Tag Archives: Darrington

4 Ways Journaling Heals

With the first anniversary of the Highway 530 Mudslide looming ever closer, emotions are intense.

Words are powerful and can help us deal with emotions. This is why keeping a journal can be a healing process. By writing down the feelings we are experiencing, we can begin to deal with them rather than allowing them to eat away at us on the inside.

This can be especially true of grief. In your journal:

Write a story about the person you lost
Describe a happy memory with that person
Write a conversation you wish you could have with that person. Try to include what you think they would tell you
Describe your feelings
List two ways you can honor the memory of your loved one

Another way journaling can help us heal is to reduce negative self-talk, increase positive self-talk and help us recognize achievements.

Write down the negative self-talk. (ie: I’m not pretty enough, I’m not smart enough, and so on)
Now write down five positive things about yourself ( ie: I’m a good person, I help others, I do my job well, Yesterday I phoned my parents because they like hearing from me, I like my hair (or whatever physical attribute you think is positive) and so on.
Write down two ways you will use to improve yourself. Make these very specific and have a deadline for implementing or achieving. Do not use such things as I will lose ten pounds this month. Instead list it like this: I will make three healthy dinners this week. I will not eat bread for five days. I will read one book every month.
On a clean page, at the end of the deadline, write down what you achieved, why you didn’t achieve the entire goal and how you intend to approach it now. BE SURE to INCLUDE ANY progress toward your goal, such as: I fixed two healthy dinners this week. I failed to schedule in enough time to fix the third dinner. This week I will write up my menu for three healthy dinners, go shopping for the ingredients at least the day before the dinner, and I will put the dinners on my daily schedule.

Memories capture moments in our hearts. By briefly recalling a memory, we can help heal ourselves. When you journal, you can capture your impression of the moment. The way your heart lifted when you watched the sunset; the way the brownie your sister made melted on your tongue; the sweet chocolate taste that flooded your mouth; or the warmth you felt when your spouse embraced you. Life can be rough at times and being able to return to a journal, leaf through it and recall these moments in poignant detail has the ability to pull our souls up from the darkest times, if only for a moment. Just remember:

Journaling helps in the healing process.

We can capture a moment in time; how we saw and felt at that moment
We can release negative emotions in a healthy manner and brainstorm better ways to handle situations
We can increase positive emotions on a daily basis or whenever we need to
We can accept our grief, validate our feeling of grief, and begin the process of healing.

One last word: I am NOT a psychiatrist, psychologist, therapist, medical doctor or other professional helper. This article is NOT medical advice or even professional advice. I am an author and have found ways to use writing to deal with emotion.

If you are feeling angry, depressed, unable to motivate, suicidal, or any strong negative emotion that lingers, PLEASE contact a professional. Depression is a common illness. It appears in many disguises such as a shortness of temper, a feeling of not wanting to get out of bed, a feeling that life isn’t worth it, not having an appetite, wanting to sleep a lot. It comes to all of us, just like the flu, at various times in our lives. It is a normal feeling, just like when a cold attacks you. However if it won’t go away, just like if that cold or flu lingers, you need professional help to rid yourself of the illness. DO NOT hesitate.

One of my favorite actors was Robyn Williams. But, Robyn Williams was unable to seek help to get through a particularly rough spot in his life, and a bright light left our world with his suicide. Do not remove your bright light. Believe me, you DESERVE help, even if you don’t think so right now.

Are you depressed?

If you identify with several of the following signs and symptoms, and they just won’t go away, you may be suffering from clinical depression.

you can’t sleep or you sleep too much
you can’t concentrate or find that previously easy tasks are now difficult
you feel hopeless and helpless
you can’t control your negative thoughts, no matter how much you try
you have lost your appetite or you can’t stop eating
you are much more irritable, short-tempered, or aggressive than usual
you’re consuming more alcohol than normal or engaging in other reckless behavior
you have thoughts that life is not worth living (seek help immediately if this is the case)

To read more about depression: http://www.theguardian.com/science/brain-flapping/2014/aug/12/robin-williams-suicide-and-depression-are-not-selfish

4 IMPORTANT LESSONS

5 GREAT THINGS HAPPENING!

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Each day I try to find things to celebrate in my life. On some days that is easier to do than on other days. Recently, I have been blessed with a serendipitous turn of events. 5 GREAT things are happening in my life. I wanted to share them with you.

