Meteorology of Kitsap County, Washington State: Technical Writing, graphs and illustrations

Field Journal and Final Report of Weather Observations:
MARCH 28 – MAY 26 2011 for BREMERTON, WASHINGTON

A term project for Meteorology 101 Spring 2011. The material was compiled by interpreting daily written and illustrated field journal observations of local weather phenomenon.

A few samples of the daily weather field journal (above):
____________________________________________________________________

FINAL REPORT:

Abstract:
This paper documents and interprets a study of weather events in Bremerton, Washington for the period including March 28 through May 26, 2011.
A history of temperature, precipitation, wind, barometric pressure, daylight hours and relative humidity were compiled through personal observation and recorded readings from established weather reporting sources. Graphic illustrations of data are included with interpretations.

FINAL REPORT SUMMARY 
LIMITATIONS of the STUDY 
OVERALL TRENDS 
INTERPRETATIONS:
    DAILY TEMPERATURES and CLOUDCOVER
    RELATIVE HUMIDITY and WINDSPEED
    HUMIDITY and BAROMETRIC PRESSURE 
    RELATIVE HUMIDITY and PRECIPITATION 
    BAROMETRIC PRESSURE and PRECIPITATION 
    WIND-SPEED and ACCUMULATED DAILY RAINFALL 
    WIND DIRECTION 
CONCLUSION 
DATA TABLE INDEX 
SOURCES 
__________________________________________________________________________________

FINAL REPORT SUMMARY:
During the term I recorded daily of weather observations, detailing high and low temperatures, barometric pressure, relative humidity, total daylight hours, daily precipitation, wind speeds and future predictions, using eyewitness reports and published information from an established weather reporting service. These were compiled in a journal, and accompanied by illustrations, detailed written observations and photographs taken at the time the observations were made (Fern: 2011). I used the Weather Underground reporting service for my information, excluding 3 days when the service had incomplete readings; for these days I used the
Bremerton Kitsap Sun newspaper’s published weather reports and predictions. After completing nine weeks of observations, I compiled the figures into pertinent graphs and tables. In some cases I saw patterns of relation between separate charts; I combined these into comparative graphs to help determine if relationships exist. 

LIMITATIONS:
The values for humidity, wind speed and barometric pressure are from single readings only, while the precipitation, temperature and daylight hour values are calculated over a 24 hour period. Because of this, drawing definite conclusions when compiling and comparing these values will likely give an inaccurate view. Variables such as taking readings at varying times of day, or taking readings after sunset most likely influenced my results in a different direction from  someone who took their readings every day at 12:30 pm, especially the wind and humidity readings. This makes the conclusions I draw regarding rainfall and humidity or rainfall and barometric pressure less conclusive than I would prefer.
There is also one day of extraordinarily high rainfall, March 30, which makes the other events in that graph seem disproportionally small. I have not made a series of graphs that exclude that day to see if other patterns emerge. The highest wind reading is also from that day, but is in better proportion with its graph.
Finally, the arbitrary system I devised for rating cloud-cover may be constructed in a way that someone else would not choose to do.

fig 1

fig 2

fig 3

fig 4

fig 5

fig 6

                                 
OVERALL TRENDS:
Barometric pressure (figure 1) and relative humidity (figure 2) both showed an overall decreasing trend for the period of the study, as did daily precipitation amounts (figure 3) and wind speeds (figure 4), while the total daylight hours (figure 5) showed a steady increase of approximately 3 ½ minutes a day. The daily low and high temperatures (figure 6) showed an overall increasing temperature trend for both daily measurements, as well as an increasing difference between the daily lows and highs.                                                                                                                                   

INTERPRETATIONS:

            

                          

