FLUX 2025

FLUX

University of Oregon School of Journalism and Communication

Embracing reality and confronting adversity

On the Cover:

Kim Kerns, a fourth-generation rancher, takes a lamb to an enclosed pen with its mother to provide more favorable conditions for the newborn.

All of the characters in these stories embody resilience. Not flashy resilience, not heroic resilience, but the resilience that comes with embracing reality — and the relentless ambition to preserve the things that are important to them.

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Counting Sheep

The stress ranchers in Eastern Oregon face when sharing their land with wolves.

Race Against Time

When obsession and obligation are at a crossroads.

Reborn Through Motherhood

One woman overcame the obstacles of her life by seizing control of her motherhood.

Against the Current

The grit of a Paralympic rower and his conflicted relationship with pain.

Caught in the Net

Phishing redefined in a new digital age.

Meeting one’s obstacles with modest resilience. 58

A Moment of Silence

2025Flux

EDITORIAL

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

Malya Fass

MANAGING EDITORS

Claire Conger

Ella Durchin

Abby Snethen

SENIOR WRITERS

Josh Berk

Annie Bostwick

Luka DeMay

Aidan Eckhardt

Riley Fox

James Lejeune

Noa Schwartz

Aedan Seaver

JUNIOR WRITERS

Brandon Jonas

Ana Casado

FACULTY ADVISOR

Charlie Deitz

MULTIMEDIA

Sofia Rodriguez Baquero PHOTO EDITOR

DESIGN

ART DIRECTORS

Raina Freeman

Molly McPherson

DESIGNERS

Ronan Beckius

Jack DeKoker

Chloe Gadula

Taylor Grace Mariana Marquez

Joey Matsuno

Jade Mervar

PROJECT MANAGER

Arianna Rinaldi

SOCIAL MEDIA TEAM

PHOTOGRAPHERS Joseph Frike Miguel Martinez Zoey Weesner

FACULTY ADVISOR

Chris Pietsch

Mia Pippert

Journey Utpadel

FACULTY ADVISOR

Steven Asbury

LETTER FROM THE EDITOR

acking away at printer paper I stole from my mother's office, a surge of joy and inspiration buzzed through my 7-year-old bones. The paper's edges were crooked, cut small and square, and dotted with headlines and stories and drawings before they were stapled together and sealed by the mark of a title — "Rock Star News." Made-up town gossip, a flyer for a pretend art show with an address leading the reader to my basement, an advertisement for "Malya's fashion design shop - 10¢" accompanied by a tear-off coupon that read: "'7% off gift card."

I pedaled them to my friends and family — some even handed over a quarter in exchange for the palm-sized book. I was beyond delighted. This work has had a place within me for long before I understood it. The same feelings of joy and inspiration that 7-year-old Malya had when binding her first book swell within me now, and I am honored to present you, reader, with this collection of stories (that you can hold comfortably in both hands).

This publication didn't begin with a theme. Nothing tied these stories together until the throughline began to emerge. When it did, it was bright and hot and viscous; it shone through the way that every character in these stories embodies resilience, acceptance and intention.

Intention to live. Intention to care for ones we love, to care for ourselves. The resilience and acceptance that comes with not resigning to our surroundings, or the difficult things we face, but embracing them — and moving forward with grace, care and courage.

Leading this publication is an incredible honor. I believe at its foundation it is brave. It pushes boundaries, tells intimately human stories, represents an unwavering dedication to examining our surroundings with a critical eye, and finds a way to encapsulate this moment in time.

It's quite the undertaking to capture what it's like existing in this year, in this place, in this moment in history, in seven stories. I confidently stand behind the power these stories have to express this moment in time — both on their own and in the ways their themes intertwine. These stories do what story does best: gives us things to ground in to as humans, things that tether us together, and lets us collect those things we connect with like little gatherers.

The people that put in countless hours and unwavering dedication to bring these sto ries to life through editorial and design are some of the most driven, passionate, endlessly creative, and kind people that I have had the good fortune of working with.

I am beaming with gratitude for them and for the entire process of creating this mag azine that is before you. (And I won’t even charge you a quarter for this one.)

Malya K. Fass, Editor-In-Chief

Flux What’s happening in Coffee Confessions GREENER

We’ve all had a steamy secret, a latte regret, or a cafe-cringe moment. FLUX invited locals to spill their confessions at Eugene’s favorite coffee spots. Here are some of the highlights.

1

Six ways to live a

Life

Reusable Dishcloths:

Instead of buying mountains of paper towels, try reusable dishcloths. For an extra ecofriendly touch, make your own. Just cut flannel fabric into squares and sew the edges (if you’re daring).

3

Repurposing Glass: Keep those empty pasta sauce jars or wine bottles. Give them a second life as flower vases, everyday drinking glasses, or desk organizers.

5

Shower Saver Watering: Place a bucket in your shower while it catches the cold water. Use that saved splash to water your plants! Your plants will thank you and so will your water bill.

2

DIY Dryer Sheets:

Don’t buy dryer sheets. Repurpose old fabrics. Cut up worn tees or towels into squares, soak them in a mix of vinegar and essential oils, and toss them into the dryer.

4

Eco-Friendly Gift Wrapping: Gift packaging can be surprisingly wasteful. Wrapping gifts in old newspapers reduces waste and gives your presents a vintage look. You can also keep a box of used gift bags and tissue paper stored away to reuse.

6

Candle Jar Storage:

Once your candle burns out, clean out the jar. Repurpose it to store Q-tips, cotton balls, paper clips, etc.

Stories by Ana Casado, Ella Durchin, Brandon Jonas, Blake Kroeger and Noa Schwartz

Obsessed Wool

of STATE Hacky

The Sack

If you walked past a group playing Hacky Sack, you’d see a blur of coordinated chaos — feet slicing through the air with inside kicks, legs coming upward for knee stalls, and toes flicking the hacky sack, keeping it aloft at all costs.

The timeless game of Hacky Sack, also known as footbag, was popularized by two Oregonians: John Stalberger and Mike Marshall. Marshall, who had learned the game from a Native American man in his military unit, introduced it to Stalberger as a way to help him rehabilitate a knee injury.

This game consists of players keeping a small, round, bean-filled bag in the air using all their body parts but their hands.

It’s competitive, weirdly hypnotic, slightly addictive, and has long held

a special place in the hearts (and quads) of college students across the country.

Many people have tried to make Hacky Sack Oregon’s official state sport. Most recently, middle school teacher Joshua Zubrick went viral on TikTok for his efforts to revive the movement.

To make a sport official in a state, a lawmaker introduces a bill or resolution to the legislature. After committee review, public input, and votes in both legislative chambers, the bill goes to the governor for approval. If signed, the sport becomes the “state’s official sport.”

Other states have done it — New York with baseball, Hawaii with surfing, and Washington with pickleball. Maybe it’s Oregon’s turn to kick it old school.

At Apple Creek Merinos farm in Veneta, Oregon, Laurel Stone’s days begin with bleats instead of alarms. By sunrise, she’s already greeted by 60 sheep, 20 lambs, and a fresh bale of hay waiting on her doorstep.

What started with one sheep when she was 9 is now a full-blown wool operation born from obsession, grit and a little sheepish charm. The fleece her animals grow — just a millimeter a day — demands consistency and care year-round. “Even one bad day can ruin your fleece for the entire year,” Stone explains. So, every bite of hay is measured, every lamb gets a custom cotton sweater sewn by Stone herself, and every wool coat is protected like treasure.

Lambing season is her favorite: bundles of squirmy, pinkish wool with personalities already formed. “They’re not just numbers,” she says of her flock, which includes Kiwi, a 12-year-old sheep in green, and Banana, a yellow-sweatered ram.

Through foot injuries, weather chaos and heartbreak, Stone remains unfazed. “Wool is totally worth being really passionate about.” Ten years in, she’s just getting started — and yes, sheep sweaters are absolutely a thing.

Prior to 1850, an estimated 10 to 16 million fish annually ran into the Columbia River Basin. Once dams were constructed, these numbers diminished greatly; in the 1990s, runs declined to about 1.3 million fish a year. Now, the average stands at about 2.3 million salmon and steelhead returning to the basin. However, these numbers paint an incomplete picture of salmon recovery in the basin because they don’t differentiate

FIREFrom to Salmon Struggles

between wild fish and fish bred in hatcheries. This decline in salmon population has significant implications for the ecosystem and for Indigenous communities who rely on salmon for food and cultural practices. Recent efforts to remove dams have helped to strengthen salmon populations across the Pacific Northwest.

Flourish

Multnomah Falls gets over two million visitors per year, making it the most popular natural attraction in the Pacific Northwest. In September 2017, a single firework caused a wildfire that raged through the area and shut the local attraction down for a whole year.

The fire affected over 48,000 acres. It displaced a large amount of the local wildlife. You can easily spot the damage from the highway on the way to — blackened tree trunks smatter the hillside. From the highway you can see the damage as the blackened trunks of the trees remain. The harm from the wildfire was widespread in the Cascades, and the shutdown halted foot traffic through the COVID-19 pandemic. Now, the falls are recovering. Visitorship is rising again, and hikers can once again enjoy the nature of the falls.

However, when walking through the area, it’s clear that the biggest threat is human interaction. Fires, litter and heavy foot traffic strain the ecosystem. Trash clings to the sides of cliffs and in crevices, and constant crowds continue to drive wildlife deeper into the woods. And yet, despite the scars and soot, Multnomah and the neighboring Cascades are staging a comeback. The Cascades are a prime example of how truly delicate our environment is.