August 27, 6-7:30 P.M., at Tony’s Books and Coffee in Darrington, Washington, I am the featured author for this month for Darrington Library’s Summer of Authors. I am very honored to be part of this wonderful program to showcase local authors. A drawing will be held at the end of the evening for a signed print copy of Run or Die, my newest mystery. Participants will also receive a print copy of an original short story as a thank-you for coming. http://www.amazon.com/Run-Die-Aya-Walksfar-ebook/dp/B00KV8BK5A
Sketch of a Murder, Book 1, Special Crimes Team, is available as an audiobook! It can be purchased on Audible or Amazon. I was fortunate to have a wonderful narrator, Kathi Miles, for the production of this murder mystery. Watch this blog for a chance to win a FREE copy of the audiobook Sketch of a Murder. More information on that in an upcoming blog! http://www.amazon.com/Sketch-Murder-Special-Crimes-Team-ebook/dp/B00KU6AIPQ
Street Harvest, Book 2, Special Crimes Team, is going into audiobook production! Will keep you up-to-date via this blog! Meanwhile, the ebook is available on Amazon. http://www.amazon.com/Street-Harvest-Aya-Walksfar-ebook/dp/B00KVREDIC
Old Woman Gone, Book 3, Special Crimes Team, is due out this Fall!
Met with Beth Jusino, Marketing Consultant. This knowledgeable woman set up a feasible marketing strategy for me. It is always a pleasure to work with Beth. She recently published The Author’s Guide to Marketing. GREAT book! Check out Beth’s blog: http://bethjusino.com

What wonderful things are happening in your life? Would love to hear!

Don’t miss future posts! CLICK and FOLLOW!

Visit Aya at http://www.facebook.com/ayawalksfar

THE RETURN

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THE RETURN

Time moves on, sometimes far too quickly. I left Hidden Springs Campground and meandered north on Highway 101.

I swung off my course long enough to visit Ferndale once again, enjoy the old buildings and hit the Ferndale Pie Company. They advertised “Great homemade pies topped with Humboldt Creamery Ice Cream”. The mixed berry pie and vanilla ice cream lived up to the hype and I grabbed one of their “small brownies”–read large enough to feed half of Darrington!–and hit the road.

That evening I camped in a small campground a couple of miles south of Orick, California. When I rode in, it looked like the proverbial cheap sites place, probably with limited hot water that ran red from old pipes. Couldn’t have been more wrong about the showers, or the place. Within yards of my campsite, a Roosevelt Elk calf lay in the grass while mom grazed in the field.

The next day dawned with clear skies and I hopped my bike, anxious to ride. Somewhere breakfast called my name. Just inside the southern boundaries of Orick an old motel and restaurant squatted beside Highway 101. Since the town was so small, choices were limited so I parked and walked into what appeared to be a run-of-the-mill greasy spoon–emphasis on greasy spoon.

I headed for the far corner and sank into the chair. The Palm Cafe served eggs done to perfection, the waffle browned and sporting luscious red strawberries, the bacon crisp, the sausage gravy and biscuit to die for. I washed it all down with coffee black, hot, and wonderful.

The 88 year-old woman who owned the restaurant came in every morning to bake fresh pies from scratch. Being told that, I had to try a piece though I wondered how I’d move, much less get up on a horse! The strawberry cream pie melted in my mouth and made me forget all about how many calories it had.

I sucked down some more coffee then headed off for my horseback ride. The brochure of The Redwood Creek Buckarettes hooked me with the siren call of “ride among ancient redwoods”. As soon as I saw the big beasts, I recalled that a horsewoman I was not and wandered if maybe I should’ve plugged my ears.

The woman guide grinned at me and pride wouldn’t let me walk away. She walked a red quarter horse over to the mounting block. I dragged myself onto the saddle. Jade was so broad I felt like I was doing the splits. I’d never been that athletic!

Still, once we got moving–just me and the guide–the rocking motion of Jade put my mind at ease and let my eyes wander. The path ran straight beside a small river then began a gentle climb up the hill. Within minutes the climb steepened and the trees closed off the modern world.

The trail meandered into the National Redwood Forest through a stand of old growth redwoods that had escaped mankind’s rapacious greed. Silence broken only by an occasional bird call wrapped around my soul. Two hours later, we emerged at the base of the hill and on back to the rodeo grounds from where we’d left.