DAILY TEMPERATURE FLUCTUATIONS and CLOUD-COVER:
I wondered if the increasing difference between daily low and high temperatures was related to something more than increasing daylight hours. By combining information from my drawings, descriptions, and the predicted chance of precipitation for that day’s weather forecast, I devised a rating system for the degree of overcast skies, and graphed this data.
The method I used to rate the amount of overcast skies was such that if my drawings and daily observations indicated cirrus or no clouds and the prediction for rain was 0-30%, I rated this day as a zero. If cirrus, altostratus and cumulus combinations were indicated with a rating up to 60% chance of rain, I rated this day as a one. If cumulus congestus, cumulonimbus or nimbostratus were described along with rain or low visibility, and a 60% chance of rain or greater, I rated this day as a two.
In most points on the graph, a low cloud-cover rating of zero coincides with a higher daily temperature difference. This shows that radiant heat from the earth was dissipating at night more quickly when no cloud cover existed, and is also a demonstration of the insulating properties of the clouds, when they are present in days with a one or two rating. Because this system is somewhat anecdotal I would like to establish a better way of defining its grading system for future record keeping.                                      

RELATIVE HUMIDITY and WINDSPEED:
This graph shows a fairly random pattern. Although several spikes coincide, there are just as many instances where they do not. In some cases, a high humidity coincides with a zero wind-speed, or a low humidity with a high wind-speed; in others, a spike in humidity occurs after several days of still air; in still others, a coinciding rise of both is followed by a plunging wind-speed, and then a dropping humidity. These all seem to explain valid reasons for the data, but still do not show a discernable pattern; in the future, I would like to take at least one day and one night reading each 24 hour period, in hopes to correct for not taking my readings at the same time every day.       
                                                                                                      





HUMIDITY and BAROMETRIC PRESSURE:
This graph appears to have the most pronounced reflexive readings of all the combined graphs. Almost without exception, a rise in pressure occurs with a drop in humidity throughout the study period; in the cases where this is not apparent, the relative rise and fall in preceding and following points establish the relative pattern.

                                                                                                                                                                            
                   

                                  
RELATIVE HUMIDITY and PRECIPITATION:
This graph shows a direct relationship between the two. On March 30 the highest daily rainfall of the study is preceded by an increase in humidity although the recorded rain fall for that day is less than the preceding day; March 31 has very little rain by comparison, but the humidity continues to rise because of the saturated ground, as well as the increase in temperature, which raises the dew-point. April 1 brings more rain than the day before, and the humidity rises again, only dropping a day after the rain has subsided. This is an established pattern throughout the study. The humidity rises in advance of rain and drops at a lag rate after the rain has stopped. In periods of little rain, like April15^th through April 23^rd, or April 29^th through May 10^th, I was surprised to see the fluctuations in humidity. After comparing with the cloud-cover graph, I can see a reflexive pattern between the two. This helps make sense of the humidity variances during times of little rain, and also explains the presence of cumulus build-up.
Another comparison between the Relative Humidity & Precipitation (table IX), and Daily Temperature Fluctuations & Cloudcover graphs show an interesting series from April 23^rd -25^th. On the 23^rd there is no precipitation, the humidity is 28%, and the change in temperature is 36 degrees, from a low of 32^o to a high of 68^o. The 24^th, the humidity spikes to 94% after the day’s high temperature drops to 50^o, the difference between temperatures shrinks, and it rains about a fifth of an inch.

                                                                                
BAROMETRIC PRESSURE and PRECIPITATION:
In almost every point on this graph, the pressure and precipitation are reflexive, much like the combination graph of humidity and barometric pressure. In some cases the pressure and precipitation appear to deviate from the reflexive pattern, but if the two lines are interpreted independently and in context of their medians, the two graphs still react in opposite directions. This graph shows that when the barometric pressure rises, the amount of precipitation drops. When the barometric pressure is in a high trend, there is little or no rain. In the period from April 13^th through April 23^rd there is relatively little rainfall, but several spikes in barometric pressure. Upon closer examination, the spikes in pressure are in sync with variances in rainfall; this pattern is not apparent at first because of the high volume of precipitation on March 30^th minimizes  the chart’s pattern for the rest of the study.                                                                                                                                                                                            

             

WIND-SPEED and ACCUMULATED DAILY RAINFALL:
There is a definite trend throughout the study period between wind and rainfall. In many examples, the events are concurrent, showing a storm event; in the remainder, a rise in wind-speed precedes a spike in rainfall, indicating an advancing front.

