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international

Study abroad. www.ahastudyabroa .or

AN ACADEMIC PROGRAM OF THE UNIVERSITY OF OREGON

Student Alumni Association

START YOUR JOURNEY AT UOFLIGHT.COM

UOAlumni.com YOUR LIFELONG CONNECTION

contents Features 12 Skating into Obscurity A small-town Oregon roller skating rink clings to a fading piece of Americana

by BETHANY GARFIELD photos by HOLLY LEITNER

16 Outliers The self-made lifestyles of Oregon's rural homeless population exist on the fringes of growing communities

by BEN MYERS photos by CONNER JAY

20 An Economic Pilgrimage Saudi Arabia's brightest students spill into Western academia to reform their oil-dependent kingdom

by ALLISON DOUGLAS photos by NATHAN CORDOVA

26 Old Growth, New Ideas Restoration logging in western Oregon provides a new approach to an industry steeped in conflict

by EPHRAIM PAYNE photos by MATT NICHOLSON

40 By Her Design Renowned couture designer Elizabeth Kollo escaped an oppressive regime to begin her life anew

by CAITLIN FROST photos by BRIANNE M. WILLS

46 Toxic Riddle A proposed Superfund site awaits cleanup as its pollutants spread through the surrounding watershed

by TUULA REBHAHN photos by TREVOR ATKINS, CONNER JAY, & MATT NICHOLSON

Departments 04 Editor sNote

10 The Crush Weeks

06 Getting on Deck

A motley crew brings in the Benton-Lane Winery's record 2006 harvest over two intense weeks story andphotos by HOLLY LEITNER

The rise of the homegrown longboard business ushers a new mode of transportation onto college campuses

by MEGAN CLARK photo by MATT NICHOLSON

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50 Colder Climate

62 My Ironyear

Veterans returning to U.S. college campuses face some unlikely hardships of student life - including discrimination from faculty and classmates alike

by LIBBY WHITTEMORE photos by CHRISTIN ROSE PALAZZOLO

56 Six-Love

08 The Village Brewer

One writer plunges into the culture of endurance racing

by NANCY RASKAUSKAS photos by JOHN GIVOT

Ninkasi's craft brews generate a Northwest buzz

by KAREN NAGY photos by NATHAN CORDOVA

64 Parting Shot

photo by HOLLY LEITNER

A group of tennis elites comes together to play and live as a family at the University of Oregon

by STEFANIE LOH photos byJOHN GIVOT

On the Cover: Artist Adam Grosowsky in his Eugene, Oregon, studio. His oil paintings have gained critical acclaim in the Northwest. Now he hopes to expand his exposure into larger markets.

photo by BRIANNE M. WILLS

Back Cover: Grosowsky finishes climbing the route Zebra to Zion in Smith Rock State Park, Oregon.

photo by JOHN GIVOT Read about Grosowsky's unique style, both on the canvas and off, in "Living Chiaroscuro." (Page 32)

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ux

editor'snote ON A FRIDAY IN LATE APRIL, two Flux photographers and I traveled to orthern California's Lost Coast to begin rigging equipment for a shoot the following morning. The aim was to capture Adam Grosowsky; the artist pictured on the cover, climbing routes on some of the coast's impressive boulder formations.

As is to be expected in the orthwest, the weather was simply awful. But after checking the forecast and learning of an approaching break in the storm, we decided to head down to the beach to see if any of the routes were still dry so we could set up the shoot despite the rain.

Our location, a stretch of beach called Lost Rocks, is a photographer's dream. Basalt boulders the size of small houses are strewn in and out of the sur£ Redwood stands cover the surrounding hillsides and the mouth of the Klamath River empties at its northern end. Even in the rain, the photographers couldn't stop snapping shots, hoping that the weather would clear so we could call Grosowsky: I appreciated their dedication. And when photographer ConnerJay; immersed in his viewfinder atop a boulder, was blindsided by a wave crashing over his head, I appreciated that dedication even more.