I slid off Jade and walked bowlegged over to my bike.

That night as I listened to the lapping of the waves against the shore, I swallowed down Ibuprophen, yet couldn’t stop smiling at the memories of the horse’s rocking motion, the quiet, and the ancient trees. That night I dreamed of redwoods and horses.

I awoke to the chill of a Crescent City morning with harbor seals barking on a rock just offshore. I listened until the fog rolled the rest of the way off the water and the seals barking had died away. The Apple Peddler Restaurant lay a few miles south of my position, the opposite direction of my travel, but I remembered their mouthwatering food and strong hot coffee. What’s a few miles? After breakfast, I followed Highway 101 along the Pacific Ocean and on up to Oregon.

That afternoon, I rode into Battle Rock, Oregon. The Battle Rock Wayside and City park on the left caught my eye. I drove in and shut down the bike.

The Redfish Restaurant , a small square building with floor to ceiling windows overlooking the beach and situated on the edge of the park looked like the kind of place to be pricey with tiny portions and mediocre food, but I was hungry and too impatient to check out the other offerings in town. Besides, all the tables were tables had a view. I figured that was worth something.

The butternut squash soup was creamy and flavorful, nearly as good as the soup Falomi made at Mother Earth’s Bounty. The pulled pork sandwich was done right–tender, juicy, smoked pork without the smothering bottled sauces too often used. The salad was a nice mix of crisp, fresh spring greens.

It seemed like every time I had made a snap judgment based on appearances, I’d been proven wrong. My friend, Jaimie Wolfwalker, would’ve said Creator was trying to teach me to withhold judgment based on appearances and to learn to evaluate life on substance. Of course, Jaimie walked closer to the spiritual side of life than I ever had. Guess that went with being psychic and part Native American.

Late that afternoon, I crossed the highest bridge I’d ever ridden then the sand dunes in Oregon snuck up on me and I nearly ran off the road gawking. The sign for Spinreel Dune Buggy called to me, though I was by no means sure I should heed the call. I turned off and headed that way, just to check things out. Size wise, the rental place wasn’t that big. I wandered in, checked out the buggys and nearly left.

I’d walked to my bike, started it up and began backing out of the parking area when a vision that had never happened flashed across my mind: Alicia laughing as she raced a buggy down the face of a sand dune. I shut down the bike, took a deep breath and shook my head at myself. Alicia had been far more adventurous than I, and it appeared that her ghost had taken up challenging me to act beyond my doubts.

Being a conservative driver, I only raced down one cliff face of sand, holding my breath the entire distance. Of course, I wouldn’t have gone down it, but I’d already topped the dune and didn’t know how to go anywhere except straight down!

If you like roller coasters and the way they teeter at the pinnacle of drops, you’d love riding dune buggys. I hated roller coasters. Alicia had loved them. At the Puyallup Fair, she’d teased me into taking her on one–five times! Each time I got off, I swore I’d never do that again, yet I climbed back on because I loved hearing Alicia laugh.

More than anything else during my trip, the Spinreel Sand Dunes momentarily brought Alicia back to me. I left them feeling as if I had gained some great gift; and, I had.

Idling into Florence, Oregon, long after most people were home and vegging in front of television sets, I found BJ’s Ice Cream right on the main road, a dessert junkies dream. Ice cream made from scratch nestled among the baklava, cheesecake, tiramisu, tarts and cream horns.

Nick and Ron, the two young men behind the counter, gave me a brief rundown on BJ’s. Cole Brother’s Creamery started in 1917 in Slatter, Idaho, beginning a four-generation family tradition of making old-fashioned, batch ice cream. A three scoop ice cream sundae later, I groaned out the door carting a bag with a selection of tarts and cream horns.

That night I tossed my sleeping bag on the ground close enough to hear the ocean whisper and shush. I awoke to sand and the chill of a coastal morning.

Saturday afternoon found me drifting through DePoe Bay, Oregon. A sign bragged that it was the “World’s Smallest Harbor.”

Fifty miles north of the Oregon border, I rode through the small city of Raymond, Washington. Large steel sculptures popped up all over the town. Wildlife, people, pets, even an ox pulling logs through what was once a lumber town.