Fog and light snow settle over the MultnomahWahkeena Loop, where signs guide hikers back to Multnomah Falls.

STRETCH IT

Three stretches you can do before even getting out of bed

Pigeon pose

Bend one leg in front of the body, aiming for a 90-degree angle. Extend the opposite leg behind the body, and lean over the bent leg, reaching the hands over the head and placing them on the bed. With each breath, sink deeper into the hip stretch.

Seated spinal twist

Extend one leg in front of the body and stabilize yourself by placing your opposite hand on the bed behind you. Plant your nonextended foot on the bed and begin gently rotating your spine in the direction of your bent leg, placing your elbow in front of your bent knee.

Seated forward fold

Sit with both legs extended and slowly hinge forward at the hips. Keep your spine extended and knees slightly bent and slowly begin to straighten your knees while reaching towards your toes.

MEAT YOUR GREENS

The Rise of Plant-Based Proteins

With the recent popularity of alternative protein products, plant-based meat can serve as a supplement to the meat industry. From protein bars to black bean patties, people often look for alternative ways to get in their protein. Plant-based meats serve as a more environmentally conscious way to produce meat substitutes. From products that are not very meat-like to products that fool life-long carnivores, you can find a wide variety of plant-based meats. On top of imitating real meat they also have a variety of health benefits. They often contain less saturated fats and more fiber. Production uses less land and water as well as creating less greenhouse gasses. Would you try a plant-based burger?

LIFE Solo Oregon in

No Groupchat? Dining Alone

Hike to Your Own Drum: Skip the crowded trails and find a quieter one. No one’s rushing you.

Drive With No Destination: Fill up the tank, make an obnoxiously specific playlist, and just go. Maybe you’ll end up in a ghost town. Maybe you’ll find the best roadside pie of your life.

GEAR up

It's Summer in the PNW

Whether you're dancing at a music festival, camping beneath the stars, or searching for a new picturesque view, the season calls for gear that can keep up. We’ve rounded up the essentials for concert goers, campers and hikers — so you can stay comfortable, prepared and ready for whatever adventure comes next.

Ditch the Takeout Habit: Sit at the counter at a sushi bar or trattoria. The best seat in the house is the one where you can watch the chefs work.

Cook Something Impressive: Try making homemade pasta or a meal that takes way too long. Light a candle. You deserve it.

Be Weird Build a Ritual

Walk around the city listening to a soundtrack like you’re in a film. (Oregon rain helps.)

Take yourself to a karaoke bar and sing something dramatic. No shame.

Dance around your apartment with an overpriced matcha.

&

Sunday morning: Order something different each time you go to a new cafe.

Friday night: Go to the movies by yourself. Dress for your own occasion.

Anytime: Listen to an album that you’ve never heard before. Front to back!

Wolves in Ore. killed 62 sheep in 2024, the highest annual count to date. Still, wolf depredations only amount to a small percentage of ranchers’ total losses.

TThe hot morning air was oppressive, shimmering in the dry timber. Bleary-eyed sheep scrambled through brush, while guard dogs darted in and out of the trees. Panic hung in the air, churning with the smoke. By midday, the dogs lay panting in camp, unable to run any further. They hadn’t eaten, drunk or lied down in 48 hours. At night, the howling made sleep impossible. The wolves were all around, and they were having fun.

In the summer of 2021, rancher Kim Kerns spent three weeks fending off a wolf pack. It followed her and her sheep herd through one of the 10,000+ acre allotments she leases from the federal government in Northeastern Oregon. Kerns said wolves killed around 15 of her sheep that summer, though only one loss was confirmed as a probable wolf depredation by the Oregon Department of Fish and Wildlife. By the time the other missing animals were discovered, their carcasses had decayed. It was too late to prove they’d been killed by wolves.

According to ODFW’s 2024 report, at least 204 wolves now roam Oregon, up from 178 in 2023. Wolves currently account for just 1% of confirmed livestock killings in the states where they live, according to the Humane Society and the USDA.

“You keep hearing about this from conservation groups and pro-wolf people,” Kerns said. “They're like, ‘Statistically, this isn't a big deal,’ and I'm like, ‘You don't understand stress. You cannot fully grasp gut-wrenching stress until you've had a pack of wolves chasing you for three weeks, 24/7.’ It is a level of stress I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy.”

The presence of wolves in Oregon remains fiercely debated, but the fact remains: They aren’t going anywhere.

Oregon has laws which govern wolf conserva-

tion and allocate money to repay livestock losses. The Oregon Senate recently passed two bills that aim to increase compensation for ranchers’ losses and for their use of nonlethal wolf deterrents. But ranchers, conservationists and biologists agree that compensation isn’t the full solution.

Many conservationists see reimbursing ranchers for losses as a waste of money. Some biologists say wolf management, which includes killing wolves that chronically target livestock, is necessary for the protection of livestock and the health of wolf populations. Ranchers say money cannot mitigate the loss of an animal nor the emotional and physical strain wolves put on their lives every day.

Wolves thrived in the Western United States until the mid-1800s, when settlers in many new territories, including Oregon, established wolf bounty systems. According to state records, this led to the complete extinction of Oregon’s wolf population by the 1940s.

Public opinion shifted in the latter half of the 20th century. In 1974, gray wolves became protected by the Endangered Species Act. In 1995,

A wolf approaches a dead sheep near Lostine, Ore., on June 11, 2024. Lostine had six confirmed wolf depredations in 2024.

Fourth-generation rancher Kim Kearns runs a sheep ranch in Eastern Oregon. Kearns has been a moderate voice in the volatile debate over wolf conservation.

the US Fish and Wildlife Service reintroduced 66 wolves from Canada into Yellowstone National Park and Central Idaho. The efforts sought to control deer and elk populations, increase biodiversity and preserve an iconic species. These transplants soon established breeding populations, and by 1999, wolves had arrived in Oregon.

In 2005, Oregon adopted the Wolf Conservation and Management Plan, a document that both protects wolves and allows them to be relocated or killed if proven to be preying on livestock repeatedly. The three-phase plan is designed to protect wolves until healthy populations are re-established and then maintain those populations while balancing conservation with the interests of the agricultural industry.

In March 2025, Republican Senator Todd Nash helped pass two Oregon Senate bills, SB 777 and SB 985. The first aims to increase ranchers’ compensation to five times the market value of each animal killed by wolves. The second

would allocate $2 million of the Oregon General Fund for this compensation. These bills have yet to pass in the House.

Proponents say the compensation multiplier would help account for unconfirmed livestock losses, as well as indirect effects of stress on herds, like lower pregnancy rates.

Though Kerns supports compensation for livestock deaths and injuries, she’s worried about a recent amendment to SB 777 that would increase the portion of compensation money which must be put toward nonlethal deterrents.

“I don't ever want anyone to be able to say, ‘Hey, we gave you $10,000. Why couldn't you make [depredations] not happen?’ ” Kerns said. Instead, Kerns wants “an adequate framework for management,” which sometimes means killing wolves.

Kerns, a fourth-generation sheep and cattle rancher, has worked on her family’s property outside of Baker City, Oregon, nearly all her life. She’s had plenty of run-ins with wolves

become protected by the Endangered Species Act

Bounty killing renders wolves virtually extinct in Oregon

Gray wolves

Kearns tends to a newborn lamb in a shelter at the ranch. Lambs are particularly vulnerable to disease, cold weather and predation.

over the years. “We've had 500-pound calves that have had their jugular ripped out,” Kerns said. “It's just a crime scene. There's just blood sprayed as far as you can throw a rock where the animal was swung around by its rear end while it bled out.”

In January 2025, Kerns traveled to Arizona to attend the first meeting of the National Wolf Conversation, an effort funded by the USFWS designed to bring together various stakeholders in the American wolf debate in the name of “collaboration and trust-building.”

Kerns admitted she was skeptical at first. “I don’t really like hugging and I don’t really like singing Kum-ba-yah,” she said. But by day three of talking to representatives from government wildlife agencies, conservation groups and nonprofits, Kerns had grown optimistic. It was an opportunity to show non-ranchers what living in wolf country is really like.

olves are just one of many natural stressors ranchers face throughout the year. Wildfires, unpredictable weather and other predators pose major threats. According to Kerns, however, wolves are unique. They’re less scared of humans than coyotes, cougars, or bears, and they’re more willing to return again and again to prey on certain herds.

“It’s like the difference between dealing with a street gang and dealing with a little pickpocket,” Kerns said.

Wolves are extremely intelligent animals. If allowed to prey repeatedly on livestock, they’ll learn to seek out those herds. For wolves, cows and sheep are an easy meal. Unlike deer or elk, they’re always in the same place, and they don’t leave an area after one of their own is killed. Humans have bred out most of their natural survival instincts.

Kerns protects her herds with eight guard dogs and with electric fences at night. In the summer, she spends most of the day patrolling on horseback while her animals graze. She often sleeps on the range.

Kerns has tried most of the available wolf deterrent products, like colored flags on fences called fladry, noisemakers and flashing lights. In the end, she’s found human presence and guard dogs to be the most successful tool. “Everybody keeps trying to chase this silver bullet, and there just isn't one,” Kerns said.