                                                                                                  
WIND DIRECTION:
The winds overwhelmingly occurred from a southerly direction during the study.
The dates where the winds were not from the south were:

April 6-7^th had north winds, a drop in pressure and measurable rain;
April 11^th had easterly winds, zero rainfall and a spike in barometric pressure; 
April 20-22^nd showed winds from west to east and to north, with a low-high-sinking pressure pattern, and trace amounts of rain;
May 3-4^th had north winds, strongly rising barometric pressure, and trace rains;
May 14^th had westerly winds, dramatically dropping pressure and a spike in rainfall;
May 17^th had north winds, a temporary drop in barometric pressure, and zero rainfall (Fern 2011).


From this information I can only conclude that a variation from the normal wind direction indicates change is
coming, but a definite pattern of associated weather phenomena and wind direction is not conclusive. This is an area that needs a longer study period to establish if a pattern exists.


CONCLUSION: I learned several unexpected things in the course of this project. I was surprised to find that, although this has been an especially cool and seemingly wet spring, the amount of accumulated rainfall each day was much less than I expected it to be.  In the midst of the daily grind of keeping the weather journal I was unaware of the connections that I had documented; I can now see these after compiling and writing this report. In looking back through the nine weeks of observations I can also see an increasing understanding of the causes and effects of what I was documenting; this was surprising to me because at times I felt as though I wasn’t making progress in learning the concepts and terms taught in this class, because I hadn’t stepped back and regarded the journal as a whole until this time. Finally, in undertaking this project, I was reminded how challenging, habit-forming and rewarding an experience record keeping can be. After completing this course, I will pay closer attention to what is happening in this region’s weather, now that I have a better understanding of what I see.

SOURCES:

Fern, Anna K. (2011) Daily weather observations journal

Kitsap Sun (2011) Bremerton newspaper, May 12 and 13, 2011

Weather Underground, The (2011) online weather reporting from APRS weathernet , east of Pendergast Park, Bremerton Washington. http://wunderground.com

n: Ethnography, Creative Writing & Illustration

A book originally compiled as a term project for the Life On The Edge learning community program
in Geography, Chemistry and Biology taught by Dr. Digby, Ms. Geyer and Dr. Seavey in  the Spring Quarter of 2010, Olympic College.
The illustrations are mostly pastel on paper; along with the written pieces they were inspired by the field research durting the course.

This is a collection of images based on people, places, things and concepts met while
visiting locations throughout Washington State for ten weeks in the spring of 2010.

I found the concept of mental mapping intriguing, and wished to apply it to portraits
as a theme for this book. Each insight shows the process from the inception sketches
from my field journal to the finished product. I have also included writings: some
descriptive, most fictional and all reflective.

My thanks to Dr. Susan Digby, Ms. Cameon Geyer and Dr. Don Seavy for their
amazing enthusiasm at their crafts; for their humor and patience; and for their
exhaustive knowledge on all things that fly, grow, reproduce, move, effect, swim,
smell, see, taste, hear, touch, work, change, and have a story to tell in the Pacific
Northwest; and a very special thanks to each and every other person from the
Life on the Edge project, without whom these insights would not have come to be.

The following insights are presented in the order that they were conceived:

1. Eagle Scout -

Nisqually National Wildlife Refuge, WA

Gary Lucas was a friendly stranger.

It was early afternoon; the rain was inevitable, but still a ways off, and the wind whipped up
off the saltwater, bringing a fresh bite to my cheeks.
I was looking across the valley, trying to spot the herons, when from the side of my eye, I saw
a man with a camera to his face. He held it up to his eye, looking through the viewer, using
real film, and I smiled at this. He struck up a conversation, somewhat with me and
somewhat with himself, about the eagles and the geese. The geese, it seems, didn’t care for
the eagles, and the eagles did not care for the geese. He looked at me and smiled an easy,
open smile, unabashedly friendly.

He told me he had seen an aerial battle between the geese and the eagles recently. Asking if I
would like to look at his photos, he sidestepped swiftly to the cab of his truck. I couldn’t help
but notice that he was well over 6 feet tall. He stood erect and moved with ease, although his
manner told me he was in his late seventies. His hands were large and had seen the labor of
splitting firewood for most of his years. His complexion was the most amazingly clear, cream
porcelain, especially for a man who scrubbed and shaved his face and neck early every
morning without fail; his skin was practically perfect in every way, all but for a small red
mark on his right cheekbone.