Once through Raymond, I stopped a few times during the rest of my ride home, but I was tired and eager to get home. I pushed hard. Around Aberdeen, Washington, I picked up Highway 12 East and caught Interstate 5 a few miles north of Olympia. A few minutes after midnight, I rode into my driveway.

I was home.

Some of the places Jaz talked about: (not in any particular order)

www.northwestplaces.com/trips002/Raymond001 (Raymond, Washington–a town of steel sculptures)

www.redwoodcreekbuckarettes.com (horseback tour among the ancient redwoods)

www.ridetheoregondunes.com (Spinreel Dune Buggy and ATV Rentals)

BJ’s Ice Cream, 2930 Hwy 101, Florence, Oregon

www.savetheredwoods.org/ (Jedediah Smith Redwoods State Park: the most old growth redwoods in California)

http://www.redwoodhikes.com/Humboldt/Founders (Coast redwoods once grew naturally in many places across the Northern Hemisphere. Due to manmade and climatic changes, Coast Redwoods now only grow naturally in a narrow 40 mile wide and 450 mile long coastal strip from southern Oregon to southern Monterey county in California. The Dyerville Giant which stood for approximately 1600 years fell on March 24, 1991.)

humboldtredwoods.org/hidden_springs (Hidden Springs Campground, California)

AvenueOfTheGiants.net (Avenue of the Giants, California)

www.california-native-wood.com (Orick, Ca. very nice natural wood gifts and keepsakes)

https://www.facebook.com/pages/Palm-Cafe-Motel/166106546757081 (Palm Motel and Café Orick, California)

To read more about Jaz Wheeler: http://www.amazon.com/Run-Die-Aya-Walksfar-ebook/dp/B00KV8BK5A

DARRINGTON PARTIES!

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Darrington sprawled beneath a partly cloudy sky this July 4th as parade participants gathered in the Community Center’s parking lot. The Timberbowl Rodeo Queen, Lindsey, chatted with a woman before the parade got started.

Our “fire chief” was on hand to oversee the arrangements of fire trucks and floats.

Aya and her wife, Deva, were honored to be on the Grand Marshall float. Rows of chairs waited to be filled by a few of those who had volunteered during the Highway 530 Disaster. (The whole town couldn’t fit on the float)

Darrington, the therapy goat, was on hand. He gave Aya a kiss

and then told her a secret. Aya wouldn’t divulge what Darrington told her. After that, Darrington got busy and inspected the candy to be tossed to the kids along the way.

Will Foster, one of the high school students who volunteered during the disaster as well as an up-and-coming writer and artist, smiled as we got ready to start on the parade route.

Smoky the Bear joined the parade train.

We idled through town, throwing candy at the kids. The water gun folks hit their targets most often

but the kids ate our “ammunition”.

The Pack Station’s Mule Train wandered through town, but I think they may have gotten into the mash. They kept going in circles and weaving up the street.

A number of antique cars joined in the fun.

Even an antique PUD truck.

It was a lot of happy chaos

as we meandered over to the city park where there was food and fun for everyone.

Don’t miss future posts! CLICK and FOLLOW.

SOUTH TO ANCIENT FORESTS

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I’m Jaz Wheeler and I’m a private investigator. The small town of Darrington, Washington lies five miles east from my land. When the Highway 530 Mudslide swept away the tiny community of Hazel/Steelhead Lane at a bit after ten o’clock on a Saturday morning, I was away from home.

When I returned to Darrington that evening, via the 85 mile roundabout way along Highway 20, I stepped off my V-Strom 650 and into chaos and fear and ten thousand other emotions all running in fifth and overdrive.

For the next few weeks, I did anything and everything. I inventoried donations, I bagged groceries, I handed out gas cards, I registered volunteers and did a multitude of other various tasks alongside of neighbors I hadn’t met in all the years that I had lived up here. Long days and short nights were the order for all of us with that certain knowledge that the only news we’d be getting from that mud and debris field would be of death and loss.

I watched the town cry and hug and support each other, and they gave just as freely to me as to those people they had known all their lives. Humbled and uplifted by the strength and courage I saw every day, I slogged on to the end.

All but one victim was finally found. The road reopened on a limited basis with one way traffic.

I packed my bags and headed south. I needed to get away from all the reminders of sorrow and loss and clear my head. The only place I knew to do that was the California Redwoods.