The process of pulling together a magazine like Flux in just seven short weeks is a grueling one. There are so many moving parts and contingencies. We set such high expectations for ourselves at the onset of production. Setbacks will come in all forms - ruined camera equipment and botched photo shoots just two of many: These issues are inherent in this process, we learn, and the efficiency and creativity of our solutions defines the end product. Mter witnessing the time, dedication and talent invested into the following pages, I'm proud to be associated with the young journalists, artists, and editors who filled them. You are holding a labor of love in your hands.

Just like the subjects in this magazine, we as Flux staff members are not exactly what you might call "normal" people. We argue about em dashes and photo resolution in our spare time. We dream about the smell of the printing press. We're passionate about telling stories. To a certain extent, I feel that all people take pride in these more esoteric aspects of their lives. They are the tools we use to craft our niches in culture.

The stories published in this year's edition of Flux depict some of these niches through their compelling ambassadors. In "Old Growth, New Ideas," Johnny Sundstrom gives a face to a community's revolutionary approach toward forest management. In "Colder Climate," Kevin Pelatt provides a glimpse into the other conflict that Operation Iraqi Freedom veterans face - the discrimination they endure upon return to college campuses. Elizabeth Kollo exemplifies how an intrepid woman can design her ideal life from within the throes of an oppressive regime in "By Her Design." Each of the characters stands out in their element.

They are liaisons to subcultures we can't begin to fully understand without them.

I winced as I watched ConnerJay struggle to find his feet in the sur£: saltwater, and sand washing into the body of his digital camera and expensive lens. When he emerged, mouth agape, we ran back to the truck to bag the camera and rush it to the nearest specialist, four hours away: Conner swore and shook his head for the first quarter of the drive. But after his rage subsided, he started to achieve perspective. "It's kind of a rite of passage, you kno~" he said through a half smile. "Every photographer has to lose a camera at some point."

My sincere thanks go out to the entire staff of Flux 2007 and to our knowledgeable advisors. I hope you enjoy reading our publication as much as we enjoyed putting it together.

EDITOR IN CHIEF Lucas Pollock MANAGING EDITOR Nancy Raskauskas COpy EDITOR Cassie DeFillipo ASSISTANT COpy EDITOR Megan Clark RESEARCH EDITOR Adrienne van der Valk ASSOCIATE EDITORS Elizabeth Chapman, Jordan Crucchiola, Anne Brice, Kelsey Friedman, Travis Marshall, Ben Myers ASSOCIATE RESEARCH EDITORS Allison Douglas, Karen Nagy, Libby Whittemore CONTRIBUTORS Bethany Garfield, Stefanie Loh, Ivan Miller, Mark

oack, Ephraim Payne, Tuula Rebhahn, Jay Shenai

ART DIRECTORKrystalHilliker DESIGNER Melissa Reader ART ASSOCIATES Emily Carter, Molly Cathcart, Emily Davis, Ryan Duff Tristen Knight, Faith Stafford ART INTERNS Desiree Ajlleje, Melissa Rezada, Kelly Walker PHOTO EDITOR Trevor Atkins PHOTOGRAPHERS

athan Cordova, John Givot, Conner Jay, Holly Leitner, Matt icholson, Christin Rose Palazzolo, BriAnne M Wills PHOTOGRAPHY INTERN Monica Sellers PRODUCTION MANAGER Emily Carter PRODUCTION INTERN StevenD. Vail BUSINESS MANAGER Brittany McGrath MARKETING DIRECTOR Caitlin Frost MARKETING DESIGNER Molly Cathcart

FLUX ONLINE EDITOR Cori Stoddard PRODUCER Jackson Hager ART DIRECTOR Emily Davis ART ASSOCIATES Jennifer Dollins, Krista Donoven, Shawna Huang ART INTERNS Jiyea Park, Monica Sellers, Alison Van Orsow COPY EDITOR Megan Clark CONTINUITY MANAGER Chris YOung AUDIO MANAGER Alex Grigas WEBMASTER Louie Vidmar DOCUMENTARY Kristina Balogh, Kelly Garboden, Amira Dhugri, John Givot, Amber Merrit, Andrea Nowack, Travis D. Roderick, Coby ZeiJman ADVISORS Mark Blaine, Skip McFarlane, DanielMorrison, Jon Palfreman, Bill Ryan, Jan Ryan SPECIAL THANKS