He brought back 3 shiny folios from the drugstore photo-shop, spilling with color
photographs and negatives, and splayed them across the hood of his pickup. As he leafed
through shot after shot of geese, eagles and killdeers, all from at the Nisqually Game
Preserve, he chatted on about the day he had taken this picture, or that picture, and about
the people he remembered talking to on that particular day. I wondered if, when the pictures
shot today were shown to another stranger, would I then become part of his story?
He was fond of the geese, and enjoyed photographing them often, but his passion was for the
eagle. The story unfolded of the day that he had witnessed an eagle attacking a goose in midair,
and how the birds had swooped, and dived, and chased, screaming and honking. As
Gary told me the tale of the eagle and the goose, I realized I was not just hearing a story
about the eagle’s aerial assault; I was hearing a story about Gary.

When I told Gary that I was with a student group, he began speaking enthusiastically about
salmon. Would my class like to see a salmon hatchery? Today? He proudly pulled from his
pocket a small notepad, filled with names, numbers, and business cards, bound with a
rubber band. He passed along the name of the director for the fish hatchery, instructing me
to call right away. I could see the plan simultaneously hatching within him, and the words
came quicker. He would drive his truck to the hatchery, and we would follow him there, and
he would be our Scout.

The wind was colder, and stronger now, and I headed for the bus to see if there was any
interest in this side-trip. There was; but after a short conversation between the hatchery
director and Dr. Seavy, clearly today was not to be the day for a visit. I made my way back to
the truck, where Gary waited. I thanked him for his kindnesses, and I felt a little sad to tell
him he wouldn’t be our scout that day. He was disappointed, but smiled a kind smile, and we
said our goodbyes as he opened up the sky, letting loose full force – full-sized hard nails of
rain that came in sideways under my hood, into my ear.

2. Smooth Style –

Pioneer Square, Seattle, WA

We were standing at the light, waiting to cross the busy arterial, when the
 man who had sauntered up to my left began to speak. At first word, I knew he
wasn’t asking directions, or flattering us, and after a few words, I figured he
would bum a smoke. But after a few sentences, I knew this was way too much
preamble for a simple cigarette. I knew it would be money. Damn.

He told his tale of hard times, living on the street for two weeks, and he hadn’t
slept for days. It was a line, and a bad one. It was bad because his skin had a
healthy glow, no dryness from dehydration, no roughness from lack of shaving,
no puffiness or circles beneath his eyes. And his eyes: he held my gaze directly,
with no shame or awkwardness. In fact, he seemed surely amused, as if he
knew that I knew that he knew it was a line.

He told his line like a player, the player that moves down the bar of the club
until some gal lets him buy her a drink, only this cash flow was in the other
direction. I was impressed with his… audacity is almost too strong a word. His
pores were clear, his clothes showed no signs of going unlaundered, his teeth
were clean, I could smell no strong scent of unwashed person. He was confident
in the telling of his story. It was less of a plea for help than an obligatory
introduction.

As my friend was starting a story of her own, a story that ends with him getting
lost, I couldn’t help but to fish into my pocket, because, well, I believe in
supporting the Arts, and his performance was wonderful, even if his costume
was all wrong. I remembered that I had slipped a few bills into my front pocket
after lunch, and pulled them forth.

I looked down, and cussed myself for folding my bills so haphazardly. There
were three ones, and a five, with the five on the outside. “That five will do me
just fine,” Shameless said with a sly smile. I smirked inwardly and peeled it off,
slipping it into his palm.

My friend was near speechless with disbelief that I had paid his fee.
The light changed, and he crossed the street, striding easily ahead of us. His
walk was free of any outward display of lack of confidence, or remorse about his
choices. He was business.

And as he pulled ahead of us, my eyes were drawn down to the hem of his
jeans, the edge frayed to show bright white threads, cleanly dusting his steps
behind him.

What can I say? I liked his style.

3. Live Tonight –

Crescent Beach, WA

He toed the back door ajar, and then pulled it towards him with the back of his calf,

finally swinging it open wide, letting the late afternoon sun spill on the old worn plank floor.
A few daytime drunks turned to face the day’s intrusion, shielding their eyes with forearms,
grimacing at the glare before facing back to the bar to pull again at the longnecks beading
up with condensation.