Friday the 13th, I idled slowly between the walls of pushed back mud slopes, down the roughed up asphalt of Highway 530 then kept on driving.

With single-minded determination, I rode Interstate 5, dodging kamikaze drivers and hardly stopping long enough for bathroom breaks. The cool wind blew cobwebs of sadness out of my mind. The first night I stayed in an easily accessible Motel 6. Nothing to shout about, but a shower and a bed for the night and a nearby restaurant for breakfast.

The next morning a gray sky greeted me as I hiked a leg over the V-Strom’s seat. I didn’t linger that day, either, preferring to push toward the redwood forests. I entered Gasquet, California that evening.

I’d first discovered the redwoods the spring after I lost Alicia. Grandmother Pearl sent me south along Highway 101 to Hopewell Farm and my destiny, though I didn’t know it at the time. I just knew I hurt so bad that even breathing without Alicia in the world seemed wrong and painful. Not really wanting to meet someone new, I camped out in Jedidiah Smith Park near Gasquet in northern California then spent several more days in various redwood forest campsites I found along the way. Sleeping on damp ground felt preferable to meeting Alicia’s Aunt Aretha.

Though I didn’t realize it, my healing started there, among those giant, silent Ancients. If I hadn’t taken the time to linger among them, back then, I would never have stayed on Hopewell Farm. And…I would not be writing this journal.

So, on this June day, I again sought the healing of the Ancients as I shut down my bike and stepped onto the soft floor of the forest. Nearby a stream tumbled lazily over rocks, chuckling along its way. Filtered sunlight drifted through the green canopy far overhead. So far overhead that I had to bend nearly double backwards to glimpse the intertwining branches. That night I flipped my bedroll out and shut my eyes as the true darkness closed in.

The next morning the chill dampness had me wishing for the warmth of a hotel room and a hot cup of coffee. I rolled up my sleeping bag and lashed it on my bike. Highway 199 from Gasquet to Crescent City is a winding, narrow ribbon with hairpin curves and uneven surface and trees that stuck their roots out to the edge of the road.

It woke me up.

Wednesday Jaz’s journey continues. CLICK and FOLLOW so you don’t miss the rest of the journey.

To read about how Jaz became a private investigator, get your copy of Run or Die go to http://amazon.com/Run-Die-Aya-Walksfar-ebook/dp/B00KV8BK5A

2 Reasons NOT to Trust the News Media

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BREAKING NEWS!

We see those words every day as they flash across television screens. The counterpart to these words are the bolded headlines that scream from the front pages of countless newspapers. And, on the radio somber voices announce the latest disasters.

We count on those words every day to keep us informed. But what happens when those words are WRONG, INACCURATE, INCORRECT?

The Highway 530 Slide is an example of the news media chasing glory rather than truth, or even accuracy. When the news media first arrived on the scene that fateful March 22, a beautiful Saturday morning, Highway 530 was blocked and traffic stopped close to the Oso Fire Hall. Because that point was where they were stopped, the news media dubbed the landslide-turned-into-mud-slurry-tidal-wave the “Oso Mudslide”.

No one could blame the media for the MISNOMER that day. It was a day of chaos, fear, hope, and devastation as survivors were pulled from certain death and the count of bodies rose. No one could’ve blamed them for the next couple of days, but after that…..

It has been nine weeks now since that fateful day in March. I have personally spoken to several news media people and written to others asking that they cease calling the Highway 530 Slide the “Oso Mudslide”.

Daniel Catchpole of the Everett Herald answered my email on April 28:

Daniel Catchpole <dcatchpole@soundpublishing.com>

Apr 28

to me

Thank you for your email. I’ve shared it with the newsroom. You make excellent points, some of which have been raised already in the newsroom.

The name is meant solely as a geographic reference. Oso was the closest thing that shows up on a map. The name isn’t meant to connote who suffered the most. I agree that it is frustrating that the name doesn’t quite match up. And I have referenced Hazel in several of my stories.

Perhaps we should have called it the Hazel Landslide, but when that decision was made, it was in the early hours of the disaster. There was sparse information. But once we started using one name, switching to another name would have created much confusion among readers and officials. And in the first couple days after the slide, confusion was something that people in Snohomish County didn’t need more.

(NOTE: Actually, Hazel does show up on some maps.)