Lucas Pollock

Editor in Chief

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01

SCHOOL OF JOURNALISM AND COMMUNICATION University of Oregon

AHA International, AliAlhussain, HamdAlshammari and the Abu-BakrAs-Siddiq Islamic Center, CarolAnn Bassett, Beaver Freezer Triathlon, Andre Chinn, Randy Cox, Jamie Floyd, JR Gaddis, Tim Gleason, Imagine Graphics, IPIKoke, Tom Lundberg, Kevin May, Julianne Newton, Christine Richman, ikos Ridge, Stephanie Risbrough, Arlene Schnitzer, Abdulrahman Shaker and Family, Siuslaw Stewardship Group, Skate World, Ryan Stasel, Alan Stavitsky, University ofOregon, UO AlumniAssociation, UO Bookstore, UO School ofJournalism and Communication, Sue Varani, Tom Wheeler

flux.uoregon.edu

05

Hosey specializes in pressing creative designs onto the bottom of his longboard decks. "Skating has come a long way visuall~" says Hose~ who regularly brings boards in as projects for his art classes.

Hosey has been making longboards with his nineteen-year-old brother Michael since they were kids growing up in Cotati, California, the rural outskirts of the Bay Area. They pursued an interest in skating from childhood on, building a concrete half-pipe in their parents' back yard. It wasn't until the last four years, though, that the Hosey brothers became active in the customized longboard scene. Their longboard compan~ Devotion, draws from the idea of skating as a religion, an outlook that has only grown since its birth in early seventies surf culture.

Keeping in line with that attitude are twenty-one-year-old David Long and twenty-two-year-oldJoey Muravez from Corvallis, Oregon. Long's first board came from a piece of plywood

The idea of perpetuating an iconic style is pushing longboarding into a fresh arena of creativity.

PHOTO: MATT NICHOLSON

Getting on Deck THEY DIDN'T SET OUT TO CREATE A

Above: Using avariety of media, ranging from acrylic paint to photo collages, Dylan Hosey brands his cruising creations with the name Devotion.

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revolution - all they wanted to do was skate. But in the early seventies a shabby bunch of teenagers from Southern California inadvertently changed American culture forever. Drawing from that history toda~ homegrown longboard companies are working to preserve the original and iconic style of skating, transforming its aesthetics in the process.

Over the past three decades, traditional skateboarding transitioned into two separate ideas: skateboarding and longboarding. The persona and technique of longboarding continues to embody the surf-inspired style of the original skater. In recent years, it developed a strong sub-culture and gave rise to a host of young entrepreneurs.

As an art student at the University of Oregon, twenty-two-year-old Dylan

on the side of the road. Years later, in the winter of 2006, their creations evolved into Boondock Boards, a custom longboard design and manufacturing company. They cater the cut and length of the decks, distinguishing their creations from more generic, mass-produced shapes.

In Eugene, Cascadia Longboards is another player in the growing Oregon longboard scene. Twenty-five-yearold founder Eric Myers crafts his longboards as clean tools for transit.

"I think that with the university [of Oregon] and the amount of young people in Eugene, the idea of using it for mobility is useful as an alternative mode of transportation," Myers says.

One of the more successful homegrown longboard companies, Cascadia longboards are handcrafted and built for specific riding styles such as carving, cruising, downhill, and freestyle.

For this growing trend of young entrepreneurs, the idea of perpetuating an iconic style is pushing longboarding into a fresh arena of creativit)r.

Along with innovative designs, the roots of this old-school style are still the movement's foundation, keeping the tradition alive. -Megan Clark

thenorthwest

The Village Brewer CUMBING UP A NARROW METAL LADDER,

Above: Jamie Floyd, co-owner of Ninkasi Brewing Company in Eugene, Oregon, takes abreak from the hustle of his daily brewing routine.

Right: The iconic Ninkasi taps can be seen at bars and restaurants throughout the Willamette Valley.