Amaroq Weiss, a senior wolf advocate for the Center for Biological Diversity, thinks ranchers need to take more responsibility in protecting their livestock. Killing wolves, Weiss said, is a band-aid solution.

Weiss opposed SB 777, arguing the bill would “disincen-

tivize the use of proactive nonlethal wolf deterrents” and “decrease social tolerance of living with wolves.” If compensation funds must be employed, she said, they should instead incentivize nonlethal measures like guard dogs and range riding.

According to the ODFW, of the nearly $790,000 awarded to ranchers for wolf issues in 2024, 61% went toward preventative measures.

Range riding, which means monitoring free-range herds day in, day out, is a full-time job. Employing guard dogs costs thousands of dollars a year.

“It is a business for [ranchers], and they're expecting to be able to get a return from their business,” Weiss said. “It is distressing to have to put in additional time that they're not used to having to put in — but that's because we wiped out all the wolves to begin with.”

For many ranchers, accepting wolf presence isn’t the issue. The real struggle is finding enough time to monitor herds scattered across tens of thousands of acres of privately-owned range, government allotments and tribal territory.

Brian Ratliff, a field biologist for the ODFW’s Baker City field office, tracks radio-collared wolves and investigates possible wolf attacks. As Ratliff explained, there often aren’t enough days or hours in the week for ranchers to monitor their multiple ranges, let alone sleep or take time off. So when a rancher has a depredation in one place because they were guarding another, Ratliff wonders, “Do I say you’re not doing enough?”

One night, Ratliff got a call and some photos from a rancher who’d found one of his cows dead. Ratliff couldn’t tell from the photos whether wolves were responsible, so he told the rancher to skin a few areas of the carcass in hopes of determining the cause of death.

“You know what he tells me?” Ratliff said. “He says, ‘I can’t. It’s my cow — I can’t do that to her.’”

When Ratliff came out to investigate, he was astounded by how gentle the rancher was with his cattle. He treated them like family. “You can’t pay somebody for that,” Ratliff said. “If I told you, ‘Hey, you need to skin out your grandma,’ could you do it?”

According to Ratliff, there are situations when killing a wolf is necessary. Wolves that chronically attack livestock will often teach their behaviors to their mates and pups. Within a few generations, Ratliff said, an entire pack of wolves can learn to only target livestock, even in areas where wild prey are plentiful.

Ratliff recommends ranchers use hazing, or “non-injurious” shooting, to scare off wolves. In extreme cases, he can issue a kill permit to landowners or remove the wolf himself. This, he said, can deter future attacks, prevent the need

The USFWS introduces 66 wolves from Canada into Yellowstone National Park and Central Idaho

As wolves return to Oregon, the state adopts the Wolf Conservation and Management Plan

Wolves kill 24 sheep in Baker County’s Keating Valley, marking Oregon’s first wolf attack since reintroduction

’25

The Oregon Senate passes two bills, SB 777 and SB 985, which aim to increase compensation for ranchers affected by wolves

for extermination of an entire pack and discourage illegal wolf poaching.

In Western Oregon, where wolf populations are just starting to take root, landowners are not allowed to kill or haze wolves. East of highways 395, 78 and 95, however, hazing wolves is legal under Phase III of Oregon’s Wolf Management Plan. With the proper permit, lethal removal is also allowed.

“Nobody’s been able to give us a good reason to have them,” Jim Richards, a cattle rancher in Pendleton, said. He hasn’t accepted the return of wolves to Oregon. “Anything taken as far as cutting wildlife numbers down or anything else that some [prowolf advocates] are using for an excuse, other predators can do, or we can do with hunting.

Richards stepped back from his successful welding business

in La Grande to ranch full time. Cattle are his livelihood, his passion and his way of giving back. In a business like livestock production, he explained, losing a few $2,000 calves to wolves can be the difference between turning a profit and going under.

“We’re raising these in the long run to be food for human beings,” Richards said. “They’re going to die, but hopefully to do some good. We’re raising the highest quality protein in the world, and we’re not doing that to feed wolves.”

In recent years, Richards said, multiple government agencies have helped monitor his herds and notify him of nearby wolf activity. The USDA has even killed wolves that preyed on his cattle. Still, he claimed proudly to have never applied for compensation. “The government doesn’t owe me a living,” he said.

Richards’ attitude reflects a larger trend among some ranch-

Areas of Known Wolf Activity

Known Wolf Use Area

Estimated Wolf Use Area as of Dec. 24, 2024.

Baker County

Kim Kerns' property in Baker County, Ore., is located in an area with high wolf activity. Here, she facilitates the birthing process of her ewes each spring before turning them out to graze for the summer.

ers of not reporting wolf depredations. To them, accepting government assistance means accepting that wolves are here to stay.

As Ratliff explained, this stubbornness does little to improve public perception of ranchers.

“The argument from the other side is ‘Well, look, you didn’t have any depredations,’” Ratliff said. “It’s like, ‘Well, I did, I just didn’t frickin’ tell anybody.’”

It’s March, which means lambing season for Kerns. She hurries across the pasture toward her covered pen, holding a newborn lamb by its hind leg. Blood and feces stain the lamb’s white wool red and yellow.

“If ranching were entirely based on economics, none of us would be doing it,” Kerns said. “There is a practical business side to this, but we definitely get sucked in.” Smiling, she glanced over at Piggles, her 300-pound pet pig. Piggles scratched her back on the bed of a pickup truck before lumbering off.

No matter what the future holds, Kerns will continue to do what it takes to care for her livestock. To her ewes and lambs, she is a delivery nurse, doula, parent and coroner. When wolves are in town, she’s even a surgeon. After a wolf attack in 2023, Kerns and a ranch hand spent two hours sewing up a yearling ewe whose skin had been ripped off.

“She just held pieces of skin and I started stitching, and we put it back together like a jigsaw puzzle,” Kerns said. “She not only survived, but she lambed last year.”

Some might call that resilience. If you ask Kerns? “Lunacy.”

Stress from predators can negatively impact the well-being of livestock, leading to weight loss and reduced pregnancy rates.

Kearns and her sheep herder visit land in Baker County, Ore. that they share with predators who may attack her livestock. Kearns' eight guard dogs patrol her flock.

To love something is beautiful but fleeting. What happens when you’re forced to let go?

Story by Josh Berk and Aidan Eckhardt

Photos by Liam Hamilton

Henry Tabor flies around the Wildcat spectator hairpin at the 2025 Olympus Rally, his co-driver, Jack Gillow-Wiles, calling the turns through a tight set of woods.

Mother-daughter rally duo Janice (77) and Kristen Tabor (51) have spent 25 years tearing up the track. They show their matching dragonfly tattoos, a symbol of their driving.

Kristen Tabor, 51, checks the wheels one last time to make sure they are set properly. Her team’s 30 minutes are up, and she watches anxiously as her family pulls off in their Tabor-branded rally cars.

Tires spray dirt. People cheer and scream. The smell of gasoline hangs heavy over the racetrack.

She’s at a stage rally race. These rally races are held on gravel, dirt, snow, mud and all types of natural surface conditions. It’s an individual race. The drivers race against the clock. The co-driver must precisely read directions to the driver in a concise letter and number format, indicating road hazards ahead and estimated degrees of turns. All these elements and the ever-present danger of crashing into a tree or oversteering off a cliff results in an unforgiving but exciting form of racing.

Just two months ago, at their house in the Oregon City countryside, the Tabor family prepared for this race.

The periwinkle house that Kristen’s parents, Bruce and Janice Tabor, built 50 years ago, sits on the end of a long gravel driveway, along with a barn — it’s full of cars. A car graveyard lines the entry: some have patches of rust, some have split glass, and some are tucked under blue and grey tarps, mummified with moss.

The darling of the driveway is a blue 2003 Subaru WRX, “Smurfette.” Janice Tabor, 77, climbs inside the low race car as she’s done countless times before. Her short, white hair disappears from view as she swings her leg into the footwell. Sitting in the racing seat, she points out the roll cage and the kill switch: two essential safety components for stage rally cars.

Rally is tough on the cars and the drivers. The cars are constantly being rebuilt and re-specced. Rebuilding a human body isn’t as easy; these features are built in to keep drivers safe.

Smurfette bares marks of a mother and daughter’s racing adventures. Dozens of dents and dings freckle the car’s body. Stickers on the trunk lid read “Girls just want to have fun” and “My mom and I talk shit about you,” followed by Janice and Kristen’s racing number: 231.

“She made it fly,” Bruce said, pointing to a decayed 1972 Dodge Dart, its once-orange paintwork now muted by time. “I didn’t make it fly,” Kristen said. The two recited their age-old argument about if the car once caught air while a teenage Kristen drove.

“I just kinda wanted to see how fast it could go,” Kristen said with a sly smile.

At the end of 2024, Kristen had back surgery. This ruined hopes for competing in the 2025 season. Janice won’t race without her daughter. They were adored in the community, and without the two Tabors, rally lost a beloved and all-too-rare female team.

The sport has a high bar for entry. Starting out costs at least $25,000 for a beginner car, $5,000 for safety precautions and potentially thousands more for lodging and travel. Permits for closed roads, safety crews and months of planning make the organizational side of putting on a rally difficult as well.

“ It takes a lot to put a rally on, but so little to get it taken away,” Kristen’s nephew Henry said. This could mean a permit being pulled or a driver suffering an injury, to name a few.

Kristen and her mother and co-driver, Janice, are accountants like the rest of their family, but their passion is motorsport.