It is no longer the first days of the disaster. The officials have been calling the slide by its proper name, The Highway 530 Slide, for several weeks now. No one appears “confused” by the change from “Oso Slide” to “Highway 530 Slide”. No one except the NEWS MEDIA. They still seem unable to grasp the difference.

A section of Highway 530 was wiped out along with a small community–Hazel and the Steelhead Loop.

The nearest part of Oso to the slide was the east end of Oso Loop Road, situated on the WEST side of the slide and four miles away from the closest edge of the mud.

We had a recent memorial at the site of the slide before the highway opened to traffic. I talked with one of the people from one of the major news media in the Seattle area and asked him to use the proper name for the Highway 530 Slide and to at least mention Hazel.

He looked at me kind of blankly and said, “Hazel? Where’s Hazel?”

I told him, “You’re standing next to it. And the people who lived here, and died here, deserve to be recognized, to be named, to be honored.”

He said, as he crabbed away from me, “It’s not my call. I just do what the higher ups tell me to do. They said call it Oso Slide. I don’t want to argue this with you….” then he slipped away like a wet eel.

So….I am a voice crying in the darkness created by the very people who are supposed to shine a light for the rest of us, the news media.

They made a mistake and misnamed the slide. That’s okay. They’re human; it was chaotic during those first days (I know; I was here). We can all understand that.

What we who live here on the EAST side of the slide don’t understand is this:

Why will the news media not admit the misnomer? Or at least, stop using it and change over to what the officials are calling the disaster: The Highway 530 Slide?

Why won’t they, at least, honor the people who died by naming their community?

There are the two reasons to NOT trust the news media:

1. They won’t admit a mistake

2. Even presented with information, they won’t accept they might have been wrong and they won’t CHANGE.

Maybe they shouldn’t be called the “news media”? Perhaps,that is a misnomer. Maybe some of them should be called the “myth media”?

COME WITH ME on a journey into the past and meet the community of Hazel, Washington. I am currently researching the area of the Highway 530 Slide and will be posting about the history and the people who lived there. DON’T MISS THE UPDATES! CLICK and FOLLOW.

WHAT WERE THE CHILDREN DOING?

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WHAT WERE THE CHILDREN DOING?

During most disasters children are secluded from the harsh realities as well as possible.

On March 22, 2014, 10:47 a.m., the Highway 530 Mudslide swallowed the tiny community of Hazel.

Shortly after the slide hit, those people living EAST of the slide responded.

During the grueling day as hope flared then dwindled, the people from the small town of Darrington and the surrounding area east of the mudslide, labored to rescue those trapped.

What were the children doing?

Whatever was needed! Our young people immediately responded to the disaster.

Some joined the adults on the debris field, rescuing survivors.

Some worked at the Community Center preparing a hot meal for those slogging through the mud slurry and for the stunned and devastated city of Darrington and the surrounding area.

The next day and for many days thereafter, our youth continued their heroic efforts:

They packed lunches, sometimes hundreds of lunches

Helped prepare meals and then helped to serve them

Wrapped utensils to be used during meals

Worked on the debris field

Did welfare checks on older citizens

Cleaned houses for volunteers and displaced families to stay in

Unloaded trucks of donations

Shelved those donations

Delivered food and other necessities to families

Swept floors

Helped affected families move into temporary homes

Raised money and donated it to the victims

Washed fire trucks

Helped with animal care and animal food distribution

Wrote and performed a song of hope and strength for the people of Darrington

Drummed and “laid a blanket” ( a Native American ceremony performed by the Sauk-Suiattle People) for donations for the affected families

Did whatever was asked of them without complaint

How do I know this? I was the Darrington Volunteer Registrar during the disaster. Some of our youth worked as many as 15 hours a day, day-after-day. In the end, our young people donated over 3,000 hours of effort. And these are only the youth I know about! Many others worked but never registered with me.

Are we proud of our youth?

You betcha!

Our young people, ranging in age from Cub Scouts to seniors in high school, ARE the

DARRINGTON DO-ERS!

Thanks to all of them the recovery efforts were supported. Tired and disheartened and grief-stricken people received food, shelter, and other types of assistance as well as a renewal of hope.

These young people rock!

Do you have a story of young people who rock? Would love to hear it! Leave a comment!

Click and follow so you don’t miss future posts!