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Jamie Floyd peers into the SUV-sized vat of steaming barley and points to the temperature gauge. ':Almost done!" he yells. Thirty-five-year-old Floyd, co-owner and brewmaster of Ninkasi Brewing Company in Eugene, Oregon, is brewing a batch of one of his awardwinning amber ales. He dashes through the brewer)', dodging bulky machinery and piles of empty kegs. Floyd checks temperatures, pitches yeast, and adds oxygen to the beer, all while trying to stay awake despite the strong smell of hops in the building.

For as many as ten hours a day he continues this routine, brewing up to 1,900 gallons a week - maximum capacity for the small brewery. The intensive process is often undertaken

by Floyd alone or with help from co-

owner Nikos Ridge and brewer Ian Fuller, who recently joined the tiny staff In May 2007, Ninkasi relocated to a larger facility in order to keep up with the growing demand for its signature brews, which can be found on tap at more than eighty bars and restaurants throughout Oregon.

Though mankind created beer thousands of years ago on a different continent, the Pacific Northwest is known today for its innovative brewmasters like Floyd who continue to perfect the art of craft brewing.

Taking advantage of local hops and barle)', Floyd reinvents the delicate flavors and aromas of ales and lagers for long-time connoisseurs and novice drinkers alike. As a past president of the Oregon Brewers Guild and a certified beer judge, Floyd has trained

his palette to distinguish the distinct tastes that make each type of beer unique.

But for Floyd, his job is more than creating tasty beverages. "Beer education will be a major factor of what we do long term," he says. Floyd helps organize Eugene's Sasquatch Brew Festival, as well as the annual local homebrew competition at a local radio station's Northwest Microbrew Festival. In addition, he shares his knowledge and love of quality brews through beer appreciation classes at Lane Community College's Culinary Arts program. "In Oregon," Floyd says, "people appreciate the finer things in life."

Floyd began homebrewing as a student at the University of Oregon, where he and friends would make fiveto ten-gallon batches of their favorite dark stouts. "We drank about as much as we'd make in the day that we did it," Floyd says with a laugh.

To put himself through school, Floyd worked as a cook and later as an assistant brewer at the renowned Steelhead Brewer)', where he learned the ins and outs of large-scale beer production. Floyd soon became head brewer, and after nine years there, seven of his fermented concoctions won medals at the Great American Beer Festival - the largest beer competition in the United States. "I always knew I wanted to own my own business though," Floyd says.

In 2001, Floyd and Ridge developed Ninkasi Brewing Company, named for the Sumerian goddess of brewing and fermentation from the ancient agrarian civilization in Mesopotamia. "Brewing has been a part of civilization since the beginning," Floyd says. "I'm just the village brewer." -Karen Nagy

Debra L. Merskin Daniel L. Miller Deborah K. Morrison Carolyn Silva Chambers Distinguished Professor of Advertising

LEARN MORE

Ruhl Symposium for Ethics in Journalism jcomm.uoregon.edu/awards/ruhl

Julianne H. Newton

Payne Awards for Ethics in Journalism

Jon Palfreman KEZI Distinguished Professor of Broadcast Journalism

payneawards.uoregon.edu

Stephen E. Ponder

Snowden Ethics Initiative

John T. Russial

jcomm.uoregon.edu/snowden

Bill Ryan Kim Sheehan Alan G. Stavitsky Associate Dean and Director, Turnbull Portland Center H. Leslie Steeves Director of Graduate Studies James R. Upshaw Janet Wasko Philip H. Knight Chair of Communication Research Thomas H. Wheeler Kyu Ho Youm Jonathan Marshall First Amendment Chair

Undergraduate- and graduate-level courses in Mass Media Ethics, Ethics and Persuasion, Visual Ethics, Photofiction, Advertising and Society, and Philosophy of Communication jcomm.uoregon.edu/prospective/courses

For more information, contact: Thomas H. Bivins John L. Hulteng Chair in Media Ethics and Responsibility e-mail: tbivins@uoregon.edu phone: (541) 346-3740 School of Journalism and Communication 1275 University of Oregon Eugene OR 97403-1275

o SCHOOL OF JOURNALISM AND COMMUNICATION University of Oregon

jcomm.uoregon.edu EOIAAIADA institution committed to cultural diversity.

thenc)rthwest

PHOTOS: HOLLY LEITNER

The Crush Weeks Above: Benton-Lane's 2006 crush crew. From left to right: Ryan Driscoll, Barrett Rosteck, Hugh Thompson, Aaron Speck, Phil Zweber, and Jessica Cortel!.