IT TAKES A LOT TO PUT A

TAKEN AWAY. RALLY ON

BUT IT TAKES so little to get

- Henry Tabor

“ One of the reasons I want to get back in the car so bad is because representation matters,” Kristen said. “The more women see women in the driver's seat, the more women will feel like ‘I can go race.’”

Historically, stage rally racing is a male-dominated sport. Women make up only 7 to 13 percent of participants overall, according to the More Than Equal report, Inside Track: Exploring the Gender Gap in Motorsport. One of the main barriers is a lack of visible role models. The passion to be the next racers to inspire women fuels Kristen and Janice Tabor’s desire to compete.

This has resulted in an abundance of medals and podium placements, as well as injuries significant enough to consider ending their racing careers. Giving up this long-time passion had nothing to do with a loss of interest, but understanding their limits.

Kristen is hesitant to declare rally racing as the definitive source of her back injury, but she says she can’t rule it out as a factor.

A major accident flipping of the vehicle is known as “rolling” the car. Rolling is semi-common in the world

of rally racing. Kristen and Janice have rolled twice. “I get to roll once every 25 years,” Kristen said.

“Kristen and Janice went 15 feet in the air and pirouetted down the hill into the stump of a tree,” Bruce said.

The fear of concussions, broken ribs and death lives in the back of drivers’ minds. This high-speed, highstakes sport leaves some racers to ask if risking their health is really worth it. Some racers answer that question earlier than others.

Ed Millman sits in his garage in front of his red 1989 BMW 325iX and a stripped-down 1951 Cooper 1100 V Twin awaiting its new coat of baby blue. Millman was a stage rally racer himself, usually a co-driver, until he gave it up for safer avenues.

“ There was a couple of pretty good-sized accidents that I was in, and that was right about the time that I got married and started having kids,” Millman said.

Lately, time speed distance rally racing has been Millman’s primary outlet for motorsports. TSD rally is a distance event done on open roads going under the speed limit. The art of being perfectly on time, down to the tenth of a second.

A Tabor car flies around the Deckerville spectator area hairpin, kicking up a cloud of dust during a gravel stage at the 2025 Olympus Rally on April 12.

Co-driver Kathryn Hansen flashes the three fingers to confirm the three-minute mark on their service time as driver Mark Tabor gears up to hit the stage at the 2025 Olympus Rally.

“ Probably the biggest risk you have in a TSD car is that you're going along and you have to make some kind of evasive maneuver,” Millman said. “In a TSD car, you've got clipboards and pens and pencils flying around and things like that. You probably get hurt by one of those as much as anything.”

With a new focus, Millman can safely continue to be a part of car and racing culture. But staying out of trouble is easier said than done. Where Millman decided to take a backseat, Kristen chose a different way to stay involved in the family hobby. She’s been volunteering her expertise in rally events as a crew chief.

“I'm struggling with that because I don't feel like I have any relevance,” Kristen said. “I'm used to being the main character and now I'm just an NPC [Non-Player Character].”

“For whatever reason, we find enjoyment in going 100 miles per hour past trees,” Janice said. “ They just don't ex-

pect a grandma to be doing that.”

Rushing back into racing too early could be disastrous for Kristen’s recovery. Hanging up the keys isn’t easy for Janice and Kristen.

“I hate having to be an adult. I want an adult to make this choice for me,” Kristen said. “ I'm showing other women that they can go race cars too, just by being in the car and doing it.”

“ And they don't have to be 20-something to do it,” Janice added.

The dynamic between driver and co-driver is difficult to master. It's built on trust, timing and an understanding of each other’s rhythm. The two have to mesh just right, and it can take a lifetime to find a good pairing. Unless you’re born to the perfect co-driver like Janice and Kristen.

Janice has only co-driven for Kristen, her husband,

“ ” RALLYING IS A DISEASE

FOR WHICH THERE

- Bruce Tabor

Above: The kill switch is a safety feature that allows for instant engine and electrical shut-off in the event of a crash. This prevents the spread and ignition of fuel.

Right: The Tabor pit crew makes last-minute preparations during their service time at the 2025 Olympus Rally on April 13.

Bruce, and her granddaughter, Madelyn Tabor. The irreplaceable bond she shares with Kristen makes it difficult to adapt to drivers.

Sidelined during Kristen’s recovery, Janice is experiencing something of an identity crisis herself.

“ I can't figure out where my place on the team is right now. Kristen has taken over as crew chief and I will assist her, but I don't really have an identity on the team yet,” Janice said.

She has slowly been taking on a supporting role on the crew.

“ It's definitely not the adrenaline rush to being in the car, I'm gonna tell you that. I still miss that,” Janice said.

“Rallying is a disease for which there is no known cure,” Bruce said. Nowhere is that more evident than at the Olympus Rally in Shelton, Washington. Fans bushwack and wait hours in advance to see their favorite racers drift by for no more than a few seconds at a time.

Afterward, drivers honk their horns and showboat at large turns to thrill the spectators.

Despite — or possibly driven by — her urge to compete again, Kristen has fit right in servicing the vehicles. She moves with surgical precision at the airstrip where the cars

come in for repairs and tuning.

Janice is missing this race. She’s visiting her granddaughter in Washington, D.C. She texts Kristen often, eagerly waiting for updates.

“ It seems like every single time [the racing team] starts coming to service, I get a text. ‘How's it going? What's going on?’” Kristen said, laughing.

Henry Tabor and his dad, Mark, placed second and third in their respective classes. Madelyn doubled her speed factor — a complex measuring system of how fast drivers are going — at this race, earning her and her co-driver a large check and recognition at the podium ceremony. But Kristen and Janice made it clear: they want to join the rest of their family on the podium again.

“The Tabors are a staple in Rally. If there’s not a Tabor in the rally, can you really call it a rally?” Ed Flaisig, the man announcing every car pass with a megaphone, said.

“Unless there are at least two,” Kristen Tabor said.

The mother-daughter duo said they haven’t felt closure within racing. They can already picture what closure will look like: a podium placement, a champagne spray and a party. Kristen hopes that day will come soon. Until then, she’s found joy in her new role on the family team. F

Cans of champagne spray as Henry Tabor and Jack Gillow-Wiles celebrate 2nd in Limited Two Wheel Drive at the 2025 Olympus Rally, with Mark Tabor and Kathryn Hansen in 3rd.

Reborn

Reborn Through Motherhood

Rikki Hull has two kids and experienced two very different births. After the first birth, she nearly died. After the second, she was reborn.

Story by Abby Snethen

Photos by Sofia Rodriguez Baquero

Illustrations by Jade Mervar

Content warning: The following discusses topics that may be upsetting to some readers. This includes depictions of blood, self-harm, mental health, sexual abuse, and mentions of suicide. If you are in need of support, contact the suicide prevention lifeline at 988.

ikki Hull was rushed to the hospital. Blood gushed out of deep, painful cuts on her left arm. Her heartbeat rattled her body and rang in her ears as she sat in the passenger seat of the car. She sank in and out of dissociation, and heard the distant yell of “How could you do this,” from the driver.

Before the ride to the hospital, before the cuts on her arm, before the ringing in her ears, Hull left her partner’s house in Red Bluff, California, to take a walk.

She was a new mom, taking care of her baby that evening. She was overwhelmed. She started to become frantic. Fearful that she was a bad mother. That she wasn’t doing anything right. She just wanted to clear her head — to be alone. But she wasn’t granted that solace.

Her boyfriend followed her, trailing behind as she left the house.

He asked her what she was doing and why she decided to walk alone. When she told him to leave and that he wasn’t helping, he spoke the words that sent Hull over the edge.

“You’re right. You are a bad mom,” he said.

The words confirmed her worst fears. Distress took over as her hand slipped into her jacket pocket. Her fingers brushed against a knife she didn’t remember having. She began to cut into her left arm. Her vision began to blur.

“It was this clarity moment of like, I need to actually die,” Hull said.

Her partner took off his shirt to wrap around her arm. He didn’t have a driver's license, but had no other choice but get Hull in the car and drive her to the hospital.

“How dare you do this?” and “How dare you make me drive?” her partner said. Although Hull was in need of serious medical help, all he could do was blame.

That evening in 2013, she stayed the night in the crisis unit and was released the next day. She was isolated in the unit, no one would speak to her. It was part of the staffing protocol — to not talk to patients as an effort to decrease the risk of triggering another suicidal episode. Hull remembers saying, “You can’t leave someone alone in here who’s going through this.”

That was the first night she had been away from her 4-month-old baby.

She was only 18.

Maternal mental health conditions affect 800,000 families each year in the United States. Of those women, 75% go untreated, prolonging their symptoms, according to the Mater-

nal Mental Health Leadership Alliance.

Hull was diagnosed with mental health disorders at a young age. Anxiety and severe depression consumed her childhood and adulthood. She never knew the complications these disorders could cause if she wanted to have a child.

“I was already at risk for suicidal stuff before I got pregnant,” said Hull. The hospital staff told her to watch out for the symptoms that normally accompany her mental health symptoms. She didn’t know what might happen.

According to the American Mental Health Counselors Association, over 55% of women who experience depression in their lives have their first episode during the postpartum period.

Hull had attempted suicide multiple times before her pregnancy. The severity of the attempt that took place in 2013, however, was something she’d never experienced. That was the first time she had dissociated during an attempt. She was completely unaware of what she was doing.