“Good morning, young lady,” he called to Judy, still pretty after the birth of her grandkids.
“And good morning to you, rock star,” Judy answered as she turned back to the well, his
bottle in one hand, and a rocks glass in the other. She thrust the glass into the ice, twisted
it twice to clean it, pulled it up, eyed it for lipstick, and sat it on the bar mat. She poured to the
rim, and pushed it forward.

“How was last night, Judy?” Chuck asked as he brought the shot to his lips, inhaled, tipped
it back, and sat the glass back on the mat, exhaling slowly as the burn spread pleasantly.

“Good, good… we had a bunch kids come in, real amateur night, you know,” and they both
let out a short laugh as she topped him off.

“Wanna set up, hon?” she asked, already reaching for the pitcher.

“Sure, that’d be great,” he smiled.

“I’ll bring it up to ya,”

“You’re the best, babe,” he called over his shoulder.

“You know it,” she called back, smiling as she topped off his pitcher of soda with a twist, a
scoop of ice, and a straw.

He straightened as well as he could, and carried his guitar case and gig bag to the stage at

the head of the house. Too many years of loading his own gear, and that last time he laid
down the bike before he finally gave up riding had given him a certain stoop between the
shoulder blades. He sighed inwardly, seeing the broken guitar strings and cigarette butts
on the stage. Amateur night indeed.

He squatted to the floor, knees popping, and opened the case. Ah, sweet guitar. The best
thing he ever bought, and the final straw for wife number three. He shook his head, half
smiling. Women come and go, but good gear is forever. As he lifted her carefully from the
velveteen interior that smelled of old cigarette smoke, leather, beer and sweat, he slipped
his glasses into the case and snapped it shut. No need for these damned things. He hated
wearing them; they made his eyes look small, and rode funny on the bridge of his nose. He
straightened back up, one hand on the barstool, his guitar in the other, and caught his
reflection in a Budweiser mirror. Good god, when did he get so old?
You should be grateful, he scolded himself. Most guys your age are fat, or bald, or both.
And he had a great head of hair, still, and he wore it long.
The boss gave him a hard time for it, but to hell with that bald cuss.

“Here ya go, babe,” Judy deftly turned aside to avoid the head of his guitar as he turned
around. Dammit, he didn’t hear her come up behind him; too many years in front of the
amp. She sat the pitcher on the side table, along with another shot and an ashtray.

“You’re too good to me,” he smiled as she slipped a smoke from behind her ear and laid it
along side the drinks.

“You know it,” she called back over her shoulder as she returned to
the bar.

4. Ocean Calling –

Crescent Beach and Port Madison, WA

What makes home, home? Is it heart, is it longing, or is it merely

familiarity? I want to love the beach, the salty water, the briny air, boats. It’s not that I
don’t like it, it’s nice and all. I just don’t love it, and I feel like I should. It seems,
well, somehow normal.

I’ve surely been around it enough to be comfortable with it. I’ve lived within a
short walk of salt water ever since moving to Western Washington years ago.
Really, where can one go in Western Washington and not be within a stone’s
throw of the ocean, the Sound, the Canal, or a tributary moving in that
direction?

There are people who get where they need to be when they can feel the wet sand
compress beneath their feet. What would this be like, I wonder, to feel the pull
of the sea? What is it for some people who are drawn to take off their shoes, or
disrobe and swim, anytime they are next to the ocean, or a lake or a river?

Is it because of where we are born, or how we spent our first years that make
us a water lover or merely water indifferent? Is it because I spent my first years
in the desert that I only feel truly right when I can see for miles across the flat
expanses, or smell the tang of sages?

I can surely appreciate the vitality and necessity of waters. The shoreline is as
beautiful as it is varied in Washington: ocean beaches of sand, stone, rocks,
and high cliffs; the great fjord of Hood Canal, with mud flats, inlets, incredibly
varied sea life; Puget Sound’s waterways of migration, commerce and
transportation; the Strait of Juan de Fuca, the Ports of Tacoma, Seattle,

Olympia, Port Angeles and the ties to the rest of the world; the Columbia River’s
massive might. And then there are the lakes, rivers, streams and springs that
play their part in making Washington truly the Evergreen State.