LOST AND FOUND: TWO SIDES OF A DISASTER

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Seven weeks after a tidal wave of mud swallowed the tiny community of Hazel, Washington, and blocked a mile long stretch of the major artery Highway 530 from east to west, thereby isolating the small town of Darrington, thousands of tons of mud and debris are slowly being moved off that stretch of highway.

With each scoop of mud and debris those excavators are removing dreams and hopes; years of work and, unfortunately, some of the beliefs that I have held dear. There is a part of me that wants to lie on the floor and kick and scream that ‘it’s not fair!’ After all that has been lost, must I lose my belief in those organizations that have always brought a swelling of pride to my heart, and a feeling of safety…yes, safety in knowing they stood in the wings, ready to aid in event of disaster?

Compared to the horrendous losses of others, I hate to even mention such a minor loss as ‘faith in an organization’, but I will in hopes that others will not be so suddenly hurt by it.

Red Cross had been a symbol of competent help for so many years…to me. In our community, the Red Cross received $30,000 in gas cards to aid commuters who now had added 85 miles one way to their travel time to jobs. Red Cross refused the assistance of our long standing (20years) director of Family Resource Center in handing out what could have been a real boon for our residents. Instead, the Red Cross worker gave out $300 per family of gas cards without asking whether the person lived in Darrington, had a valid driver’s license, owned a car or even commuted the extra 85 miles one way.

Drug addicts arrived from as far away as Sedro Woolley and Concrete, to receive $300 of gas cards to trade for black tar heroin. Alcoholics rode bicycles to receive those cards and cash them in for alcohol.

Shell Corporation meant to help the citizens of Darrington. We thank them, but please, Shell, from now on..give the gas cards to United Way, or to the locals who have been working in the community all along and know who will actually use the gift as intended.

Though my faith in Red Cross was completely lost, I FOUND a wonderful new faith in the youth of this coming generation. As the Darrington Volunteer Registrar I have had the pleasure of recording 2589 hours given to the community by high school and middle school young people. These young people unloaded trucks, stacked donations on shelves, swept floors, made sandwiches, delivered groceries to home bound folks, cooked meals, cleaned flooded houses, cleaned houses for displaced families, cared for displaced animals and did whatever task was asked of them with a good spirit and willing hands.

And while I’m talking about animals, I want to acknowledge the Darrington Horse Owner’s Association who cared for displaced horses, solicited and received donations of animal food and distributed those donations.

I discovered so many good people, people I might never have taken the time to speak with had they not been part of the disaster efforts here in Darrington. As a married lesbian woman, I am well aware of the attitude of certain religions towards my sexual orientation. The Southern Baptists are not known for their tolerance of my sexual orientation, nor for their respect for lesbian marriages/relationships.

As it happened, the Southern Baptists have a trailer they dispatch to areas hit by disasters. This trailer is a complete kitchen to help cook and feed those in the affected area. Retired Fire Chaplain Chuck Massena headed the group that arrived in Darrington and took over cooking for the volunteers and the community for a couple of weeks. I had the opportunity to speak with this delightful gentleman. My wife and I enjoyed eating a wonderful dinner with him and chatting. Of course, being an educator, I made sure that Chuck realized that I am a married lesbian and practicing pagan. If all Southern Baptists could be as accepting as Chuck how much greater would be the peace in our world. It was only a minor miracle, I admit, this thing of a lesbian pagan couple peacefully breaking bread with a Southern Baptist retired fire chaplain, but I’ll take any size miracle.

There were other uplifting discoveries I made during this time of sorrow that I want to share:

I realized how humbling it was to watch the mayor of this small town, as he spoke of the people we lost, choke up and have to stop talking as tears stood in his eyes. It was equally humbling to watch how supportive the men–big, burly loggers, truck drivers, fishermen–and the women were as we waited respectfully for Mayor Dan Rankin to continue speaking. Every night, night after night, at community meetings, Mayor Rankin took time to read the names of those we’d lost.

There are others, people who came from outside our community to stand with us, to help us, and yes, to cry with us. They are too many to name, but they know who they are. Some of them even re-discovered their connection to our town.

The second thing I want to share is the hugs I have given and the hugs I have received during this time of sorrow. I have sat in the community center and “felt” the town hugging each other. That is the best way I can explain it: it felt like all of us filling those bleachers had spread our arms wide and wrapped those arms around each other. I’d never known that a “town could hug”; it happened here in Darrington.