She rarely felt support from her family growing up. Her fluctuating mental stability was a major point of contention.

When she found out she was pregnant at 17, she decided to have the child.

“It was almost alien, but I felt in my gut that this human would be so important to me,” said Hull.

The birth was a success, but not in the way she wanted. She wanted a natural birth, away from hospitals, with a midwife and doula.

She was two weeks behind schedule and needed to be induced or else she would have to get a C-section. Going to the hospital was a last resort.

Nurses and doctors flooded into the room. Her entire family, about 15 people, were present as she was in labor. As a survivor of sexual abuse, Hull felt uncomfortable being touched while giving birth in an already unsettling environment. All eyes were on her.

After she gave birth, her family showed her more kindness than she was used to receiving. They wanted to be close to her. They wanted to take care of her baby.

“Everyone was all about me while I was pregnant, but as soon as the baby was out of me, it was like, ‘How’s the baby? Baby’s doing good, so you must be doing good.’”

When Hull would experience a mental crisis, such as suicidal ideation, her maternal side of the family would turn to the church and pray.

She was insecure about leaning on her family after giving birth. “Not having a solid support system was a really big help in me losing my mind a bit later,” said Hull.

After she became a mom, she let her family tell her where

“I started thinking everyone was going to take my baby.”

-Rikki Hull

Hull’s

support system during her second birth was pared down and intentional. Her doula continued to be a part of Hull’s postpartum recovery, and fought to get her the exact care she wanted.

to go and what to do. She says this shift in control made her lose touch with reality. She felt that her baby wasn’t really hers and that she didn’t know what she was doing as a first-time mother.

“I started thinking everyone was going to take my baby,” said Hull.

She isolated herself and her baby. She was scared of everyone.

About 85% of mothers, Hull among them, never receive medical attention or support after they give birth, according to AMHCA.

She tried to get her partner at the time involved with parenting. The same partner who shamed her for her suicide attempt. When things didn’t go his way, he became aggressive toward Hull. In 2013, she left him.

Her postpartum issues lasted for a couple of years after her first birth. She moved from California to Eugene, Oregon in 2018 and has stayed since.

Hull’s daughter, now 12, lives with Hull and her husband. Hull hasn’t experienced a severe mental crisis for the past five years. Eleven years after her first birth, she became pregnant again and had her second child in January of 2025.

“My second birth was amazing,” said Hull.

She went to a birthing clinic in Eugene where she had a midwife and doula. It was the support system she wanted the first time around.

Her midwife and doula had been with Hull throughout most of her pregnancy, unlike her first birth when the staff in the hospital briefly met Hull in between shifts.

She got to the birthing clinic around 10 a.m.

Similar to the first birth, she had trouble going into labor. Tonic water, spicy curry and exercises were a few of the things Hull did to kickstart her contractions.

stuck with her after her second birth, consistently checking in and making at-home visits. Her doula, support system and the control she had over her second birth were the differences between feeling uplifted and feeling out of control.

A few weeks ago, about two months after her second birth, her doula performed a binding ritual on Hull to honor her body and what she went through.

Rhythmic hums and hymns filled the room, loud in Hull’s ears, unlike the shame and taunts that filled her ears 11 years prior on the way to the hospital. Her doula, singing and chanting, used a long piece of fabric to wrap around Hull’s body.

“Thank you for the mind that pushed us through hard times.” The fabric would tighten, then release. “Thank you for the mouth that enables us to breathe.”

To Hull, this was a release she had long waited for. “A good portion of my life I didn’t want to be here,” she said.

She had never thanked herself before. Never reflected so deeply on everything that she went through as a single mother.

“I thought to my younger self, thank you so much for pushing through and getting me here.”

Hull couldn’t afford a doula the first time around as an 18-year-old waitress at Applebee’s.

As of 2023, 41 states have taken action to extend Medicaid coverage for postpartum care, with 32 states approved for funding and nine still waiting, according to the National Conference of State Legislatures.

Hull feels the hospital provided textbook general care for a person who desperately needed individualized care.

“It’s a lot more cold,” Hull said in comparison to her birthing center experience.

The cold shoulder from the hospital and her family not only affected her mental health, but taught her what she wanted for her second birth and what she wanted for her children.

“I told my mom a lot of things that weren’t believed,” Hull said. “I’m going to believe my kids.”

Hull doesn’t resent her mother anymore.

The way she was raised taught her how she wants to parent and what she wants to avoid. The mental and emotional abuse from her first partner taught her how she wants to be loved. The birth of her first child taught her how she wanted to be supported during a life-changing event.

“It’s crazy when you start talking like you want to live,” Hull said.

Suicide accounts for 20% of perinatal maternal deaths, according to the Journal of Midwifery and Women’s Health. Hull was minutes away from being a part of that 20%, 121 days postpartum.

Even after countless near-death experiences, sexual and mental abuse, lack of family support and having to grow up quickly at the age of 18, she considers herself lucky.

“I’m here. I’m healthy. I’m happy,” Hull said. Words that 12 years earlier, Hull never thought she F

Hull is now a mother to her 12-year-old daughter and her newborn. “The first time [giving birth] was scary, and this time was beautiful,” Hull says, “and I’m so happy that my kid was able to see the beautiful side.”

CURRENT AGAINST THE

Story by Riley Fox

CURRENT AGAINST

Had he not been diagnosed with young-onset Parkinson’s Disease, Todd Vogt might still be a good rower, but he wouldn’t have become a world-class professional athlete.

Vogt arrives at Portland Boat Club just as the sun peaks over the horizon. He brushes his teeth, then makes a cup of coffee as the soft morning light leaks into the boathouse. He trades his coffee for exercise bands and joins his friends in their warm-up.

After a round of stretching and rowing gossip, Vogt moves to the rowing machine and begins his training. At first, he’s stiff. His left hand curls awkwardly around the handle. As the minutes pass, his strokes grow smoother, more deliberate. Sweat beads at his temple, dampening his dirty blond hair where it grays at the edges. His eyes stay locked on the small screen, tracking each pull. The only sounds are the machine's soft whoosh and his steady, forceful breathing.

Some days, when the tremors are intense and the exhaustion takes over, Vogt wonders: Would he trade it all — the championships, the medals, the recognition — for a body that worked the way it used to? His answer changes, sometimes by the hour.

It all started with a flyer outside his freshman dorm at the University at Buffalo in 1992. It advertised joining the rowing team to get fit and make friends. He thought, “Why not?”

What hooked Vogt was the video the coach

showed at the team’s informational meeting. The rowers’ oars sliced through the water in unison and the athletes gasped for air as they crossed the finish line.

Vogt’s takeaway was not that he wanted to get exceptionally fit or muscular, nor the team dynamic. What enticed him was the gasping; the exhaustion he saw in the rower’s faces.

“I can do that,” Vogt thought.

He didn’t just want to row. He wanted to push himself to the limit.

“I got the sense that the sport depended on how hard you work and if you're able to push yourself physically hard — if you could endure pain,” Vogt said. “If hurting yourself is part of the sport, I could hurt myself.”

Vogt continued to row with the team for the rest of his college career. He graduated with a bachelor’s in biochemistry and then went on to get a master’s in the same subject. He moved to Portland in 2000, where he became a senior research assistant at Oregon Health & Science University.

Vogt attempted to make the national team, but despite rowing competitively after college, he couldn’t balance working and training in a way that allowed him to reach that goal.

After nine years, Vogt quit his job in biochemical research at OHSU to become a rowing coach. He wanted to put all his time and energy into the sport. He trained competitive teams around the country.

After years of chasing exhaustion, one day it finally caught up to him.

Vogt was diagnosed with early-onset Parkinson’s at 43 while coaching in Lake Oswego.

“One first thought was how is this going to impact my relationship with Heather [his wife]?" Vogt said.

He worried she may have to become a caretaker for him.

“That kind of changed my entire life trajectory.

After rowing for six miles, Todd Vogt continues to workout on his rowing machine in the boat club boathouse, training for another 45 minutes.

Photo by Miles Cull

Previous Page: Todd Vogt sculls under the Wapato / Sauvie Island Bridge on the Willamette River, 19 April, 2025. Vogt often rows from the Portland Boat Club, north of Portland, Ore.

Photo by Lucas Carroll

Vogt helps three-time Women's Masters Single Covered Bridge Regatta champion, Dorothy Atwood, carry her boat after her win at the Dexter Resevoir near Lowell, Ore, April 12, 2025. Her win was contingent on the race's agemodified system. As she returned to shore, Carol Pelmas, Atwood's teammate, said, "If you can't be fast, be old."

Photo by Miles Cull

“ I thought to myself, to make the Paralympic national team? '”

IT TAKE 'WHAT’S

Vogt starts his early morning routine in Portland, Ore. After making his breakfast of coffee and a protein shake, Vogt gets on the road to arrive at the Portland Boat Club by 8 a.m. In college, he would leave for practice at the same time that one of his roommates would go to bed.

Photo by Miles Cull

I didn't know where my life was going to go at that point,” he said.

Parkinson's disease is a movement disorder of the nervous system that progressively worsens over time. It can cause shaking, stiff muscles, slow movements and balance problems.

Roughly 10,000 people per year are diagnosed with young-onset Parkinson’s disease. It’s distinguished by development before the age of 50. It progresses slowly, and symptoms include frequent involuntary movements, muscle cramps and abnormal postures, according to the Parkinson’s foundation.

There is currently no cure.