Can passion be created or destroyed, or does it merely change forms? Is it
enough to appreciate, respect, and understand water – can this serve as my
kind of love?

5. What I keep Collage – Life on the Edge Field Journal 2010

clockwise from top left:

Klondike Gold Rush, Pioneer Square; Lunchtime, Guillemot Cove; Basalt Chimney, Columbia National Wildlife Refuge; Battery Mitchell, Manchester State Park; Torpedo Storehouse, Manchester State Park;

Home is where you are buried, & God is in Control, Sequim and Crescent Beach; Jane, Bonneville Dam;
Basalt Columns, Columbia National Wildlife Refuge. center: What I keep, Life on the Edge.

6. Fish Maker –

Port Madison-Suquamish, WA

Find something that you love doing and you’ll never work a day in your life.

Perhaps. But more importantly, find people that you love working with, and
you’ll like it even better.

Or, find an environment filled with beauty and ever-changing wonder, doing
something you enjoy, with people who share your respect and affection for the
land, and you will smile everyday.

He could have chosen to work for the state, or a federal agency, or even for a
private corporation, making more money, but Paul Dorn chose to work for the
tribal fishery. Of course, there was a benefits package as part of his
compensation. Most people would be reticent to even mention their means, but
he spoke freely about it, as he did about most everything.

The job itself seemed interesting enough, and with duties that varied day to
day, season to season. But the most remarkable thing about Paul and his coworkers
was the sense of peace that exuded from them all, as if they were
walking with their god in their day to day labors. So many smiles, and the
overall calm strength. Surely, the human resources for the tribe hadn’t hired all
of them this way? What was it about the work that nurtured this community?

It could have been the environment in which they performed their labors: the
constant and ever-hanging shore at the spit, or the humid calm of the old
growth at Cowling Creek, or the act of nurturing the baby fish.

Always somehow, having time to recognize the marvelous environment in which
they work and exist.

Always hopeful, always believing in the future.

After all, to garden or to farm is to believe in the future. And to raise children or
animal stock is the manifestation of the same hope. Surely, the compensation
received by the team at the Port Madison Hatcheries is the richest of any to be
found.

7. Claddagh at Morgan Lake –

Columbia National Wildlife Refuge, WA

There was once a young lad who lived in a seaside village, and who loved a

young girl who lived there. Although they were young, they were very much in
love.

One day the boy was kidnapped by slave-trading pirates and taken to a far
away land, where he came to be sold to a goldsmith, who lived with his wife.

The goldsmith was not a bad man in general; the keeping of slaves was in his
time and place considered normal, and a sound business practice as well. The
goldsmith began training the boy in the metal arts; and being bright and skilled
with his hands, the youth took to it very well. The smith did not treat the lad
poorly, and the lad did his very best to work hard for the smith.

Although he had adjusted to his lot, the lad never accepted it as fate, and
always dreamed of returning to his home and spending the rest of his days with
his one true love. He spent his idle time designing the ring that he would give to
his lady one day upon his return. The design had a central heart, to symbolize
his undying love; above the heart was a crown, to show his loyalty to the fair
lady, and on either side of the heart, two hands reaching in to hold the heart,
showing the unbroken bond of their friendship. Surely, when he presented this
ring to his true love, she would know how he had never lost hope that they
would reunite, and she would be his betrothed.

Bit by bit he began saving pennies with which to craft the ring, and buy his
freedom to return back home.

Years went by, and the young man was now the best and brightest goldsmith’s
worker in all the land. The old goldsmith had a great affection for the young
man, and thought of him more as an apprenticing son, than as a slave. When
the master questioned his slave about the design he had made, the young man
told him of his true love and the ring he wished to present to her upon his
return home. The old man was so moved by the telling of the tale, that he
demanded the young man to craft the ring, and that the younger allow the
master to assist in the making.

After the two men completed the ring, they were both moved by its beauty, and
all that it symbolized of love, faith and loyalty. The goldsmith gave the young
man his freedom, paid his safe passage back home on the next ship, and gave
him a small purse of coins to begin his new life.

