003
Location: Not far from the Pacific
Member Is Offline
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Great and inspiring story. Thanks.
\"Without deviation from the norm, progress is not possible.\" -- Frank Zappa
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