When his symptoms flare, Vogt’s left arm trembles. He might bounce slightly in his seat or shift his posture — subtle adjustments in an effort to keep control.

“When I first wake up, my tremor in my left hand is pretty violent, and I take medication as soon as I get up. It takes about half an hour to kick in,” he said.

When the medication isn’t working, the whole left side of Vogt’s body locks up. His tremor becomes more noticeable.

Parkinson's presents a variety of symptoms depending on the person. Vogt doesn’t report having a lot of cognitive issues six years after his diagnosis.

He wanted to continue rowing.

“What's it take to make the Paralympic national team?” Vogt thought.

Vogt started researching whether competing as an adaptive athlete was possible for him. Based on his symptoms, he would be classified as a PR3 Paralympic rower, formerly known as Legs, Trunk and Arms.

PR3 is a para-rowing class for athletes with physical or visual impairments including limb loss, muscle weakness or coordination issues.

Vogt realized he could compete among other adaptive athletes, if not beat them. He went from being a good rower to an elite rower in a new category.

In the winter of 2018-19, Vogt began to take his training more seriously. He reached out to Ellen Minzer, the director of Para High Performance for USRowing.

“[Ellen] asked for a bunch of results from workouts on the rowing machine, so I did those and sent them off to her,” he said.

When she saw the results, she invited him to the selection camp. There, they would decide who would represent the U.S. at the 2019 World Championships in Austria. Vogt had his sights set on the top boat — a mixed four-person crew with two men and two women. But when final placements came out, he was assigned to a two-man boat instead.

Vogt became an international competitor — a level he never imagined reaching.

“It felt like a rowing fantasy, making the U.S. national team,” Vogt said.

Unfortunately, just making the team did not mean

they were guaranteed to perform well.

“We finished in sixth place, is what I like to say. There's only six entries though, so we finished DFL — dead freaking last,” Vogt said.

The next summer was the Paralympics. He needed to work even harder.

“I remember telling Ellen [Minzer] after World Championships, ‘I'm coming back next year. I can be fitter — faster.’ She's like, ‘All right, show me,’” he said.

He put his head down and got back to training. His motivation was getting a spot on the four-person team.

“A lot of times, I train with a little bit of a chip on my shoulder. Sometimes I feel like as good as I am, I'm not really that good,” he said. “I'm fit on the rowing machine, but I'm a little rough on the water. I think sometimes I train to prove people wrong.”

Rowing has become something far more personal to Vogt — his lifeline in the face of a deteriorating body. Exercise is one of the best things a person can do to help with Parkinson’s. It helps reduce symptoms, and research has shown it may even slow the progression of the disease. For the first 20 to 30 minutes after Vogt finishes a workout, his tremor almost completely disappears.

“I'm always impressed by his ability to train by himself. It's a certain level of pushing yourself that is really hard to do when there's nobody in the room,” Pearl Outlaw, his training partner for the 2022 World Championships, said. “He's able to do that just out of his own force of will. You can't teach that or learn it. You either have it or you don't.”

Vogt has won a World Rowing Cup and two

national championships as an adaptive athlete. In 2024, he was named USRowing’s Para Male Athlete of the Year.

His coach, Hans Feige, calls him a “freak of nature.” Teammates and coaches know him as upbeat, relentless and at times a little obsessed.

“I think one thing you’ll understand about Todd is that he’s ridiculously positive,” Feige said. “I’ve been out on the water with him when it’s raining f—ing buckets, and he’s still having a great time.”

At the level Vogt competes at, it’s not easy to give it all up. More than half of Vogt’s life has been spent rowing. It’s not something he wants to just let go of. Rowing isn’t just a routine. It’s a part of his identity.

Now 50, Vogt is decades older than many of his teammates. Time is catching up. The same body that once answered every demand with power and precision now hesitates. His left side stiffens more often. The tremors last longer. Even rowing — a place Parkinson’s seemed to loosen its grip — is becoming harder to sustain.

The sport that once offered control over his body now reflects its limits. He still shows up before sunrise. He still trains with something to prove, but he knows there’s only so long he can outrun a progressive disease. He wonders if it’s time to step back.

“I can see the future, being involved in the Parkinson's community,” he said. “I meet a lot of people who have Parkinson's who are older, so I can kind of see where the future is going — and it's not necessarily super great, you know.”

At the end of the day, Vogt rows not to escape what’s coming, but to meet it head-on, for as long as he can. And maybe that’s all there is left to do.

Right: Vogt grips his oars during a practice run in the Multnomah Channel in Portland, Ore. Vogt varies his stroke speed between practice and competition. He often takes a deliberately slower pace than other competitors, and describes his rowing style as more focused on sheer power.

Photo by Miles Cull

Far Right: Vogt looks over his shoulder as he approaches Wapato Bridge, north of downtown Portland, Ore. In the springtime, Vogt often finds himself navigating around fisherman and salmon.

Photo by Lucas Carroll F

WRONG PEOPLE PROVE I TRAIN TO SOMETIMES I THINK “

“

CAUGHT IN THE NET.

What once lived in spam folders now hides in job offers and social feeds.

Story by Claire Conger

Illustrations by Jack DeKoker

In 2006, José Dominguez won the lottery. The news came in a letter from Spain. He might have believed it if he didn’t know a thing or two about scams.

Dominguez was already about a decade into his career managing cybersecurity risks at the University of Oregon. Identifying and taking down scammers is all part of the job.

Catching a phish is all in the details — oddities, subtle inconsistencies and missteps. It’s about piecing together fragments of evidence and digital breadcrumbs that lead to enough proof to expose a fraud.

The consequences of a digital deception like getting phished aren’t just financial — it’s not only tens, hundreds or thousands of dollars. It’s one’s identity. The crawling feeling that someone was meticulous enough to manipulate trust and imitate an identity.

Tactics like these are defined as social engineering: malicious manipulation used to trick users into disclosing personal information. These deceptions reach beyond financial loss — they challenge users’ understanding of security and legitimacy by understanding users’ habits, circumstances and weaknesses.

As technology advances, so do the methods phishing attempts use to infiltrate users’ lives. Over time, social media platforms have intertwined with professional networks such as LinkedIn, Handshake and Substack, reshaping some online interactions.

Simultaneously, artificial intelligence is becoming more embedded in daily life, bringing both potential and user skepticism.

While the term was coined in the 20th century, its breakthroughs in the 21st century, particularly with the creation of OpenAI and ChatGPT, have sparked widespread attention. The release of ChatGPT marked a turning point for artificial intelligence. Its ability to

mimic human language and interactions makes it increasingly difficult for users to distinguish between human-made and artificial creations.

The Pew Research Center's 2023 survey of 11,004 U.S. adults revealed that while many Americans recognize common uses of AI, only 30% could correctly identify the various AI uses mentioned in the survey, including spam emails and customer service chatbots. Cybercriminals can use AI to generate emails or messages, create deepfake audio and video, or scan social media and public data to personalize phishing attempts.

In Febraury of 2024, scammers used deepfake technology to trick a finance worker at a multinational firm out of $25 million by posing as the company’s chief financial officer in a fake conference call. Every person in the call was a deepfake recreation. The worker, who remained anonymous in the original report by CNN, was initially lured into the scam with a suspicious text message. He put his doubts aside when he saw what appeared to be his colleagues in the video call.

This growing awareness gap is particularly concerning as cybercriminals leverage advanced techniques to exploit even the smallest vulnerabilities, making online fraud sophisticated and hard to detect.

According to Dominguez, phishing is a form of organized crime. Phishing homes in on the details of someone’s life and exposes any sliver of vulnerability that makes a fraudulent link more enticing or makes a reader trust a deceitful email.

According to the Federal Bureau of Investigation’s 2023 Internet Crime Report, the FBI received 3.79 million complaints with victims suffering a cumulative $37.4 billion in total losses from scams between 2019 and 2023.

Dominguez speculates as to why this is society's Achilles' heel.

“Every civilization has some behavior or actions that have

Between 2019 and 2023, the FBI received 3,790,000 complaints, with victims undergoing a cumulative $37,400,000,000 in total losses as a result of the scams.

destroyed that civilization,” Dominguez said. “For us, for this civilization, it's going to be convenience.”

Convenience, in this regard, refers to the ease of using shorter passwords or avoiding extra steps, such as two-factor authentication — a process that adds 30 more seconds to logging in.

Kevin Long is the CEO and founder of Social Imposture, an organization that finds, reports and removes fake social network profiles for high-profile clients such as celebrities or politicians. Long has been referred to as a Facebook Bounty Hunter.

After more than a decade in cybersecurity, Long has identified some of the details that users can look for to detect a potential scam and avoid getting phished.

“Be careful who you accept requests from, first of all,” he said. “Second of all, make sure that you have two-factor authentication turned on on your account. That's probably the most basic security element to keep your account from being hacked and then turned into a phishing account for other people.”

Long highlighted the growing trend of excess media consumption, where users spend hours scrolling through content. According to the Global Web Index, the average global user spends about two and a half hours per day on social media.

“When you're just mindlessly scrolling through, you still got to be on alert and on guard,” Long said.

Dominguez supports Long’s recommendation of using two-factor authentication and either lengthening passwords or using a password manager to store

strong passwords securely. He holds his passwords to a high standard, with most of his around 50 characters, and avoids using anything shorter than 25.

