I think I won't plant trees, continued

We're halfway through the horse show. I sat in a different announcing booth, mostly by myself yesterday---except for the dozens of hornets and wasps who refused to go away even after almost two cans of wasp and hornet spray. It was a long, hot experience.

Miss Lily got beaten soundly in her two classes. We did come home with a fifth-place ribbon, but she needs some more experience at "standing still" while the judge looks her over. My sister was pleased with her behavior, considering the fact this was her first trip to the fairgrounds since leaving Oklahoma last year, and when she was shown as a younger youngster, she always had her buddy nearby. Miss Lily and Laurie looked mighty pretty yesterday, and I'll post a picture tomorrow. We're all thrilled that Barbara's mare April took grand champion over all breeds, sexes and ages. Barbara has a beautiful belt buckle to show for it.

Now it's on to the incomplete story. I've gotta finish this one cuz I haven't quite gotten to why I don't plant trees for a living, but there's still some fun memories in it. Enjoy . . .

Through his involvement, I have earned a healthy respect and appreciation for all involved in the forest industry. Each year in Bonner County an event brings many of these people together. It’s called Timberfest, and it’s held each June at the Bonner County Fairgrounds. Bill and I always make it a point to attend. On Timberfest Saturday, the fairground is crawling with people who participate in and or observe many aspects of the forest industry. Before timber sports begin, folks gather around the huge spit-shined logging trucks and chat while watching lumber-grading and log-truck loading contests. Within minutes of our arrival, Bill usually runs into someone he knows like Ray and Fairy Delay who host the annual Idaho State Forestry Contest every year at their tree farm 25 miles south of Sandpoint. They also provide timber for Timberfest sporting each year.

“They’re [those who select logs for the contest] pretty particular,” Fairy says. “They come about a week beforehand and walk through the woods looking for cottonwoods that are just right. They cut ‘em down and then bring them up to the yard to get them ready for the contest.” “They” are Bob Bosworth and his son Carson from Bonners Ferry, Idaho. If ever there were a gentle giant of a man living the role of the mythical Paul Bunyon, Bob Bosworth could fit the bill. A retired forester who distinguished himself nationally and worldwide with his passion for and knowledge of forest practices, Bob is also a legend with an axe. I doubt that too many people would disagree when I say Bob’s contributions to timber sports are epic. Easily recognizable at any woodsman’s show by his characteristic flat top covered with a beat-up red fisherman’s hat, broad jaw outlined with a neatly trimmed graying hairy hedge and his massive, powerful upper body, Bob has outswung the best of ‘em with his axe, outsawed the pack with his crosscut partners and outbuzzed the line-up with his Stihl chainsaw. Son Carson has followed in Dad’s footsteps but has advanced several steps further by being the man to beat worldwide in all aspects of competitive sawing and chopping. This has all come from hard work, consistency and dedication toward seeing the sport continue to flourish and improve.

This Bosworth duo has earned so much respect from their fellow competitors that their judgment is seldom questioned when it comes to selecting the ideal wood props for the annual Timberfest competition. And because of the Delay’s reputation and contributions to the forest industry, their trees-turned-logs are used annually for the fast-paced saw and axe competition, pole climbing and log rolling which keeps the fairgrounds outdoor arena buzzing for several hours.

After visiting with Timberfest earlybirds for most of the morning, Bill and I slowly make our way toward the outdoor arena. Before joining the crowd in the grandstands, we always stop at the Idaho Forest Products booth where Bill’s friend Betty Munis stands within a small tent. In front of her, a folding table loaded down with a wide assortment of products evolving from trees features toothpaste, vitamins, a kitchen sponge, a bottle of nail polish, some mouthwash, catfood samples and even Rolaids. Betty heads the Idaho Forest Products Commission, and she travels the state helping to promote the forest industry and its products. So she’s armed and ready to explain to John Q. Public exactly why those trees are so important, even though when John sees the Rolaids next to the catfood, he probably doesn’t need to ask.

Now, Betty and Bill have been good friends for years. They share a common bond through their jobs, which both have a statewide focus when it comes to Idaho’s trees. Betty comes by being a tree lover naturally. She grew up on a ranch over near the Pintler Wildnersess and the Continental Divide in Montana. She’s a lifelong outdoors girl, and I’ve always felt that she and I have shared a kindred spirit because her rural upbringing was so similar to mine----the 4-H, the cows, the eventual gravitating toward a profession once dominated by men. My own Forest Service days back in the late 1960s and early ‘70s put me in that category when Chris Moon and I were the only “girls” working for the Forest Service Engineers during the summers. So whenever Bill mentions Betty, I’m thrown into brief nostalgic journeys to my past. One of my full-fledged sessions of reminiscing was triggered after Bill and I attended Betty’s wedding in October, 1999, which was a memorable event itself.

“What are you doing October 2?” he had asked several months before the occasion.

“I don’t know. Why?” I said. “What day is that?”

“Well, Betty Munis is getting married and we’re invited,” he replied. “Ya wanta go? It’s on a Saturday.”

“I guess so,” I said apathetically. My less-than-enthusiastic response had nothing to do with Betty. It’s just that anything planned on a weekend outside of town during the school year requires a lot of planning. That fall I’d been invited to a Brown family reunion in Pasco, Washington, during the second weekend of September, and I knew I’d never make because of so much weekend preparation needed during those first few weekends after school started. The chances of my showing up over in Montana a month later for someone’s wedding were pretty slim since I’m not the best at attending very many local marriage ceremonies.

“There’s going to be pitchfork fondue,” Bill added.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“The reception is going to be out in a cow pasture, and they’re going to cook the steaks in a big pot,” he explained. “The pitchfork works like a giant fork.”

“Hmmm, that sounds interesting,” I said. My mood instantly changed. Bill had said the magic words. The thoughts of such a setting enticed my appetite for off-the-wall occasions inspired me to make darned sure we made it to Betty’s wedding. I wasn’t gonna miss pitchfork fondue for anything. I could see a story coming, and I knew I’d get lots of mileage out of it.

We went to the wedding, armed with cameras, curiosity and hungry stomachs. After a touching ceremony in a Catholic Church perched on a hillside offering spectacular views of a lake below, everyone piled into their rigs and followed the signs to the reception five miles away. A piercing wind tested the mettle of guests as they stepped carefully their way to avoid hundreds of dried-up cowpies toward circus-style tents in the middle of the vast pastureland. Inside, however, any mistaken concept of redneck cornpone disappeared as a host of tables elegantly adorned with colorful flower centerpieces and fine crystal wine glasses greeted the guests. A tastefully and colorfully prepared smorgasboard of meats, salads, breads and desserts beckoned as a band warmed up on an elevated platform.

While most guests huddled inside, some diehards stood outside shivering and visiting while waiting for the bride and groom to show up. Eventually, a shiny tan Model T convertible pulled up to the tents. From the rumble seat, David, the groom, climbed out and walked to the passenger side to escort his bride to the reception inside. Their entrance was delayed slightly when a family friend in a white suit met them with two glasses and a bottle of Serbian brandy. . . .

. . . . To be completed some day---highlights include whitepine seedlings as wedding favors and whitepine seedlings at an earlier time to be planted at the Sundance Burn, which ravaged 55,000 acres in the Selkirk Mountains in 1967. My planting numbers---for one day---in 1968 did not yield any records, but I'm still proud to know that I had a hand in at least a few of those trees up there in the Pack River drainage.