No, I haven’t suddenly become a card carrying, tree-cutting logger. I remain a tree-hugging, dirt-worshipping lesbian pagan, but today I am more than that. I am also a citizen of this small town called Darrington. I proudly claim kin as one of the “Darrington Do-ers”.

Belonging, that’s the real miracle. Meeting people I’ve lived by since 1996, yet never knew. Hugging and caring, being there with a kind word or a shoulder, reaching out a hand or giving a wave…we’ve shared these things, the people of Darrington and I. And, I am honored.

Darrington Do-ers. Darrington strong. Darrington proud.

FORGOTTEN AMID THE DEVASTATION: DARRINGTON

5 Replies

Nestled amid the foothills and the mountains of the North Cascades, the small town of Darrington–population 1,405– appears untouched by the Highway 530 Mudslide that obliterated the tiny community of Hazel, Washington at 10:57 AM on Saturday, March 22nd.

Appearances are deceiving. The townspeople of Darrington struggle to meet the day to day challenges of an essentially landlocked area. With their main route of travel, Highway 530, blocked for the foreseeable future, these ordinary people struggle with the extraordinary issues of finding ways to commute the extra two to four additional hours–EACH WAY–to jobs and doctor’s appointments.

And they feel forgotten. What news caster is calling out, “Darrington strong! Darrington proud! The Darrington Do-ers!”?

Nearly everything on the news yells, “Oso strong! Oso Mudslide!” Yet, the town of Oso was affected only by the loss of loved ones to the mud. Oso is located WEST of the Mudslide, and are not blocked from any of their normal activities. What they suffer is the emotional loss, just the same as many other towns in Washington: Darrington, Arlington, Bellingham, Puyallup, and even in Montana. Darrington is located EAST of the Mudslide.

It was the tiny community of Hazel that the mud swallowed on that fateful morning.

While the townspeople of Darrington grieve for lost loved ones, they battle the misconception of the public that money is pouring into Darrington to help them in this time of need. The loudly touted relief of ‘gas cards for commuters’ is not nearly the relief many believe it to be. The sad reality is that a commuting family will receive an initial $100 gas card and it will be reloaded only once a week at $60 from that point on. It does not matter if more than one family member must commute. That is all the assistance they will receive.

In a desperate effort to find more gas money, many families turn to the Food Bank. Last Saturday the Food Bank served 73 NEW families. The Food Bank’s resources, always stretched, are stretched even further. Many of the food deliveries wound up at the HUB in Arlington, a 85 mile trip one way. My wife and I took the journey yesterday to retrieve supplies for the Food Bank in our pick up truck.

Red Cross Counseling is for the immediate families of the victims, mother, father, siblings. Those in our town, stricken by grief for friends and neighbors do not have access to the Red Cross grief assistance.

The retired Veteran who shuttles three friends to appointments at the VA Hospital drives an additional 85 miles one way to get to the point where he normally starts from on that already long and gas-costly journey. Since March 22, this older gentleman has received a total of $150 to help with the extra gas costs. He makes the journey between one and three times per WEEK.

Beautiful thing happened yesterday, though: a little boy was visiting Darrington, having lunch at the Burger Barn, and he and his mother heard the old-timer talking. After they ate, the little boy walked up and handed the older gentleman a roll of bills. The older gentleman handed it back, but the mother said, “You are denying him the right to help.” The older man accepted the donation, and shook the young boy’s hand. After they left I heard him tell his friend, “Now I don’t have to worry where to get gas money for that appointment tomorrow.”

Many small business owners are wondering if they will survive the coming summer, usually their busy season. If the road doesn’t open, there will be no tourists; there will be no way to host the music festivals, the art shows that bring in hundreds of people from all over.

While the media continues to use the misnomer, ‘Oso Mudslide’, don’t let it fool you. It was the Highway 530 Mudslide.

Words have power. Please, honor the tiny community of Hazel that once sat between the river and Highway 530 and was swallowed by the tidal way of mud, and the small town of Darrington that continues to feel the devastation of being isolated. Please, call the mudslide by its true name: The Highway 530 Slide.

Aya Walksfar, Author

Hard hitting, in-the-news murder mysteries

Tag Archives: Darrington

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Daniel Catchpole <dcatchpole@soundpublishing.com>

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FORGOTTEN AMID THE DEVASTATION: DARRINGTON