However, even with long passwords, two-factor authentication, and a deep understanding of phish ing tactics, Dominguez and Long constantly face new challenges in their work.

AI’s presence has created obstacles in identify ing and troubleshooting phishing scams.

“The first level, which is the most obvious, is that the organizations that are building these fake accounts are using AI to build them, and they're able to do it more rapidly than they were able to do before because of that,” Long said.

Some social networks rely on AI to report fake accounts. These networks use algorithms to take down accounts, but they lack the human touch of “getting into the nuance” of the post to distinguish authenticity from phishing attempts.

AI operates with social networks based on preset instructions for specific scenarios, such as when x, y, or z happens. However, if something unexpected occurs, like an imposter account behaving or ap pearing unusually, the system might not flag it as fake.

As of 2025, Meta reported that it was ending its long-standing fact-checking program.

The complexity in identifying fake accounts is only one layer of the challenge; another is the psy chological tactics used to exploit people.

Some scams succeed because the victim wants to avoid additional hardship: a parking ticket, having their password reset, or having a job offer expire if they don’t fill out a form in time.

Dominguez highlighted the use of urgency in these scams. “It really talks to you about the psy chology of the individuals that send these messages and their victims,” he said. “If you are struggling financially, and you get an email, or a voice call, or anything that says that your life will get even harder if you don't reach back out, there's a good chance you will react.”

University of Oregon junior Avery Wachowiak experienced this firsthand.

In 2023, Wachowiak needed a job. She turned to Handshake, a popular hiring platform, and found a job: a remote position working for a UO professor offering around $500 per month.

Wachowiak got the job. Soon after, she received her first assignment via text. The assignment was due by the end of the weekend, and she spent hours attempting to complete it by the deadline.

“[The scams] keep trying to find ways to trick the users into chasing something. And the way to chase it is, by saying things like, ‘I have a great job for you,’” Dominguez said. “That happens a lot with the students trying to figure out how to make some money while attending school. And you get these great opportunities. This is one of those examples where if it is too good to be true, it's probably a lie.”

One of the first steps of a scam, Dominguez said, is isolating the victim — like a pride of lions separating its prey from the herd.

Wachowiak posted her new position on LinkedIn. That’s when the truth started to reveal itself.

“The actual professor reached out to me and was like, ‘Hey, I'm actually on sabbatical right now. I think you got phished because I'm not hiring,’” she said. “It was really frustrating because it was at a time when I really needed a job and I finally got a job, but yeah, then it was fake.”

After discovering the truth, Wachowiak contacted the UO phishing email, where students and UO affiliates can report scams.

“We develop a lot of tools. One of those is a thing we call Phish Tank,” Dominguez said. “The Phish Tank basically has specimens of every phishing message that we see around the university.”

In the Phish Tank, users can browse through

actual phishing attempts, including the sender’s email and the contents of the message. “DON’T MISS OUT ON FLEXIBLE OPPORTUNITY”, “Free Items Available”, and “CONTACT THE BARRISTER OFFICE NOW” are a few examples of the flashy subject lines found in the Phish Tank.

Alongside the measurable damage of being caught in a scam, there is also an emotional toll.

“I don't know. It made me feel kind of dumb because, how did this happen to me?” Wachowiak said.

Eric Howald, the assistant director of issues management for the University of Oregon, emphasizes the importance of erasing stigma around being a victim of a scam.

“There's no shame in getting taken in by this. There are people who are organizing to take things from you,” Howald said. “They were engineering a way to do this.”

Wachowiak is certainly not alone in this experience. “Even the federal government gets hacked,” Dominguez said, laughing.

As technology dependence grows, understanding its impact is no longer optional — it’s critical for protecting autonomy.

New platforms, tools and methods of manipulation will continue to emerge. The power of the media lies not just in what is created, but in how it is consumed.

“It still bugs me to this day that I don't know who did it,” Wachowiak said. Stories like hers prove that anyone can get phished, but as the line between fact and fiction blurs, media literacy and critical thinking become more essential than ever. F

Winnie Nyman doesn’t know how much time she has left with her sister Kathy; but, in the face of death, Winnie has learned to make the most of her life.

In the

Death Face of

Death

Story by Annie Botswick and Luka DeMay

Photos by Alyssa Garcia

Illustrations by Mia Pippert

Kathy Wong, 74, holds the hands of her younger sisters, Winnie Nyman, 62 and Doris Lane, 65. She stays in the Cedar Room at the Hopewell House in Portland Ore., with personal photos and memorabilia surrounding her.

KKathy Wong used to be her mother’s primary caregiver. Kathy was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer in February 2024. Her younger sister, Winnie, then living in Texas, dropped everything to take care of both of them. It’s what she does now.

Kathy, now 74, is no longer lucid. She spends her days thumbing through old cooking magazines in her room at Hopewell House, a residential care facility in Southwest Portland for those nearing death. Winnie tends to her bedside. On most days, their mother, now 94, sits outside the door.

Kathy’s room is warmly lit. The wall of windows behind her bed faces a dense forest of evergreen trees; the sill is lined with flowers and picture frames.

The room is void of beeping sounds or the harsh fluorescent lights common to medical facilities.

The quiet chatter of families in rooms nearby floats through her open door.

Kathy’s stay at Hopewell House is unconventional. She was supposed to be there for only a week, to receive hospice care. Now, she and her family have been there for over a year.

Winnie grew up in Portland with her sisters, Kathy, Doris and Norma. Kathy was the oldest, and the first to move out.

"Growing up with Kathy, she was kind of an enigma to us," Winnie said. "We would see her on holidays, and it was cool to have our big sister around."

Winnie was 16 when Kathy moved back into her childhood home at 28. It was then that the sisters grew closer.

"She always gave us a lot of advice," Winnie said. "Typically unsolicited advice, but she was always very generous."

When Kathy received her cancer diagnosis, she called Winnie to tell her it was terminal.

This wasn’t the first time Winnie was faced with losing a sister. Her older sister, Norma, died six years prior, after battling breast cancer for nearly 40 years.

"[Kathy’s diagnosis] hit me pretty hard," Winnie said. "I was driving, and I just said, 'I gotta call you back.'"

Before Kathy's diagnosis, the three sisters lived across the country from each other — Kathy in Portland, Winnie in Texas and Doris in Pennsylvania — but Kathy's diagnosis has

brought the family back to the city they grew up in.

The initial prognosis gave her three to five years to live. By the time Winnie put her life on pause and arrived to care for her sister, Kathy's health had quickly declined.

Kathy had been receiving hospice care in her family home for almost a month when she had an episode that left her unconscious. She has experienced dementia since then.

Pancreatic cancer is difficult to treat. The American Cancer Society estimates that 67,400 people will be diagnosed this year, and 51,980 people will die from it.

"It really became clear, when talking to the doctors, that she was not healthy enough to survive," Winnie said. "So she decided that she was ready to go on hospice and forgo any type of treatment."

Kathy wasn’t the same after her episode.

“It’s like she's there, but she's not really there,” Doris said. Winnie has been responsible for decisions regarding her

I never want Kathy to ever feel alone.

-Winnie Nyman

Winnie Nyman hikes up a small hill when she gets a moment to herself while visiting her sister Kathy Wong. Winnie watches for wildlife and thinks about “the end.”

sister and mother's care. She knew that her family needed more support, and soon, Kathy was living at Hopewell House.

Kathy had experienced the death of a dear friend at Hopewell House. The house aims to deinstitutionalize people's end-of-life experiences by providing care and comfort in a home-like environment.

“She made it real clear that when the time came,” Winnie said. “This is where she wanted to be.”

Before the 20th century, Americans nearing the end of their lives would die in their homes, surrounded by family. In the 1950s, as more terminally ill patients spent their final days in hospitals rather than in their homes, American society experienced an institutional shift.

"We lost it in those years that we stopped having people die at home in parlors and started having them die in hospitals,” Claire Turner, a regular volunteer at Hopewell House, said. “The last decades have been about acknowledging and learning and coming to understand that the body knows how to die. We don't have to be afraid."

Their days at Hopewell House have allowed the sisters to be intentional with the time they have left with each other. "To address death as a natural part of life," Claire said. "We are given opportunities to celebrate a life lived while our loved ones are still alive."

When coming back to Portland last year, Winnie had not expected to put her life in Texas on hold for so long, but she never questioned taking care of her sister. “I never want Kathy to ever feel alone,” Winnie said.

Winnie’s husband takes care of their two elderly cats at her home in Texas. Meanwhile, Winnie manages her sister’s care and makes plans for her mother’s future care, while helping her daughter prepare for her upcoming wedding from afar. "There are a lot of unknowns at this point."

Winnie knows that Kathy’s goodbye has been longer than most Hopewell residents.

“I think my mind works in terms of analogies, right? We've been here a long time, and we’ve seen dozens of families come and go,” Winnie said. “It's almost like you're going on this roller coaster ride. It's up and down, up and down, and then you get to the end of the ride, everybody else is getting off, but you're going for another round."

When Kathy arrived at Hopewell House, she picked out a handmade light green and pink quilt from an array offered to all residents. She will keep the quilt with her — sometimes spread across her bed, sometimes folded neatly nearby — until she dies.

Then, her sisters and mother will follow her out of the house in a walkout ceremony. Staff, volunteers and visitors will lay flower

A knitted heart made by a volunteer at Hopewell House given to Kathy Wong as a keepsake to hold her family’s love at all times.