When the man came back to his childhood home, he found that the girl had
become a beautiful and kind woman, and that she had never married.

Secretly, she thought he would never return, but she never did tell him that.
They both had changed so much during the years that he had been away, but
she did her best to adjust, and never complained about it.

8. Petroglyphs & Public Art –

Horsethief Lake, WA

What is the difference between graffiti and petroglyphs?A few thousand years, perhaps.
Were the paintings at the Columbia River Gorge religious in nature?
Were they a diary, or a warning, or musings?
Did the person who painted hold a revered place in the societal group?
Surely, it wasn’t a misbehaver, a daredevil who painted these, or was it?

Were they all painted by one person, or one family, or one particular group
within the community? How long did painting go on; was it for years, or
centuries? Was it randomly performed by different societies, over a long period
of time, even?

I would think the paintings were important to those who knew the paintings
from the time they were painted, since they were preserved, not defaced, not at
least until they were buried beneath the progress of the dams. Perhaps part of
the treasure is the thoughts that are provoked by a remnant of lives beyond
history.

And why, today, if one were to paint animals or musings on these rocks, would
it be not only destructive, but sacrilegious? What makes one inscription worthy
and another not? Once a place is holy, is it wrong to add to the offerings?

We know there are places on Earth that have always been holy, no matter who
inhabited the area, no matter how the people worshipped. What, then, if there
are inherently spiritual places? Does the writing or decoration of anyone at
anytime make those places less holy? Surely, a place that is holy becomes no
less holy simply by the actions of people.

Is the difference between good and bad simply intent?
At what point does defacement become a treasured artifact? I really don’t have
the answer to that. One may as well debate what is good art and what is bad
art. It all comes down to opinion, even after all the words.

9. Kitteridge Homestead –

Queets River, Olympic National Park, WA

The two big sycamores stood sentry at either corner of the front porch at
Grandma’s house. At seven, I would stand under their relative coolness,
begging for the hot breeze to stir up the red dust of the road and cool me
temporarily. I would lay my fingertips on their bark, perching barefoot atop the
bumpy roots that bulged from the clay, and slide down to feel the silty soil
between my toes, always wary of the fire-ants that could be anywhere. In the
early evening cicadas would whirr incessantly, just like the alien ships in
War of the Worlds.

She liked to tell the story of how her daddy had brought back those two

seedlings one day, and she and her sister Sybil had carried water every day up
from the creek to keep them alive until they were strong enough to survive on
their own.

She also liked to tell the tale of the time she had shot the neighbor dog after it
had gotten into the turkeys one year, and she had buried the carcass under the
flagstone at the foot of that porch. Days later, the neighbor had come around
looking for his dog, and had stood on that very flagstone, looking up at

Grandma behind the screen door, wiping her hands on her apron. “Haven’t seen
that dog of yours for days,” she had answered, looking him in the eye, seeing
her answer sink in as he thanked her, tipped his hat and went on home.

Mom told us of the tin soldiers that Uncle Bill had played war games with
beneath those sycamore trees. He would orchestrate battles, complete with
casualties, and hold military funerals for his soldiers, burying them at the feet
of those trees. We would pour over the front yard as children with Grandma’s
metal detector, hoping for a tiny soldier grave, or an old “V” nickel. We never did
find souvenirs of that sort; just like we never did find the cache of Spanish
silver that was said to be somewhere out near the Macbride fence line.

Legend had it that the old padres had left the Old Spanish Road and followed

Camp Creek in their doomed attempt to escape the wrath of hostile Comanches.
They had ditched two mule loads of Spanish silver near a flood wash on the
edge of her property, marking the spot with a long gun, in hopes of returning to
the treasure, but never did. Old Man Macbride had once turned up an old
musket stock as he plowed his field, but no other signs were ever found.

Perhaps that load of silver ended up as concho belts somewhere, which seems

right, anyway. Even if that loot didn’t make it back to where it was stolen, I like
to think there is a chance that it was made into a gun-belt for Poncho Villa.
When anyone who ever heard the old stories is gone, and the telling is long
forgotten, will those sycamores still seem as rich and full of history?

The trees will remain, giving their shade to the cicadas, guarding the tombs of
fallen dogs and soldiers.

Perhaps that is enough.