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ON THE LAST DAY OF THE 2006 SEASON, rain begins to fall over the brown vineyard. Bob Dylan's "Rainy Day Women" blares from a tiny boom box, and the grapes either ferment or await their fate at the crush station.

Ryan Driscoll empties out the last tank of juice that has been holding for

more than two weeks. He scoops up a handful of the cloud)!, purple liquid and comments on how it's gained good flavor in such a short time. It's on the way to developing that velvet body Benton-Lane wines are known for.

Bin after bin of plump pinot noir grapes line the winery's exterior. Fork-

lifts run back and forth, scooping them up, moving thousands of pounds of the precious fruit toward a de-stemming machine. Workers' purple hands pick out the unripe clusters, dropping them onto the purple-stained floor under the equipment. The Benton-Lane Winery crew's crush season is coming to an end.

Crush season is the two-week window when grapes are plucked from their vines and put through the annual squeeze. It's the time of the year when wine makers' eyes bulge with the fear of losing an entire crop. The magic of harvesting is knowing when the grapes are at their maximum flavor potential.

This is calculated in labs by testing sugar, acidit)T, and the taste of the grapes themselves.

It's during these last dusty days of autumn, when nearly all the green vines have transformed into wrinkled golden leaves and rain clouds loom in the seven-day forecast, that the Willamette Valley wine crews bring in thousands of pounds of pinot noir and pinot gris grapes. The sun-drenched 2006 summer treated Willamette Valley grapes well, nearly doubling the yield throughout Oregon. This year's crew has an unprecedented challenge ahead of them: to crush and ferment 475 tons of grapes.

Wine making was traditionally a family affair, with relatives picking and crushing the grapes themselves. Toda)!, wineries hire help to ensure the grapes make it into the barrel in time, and a new sort of family emerges in the process.

Benton-Lane Winery's 2006 crew is no different, yet the individuals live in diverse worlds away from their seasonal harvest work. Barrett Rosteck, the cellar master and self-titled cellar rat, heads the operation. Driscoll, a scientist who studies penguin and seal populations in Antarctica three months out of the year, contributes seasonal help. Another worker, Aaron Speck, just finished his degree in meteorology and now plans to open up a barbecue shack. Jessica Cortell is an exception, one of the few with an inclination toward wine making. She's finishing her Ph.D. in enology at Oregon State U niversi~ Others work the harvest while in transition between jobs, and some are taking time off "Some people are just curious," says Benton-Lane's wine maker Tim Wilson. "They're not really planning a career in wine making, but you can make a quick paycheck."

IT'S MONDAY OF THE FIRST WEEK, AND

the crew has already brought in sixtyfour tons of grapes. There's rain in the forecast for the upcoming Sunday; The pickers dump half-ton bins along the winery warehouse and race back up the dusty vineyard path. At the press station, Wilson steers a forklift, picking up each bin and dumping the grapes onto the conveyor belt leading into the destemmer. The grape clusters travel up the conveyor belt and are dumped in the machine, which plucks each grape from the cluster and spits them toward the press, all without breaking the skin.

The grapes are spun, crushed, and poured into fermenting tubs and then into tanks for their ten-day fermentation. Finall)!, they are laid to rest in barrels, where the juice settles and the flavors develop for about a year.

Within four days, a fraction of the original grapes remain lined up at the station. Rosteck predicts this should be the last day as he runs from station to station, his shirt turning a deeper shade of purple with each stop. Gallons of fermenting juice gush through a

strainer and are then sent back to the press for another squeeze.

When the juice slows to a trickle, Rosteck knows it might mean the seeds and skins are clogging the flow. He punches the shovel through the clot and knocks on the tank to check for hollowness. He pauses, looks at a crew

This year's crew has an unprecedented challenge ahead of them: to crush and ferment 475 tons of grapes. member in panic, raises his eyebrows, and then quickly throws his body against the manhole door and latches it. The biggest fears during the crush are broken equipment or a massive spill of precious juice.