There is beauty in saying goodbye.

petals on her as she leaves Hopewell House for the last time. Volunteers will then fold the petals into the quilt before opening it up — allowing the petals to be carried away by the wind. The quilt will then be given to her family.

"There is beauty in saying goodbye," Winnie said. "To just kind of share that grief with everybody."

Winnie and Doris participate in as many walkouts as they can.

“You know — my secret wish was I thought when she retired, and I retired, we'd go traveling together. We could be the two old ladies going together, traveling the world, and now that’s never going to happen,” Doris said.

“I think there's a lot in the world I don't wanna put on the back burner anymore,” Winnie said.

At Hopewell House, Winnie clears her head by walking up a short path to a bench surrounded by trees. She looks for owls in the dense green branches, thinking about Kathy's life and what will come after her death.

Throughout her life, Kathy was an avid reader and a fan of cooking shows and magazines. She had a passion for recipes and learning about cooking, but never really cooked. "It was her thing," Winnie said.

Kathy never married or had kids of her own, but her sisters often reminisce on her tenderness as an aunt — always doting on her nieces and nephews.

“She has two close friends,” Doris said. “They still come and visit her.”

Mementos from Kathy's life decorate her room at Hopewell House, and she frequently wears knit hats made by her friends. A collage of notes and pictures are taped on her wall; a save-the-date for Winnie's daughter's wedding in September hangs there too.

The windowsill is lined with family photos. A frame of Kathy, Winnie, Doris and Norma when they were young is tucked among them.

Kathy will be cremated and, eventually, Winnie and Doris will spread the ashes of their two older sisters along the Oregon Coast.

“I think they would have loved that,” Winnie said. “They relied on each other.”

Each morning, Winnie walks through the front doors with her mother and Doris. "My mom's very strong-willed, but this will definitely break her heart," Winnie said. “To lose two daughters, that's really tough.”

She scribbles their names on a sign-in sheet filled with the signatures of other visitors. She greets staff as she walks through the sunlit corridor that leads to Kathy's room.

Once in her room, Winnie watches cooking shows with Kathy, while remaining attentive to her needs. Doris knits beside them, always ready to help, while their mother naps on a small couch in the corner of Kathy’s room.

“I do want to get back to my life, but not at the expense of shortening Kathy’s,” Winnie said.

For now, Kathy spends her days tearing pages out of old cooking magazines — recipes that her sisters know she will never make. F

Ground Standing our

The evolution of the Coquille tribe’s identity over multiple generations in the face of threats to their tribal sovereignty.

an illustrated map.

Story by James Lejeune and Noa Schwartz

Photos by Jordan Martin

Jason Younker, Chief of the Coquille Tribe, holds open the Southwest Oregon Research Project (SWORP) inventory archival collection book to reveal

ason Younker stifled his sobs as he tore down the dirt hill to his Aunt Rose’s house. He was running away from school. Again. He was the only Native student at Charleston Elementary School in Coos Bay, Oregon. Other kids taunted and teased him relentlessly for his dark skin and long, black hair. Their words drove him to tears.

Aunt Rose greeted him with a sad smile and a peanut butter cookie, as she had done many times before. One bite at a time, the tears stopped and his breath slowed.

His father, Tom Younker, ran from the same taunts, down the same hill, nearly 30 years prior.

Jason was bullied for being Native, but in the eyes of the U.S. government, he and his people weren’t Native. They weren’t anything at all.

Jason’s tribe, the Coquille, was terminated in 1954 under the Western Oregon Termination Act. The Bureau of Indian Affairs states that the act aimed to assimilate Native tribes into American society. The years 1953 to 1968 are known as “The Termination Era.” The Coquille were among 61 tribes to lose federal recognition. Tribal governments were dissolved, tribal lands were sold and

During The Termination Era, tribal languages were almost nonexistent, and Natives were considered “second citizens.” Native Americans in Oregon lived in a state of constant contradiction: Their cultural identities made them a target, but their federal status rendered them invisible. The next generation had to be shown, not told, who they were.

Jason learned to hunt clams by scanning for their shine on the sand. He watched his relatives pick tea in secluded bogs. He helped his father with salmon bakes by collecting firewood. When the bake was finished, he followed his father to the riverbank to return the bones. They spoke in hushed tones to keep their traditions safe.

After the tribe was terminated, Coquille elders pursued many legal avenues to reinstate their tribe.

On June 28, 1989, after 35 years of litigation, the Coquille was the last Oregon tribe to be federally reinstated.

Three decades later, in 2021, Jason became the new chief. Now, it’s his job to show younger generations what it felt like to be terminated and to ensure they have access to the resources he never did.

The reservation sits on a hill in Coos Bay. It’s equipped with a rehabilitation and fitness center, a police department and a wellness center. All tribal buildings are derived from traditional Native architecture, marked by circular doors.

The longhouse is the heart of the reservation. Modeled after firsthand descriptions, its sacred silence is often broken by chants and

You end up disavowing yourself of your true identity. When you’re not a federally recognized tribe, you’re denied it altogether.

- Jason Younker

lost languages, like Miluk, gave the tribe a foundation to start their language revitalization program.

The SWORP findings and the reinstatement of the tribe changed everything.

Jason is proud of the growth his people and culture have seen over the last 36 years.

The Coquille pride he lacked in his youth is now strong. Far from the hate of Charleston Elementary, kids play at their own Native education center. The services and resources available to tribal members now are nothing like what he had as a kid.

He lived 22 years in the terminated generation before the tribe was reinstated. “These were formative years,” Jason said. “Years the younger generations didn’t experience.”

It was dangerous to be Native at the time. There was shame that came with that title.

“You end up disavowing yourself of your true identity,” Jason said. “When you’re not a federally recognized tribe, you’re denied it altogether.”

After reinstatement, the lost knowledge uncovered by SWORP allowed elders to proudly pass on lessons they thought were forgotten.

When tribes in Western Oregon first signed treaties in the 1850s, Congress was expecting a map of their territory in the mail. The map would solidify the location of ceded tribal lands and con-

felt, the same stories that I had been told, were all welling up. They could finally see the one document that changed seven generations, and now we were able to touch it. People wept.”

Jackie Chambers was 8 years old when the map returned to Coos County.

At 34, she was the youngest member elected to the Coquille Tribal Council.

She works to secure federal grants for the tribe to provide education, health care and elderly services. In 2024, the federal government provided $32.6 billion in direct funding across all federally recognized tribes. For many tribes, this government stipend was their primary source of income.

Reductions in government staff and funding in sectors such as the Department of Education, the Department of Health and Human Services, the Department of the Interior and especially the Bureau of Indian Affairs have left government-dependent tribes reeling. The BIA oversees almost all services provided to Native Americans.

For the Coquille, government staffing and

about tribal history during her time on the council than she ever did in “Indian Ed.”

The generation of Jackie’s daughter, Hallie, will be most affected by changes in national legislation. Hallie is 14-year-old stand-out freshman at Marshfield High in Coos Bay, an athlete, a thespian, a committed student and a born leader. Above all, she is Coquille, overflowing with pride for her tribe.

“One of the first things I tell most people when I meet them is ‘I’m Native’,” she said. “I don’t think I remember a single time in my life when the tribe hasn’t been involved in some way.”

Hallie is the vice chair of the Coquille Youth Council and hopes to be the first Native student to learn Miluk as her high school lan guage requirement. It would be a milestone in the tribe’s efforts to revitalize the language.

Like Jason and his dad, Hallie now helps with tribal ceremonies, including salmon bakes. Now, she returns the bones to the river, and continues the tradition.

The knowledge brought by SWORP and the revitalization efforts of Jackie’s generation have fostered a strong sense of identity and pride. Although Hallie never experienced termination first-hand,

“We aren’t going anywhere. going to be able to change that.”

she understands the lasting pain it evokes within her community.

“People try not to bring it up,” Hallie said. “But it's still some thing that needs to be talked about.” Every year, the tribe celebrates Restoration Day to remind younger generations of their parents and grandparents' struggles.

“[There is] such a huge difference in the knowledge that she's going to be able to carry to the next generation,” Jackie said. “She is so proud to be part of the tribe. Not that I'm not, but when I was growing up, I didn't really know what it meant to be tribal.”

Hallie’s generation is full of kids just like her. Their pride for their tribe is made stronger by stories of The Termination Era.

Jason and the council have concerns about the current presiden tial administration. The previous Trump presidency demonstrat ed hostility toward Native tribes on multiple occasions. In 2020, the administration ordered the disestablishment of the Mashpee Wampanoag tribal reservation in eastern Massachusetts. Without a

“I really want to follow in my mom’s footsteps and hopefully end up being on Tribal Council when I'm older,” said Hallie Chambers [right], Vice Chair of the Tribal Youth Council and a member of Native Club at Marshfield High School. Hallie and Jackie were some of the youngest members of their respective councils, Tribal Youth and Tribal Council, in Coos Bay, Ore., April 11, 2025.

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Our Singer Come from Afar

Be our wren or warbler lit in willow swaying with your tender weight of songs, sipping the sky to tell us hard things from far away you freighted for our understanding and comfort. Sing the mysterious harmony of news and blessing, hurt and healing offered with head high, eye bright until with a friendly shrug you flit away and leave us strangely younger.

- Kim Stafford

"Singer Come from Afar," by Kim Stafford, is reprinted from his poetry collection  Singer Come from Afar (Red Hen Press, 2021) by permission of the author.