The crew pulls in the last thirty-seven tons, and a handful of employees stay a few more weeks to finish the slow fermenting process. The workers clocked in long hours during the crush - one

week they worked up to seven~ But the age-old stereotype of the simpler, happier winery lifestyle resonates, even amid state-of-the-art equipment.

When the crush weeks are over, the family gathers at a picnic table and raises its glasses to a job well done.

People hand out slow-cooked steaks and pour from a bottle of pinot noir as the group reminisces.

"It's been an educational experience," says Driscoll. "I didn't know the details of wine making before."

The crush weeks are about getting all the grapes in before the weather turns, but the harvest is also about the employees. "Hopefull)!, all these people can have some of the wine when it comes out next year - that's the most rewarding part," Rosteck says.

By participating in this process, the workers are now part of the winery's history - connected to the bottles that line wine store shelves. They know too well the preliminary steps that go into creating a silk)!, cherry-infused pinot noir with mocha undertones and a hint of oak. -Holly Leitner

Below: Benton-Lane vineyards in October 2006.

These slopes have optimal sunlight exposure and an ideal gradient - both necessary elements for growing pinot noir grapes.

flux.uoregon.edu

11

Skatin One rink resists the passing of a pastime

by BETHANY GARFIELD photos by HOLLY LEITNER

"I

Right: Apair of worn skates awaits return at Skate World in Springfield, Oregon.

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remember skating here on a Friday or Saturday night," Frederic Roe says as he gazes over a dim and empty rink. He recalls how the lines used to go out the doors, and the skating rink would be packed. When the skating finished at ten o'clock, the night didn't end. "People would take off their skates, and there would be this huge enormous pile of skates, and they would go out and dance on the floor for two hours non-stop," Roe says.

This is no longer the scene at Skate World roller rink in Springfield, Oregon. It hasn't been for years. Most nights, the racks of roller skates remain full, the crowd is meager, the skating sessions end at 9:00 P.M., and no one dances afterward.

"I miss it. I miss having lots of people here," Roe says.

Roe has been roller skating for more than thirty years and has watched many of his favorite roller rinks in Oregon close their doors over that time. He and other dedicated skaters fear that Skate World may be next. If that happens, only five rinks will remain in the state.

The demise of roller skating is sweeping the nation, with rinks closing across the country Roe and his son, Chris, know this reality all too well.

Mter Chris' hometown rink in Dallas, Oregon, closed, he began making the trip to Skate World almost every Sunday night. The drive takes an hour and a half each way and costs him a total of $40 in gas. The money is often hard for Roe to find.

"Sometimes my friends will pitch in so I can get there," he says. "My friendJake and I sometimes collect cans from my house or from friends and turn them in at Safewa~ I love skating. I'll find any way that I can to get down there and skate."

Mone~ or lack of it, has been a problem in the world of roller skating for years. Skate World currently makes just enough money to pay the bills and has grown accustomed to this predicament. "Through the eighties, they kept this place open in the red," says Angus Laird, manager of Skate World

flux.uoregon.edu

13

Hillsboro and here - Skate World in Springfield." The rink in Kelso, Washington, closed in late April 2007.

For Roe, skating is the only relief from a week of work, commuting, and the general stress of life. He often spends late Sunday nights at Skate World, despite having to leave home for work at 3:00 A.M. the next morning.

"I love to skate. I love to fly. I love the rush, the ride, the feeling of what it gives you," he says.

There are many other roller skaters who share a similar passion for the sport and take temporary comfort in Skate World as a last refuge for their favorite pastime.

Skaters such asJeff du Pont, a nineteen-year-old speed skater and Olympic hopeful, zoom around orange cones after hours. Andrew eill, a student at the University of Oregon, jamskates to rap music on the sidelines. Similar to breakdancing on skates, moves include spins, floor dancing, and splits.

lining the hallway to the rink. Once inside, he picks an open bench to sit on while he laces up his black inline skates. Mter skating for two hours, he gets into his car and drives an hour and a half back to Dallas. It is a grueling trip for a full-time student and mechanic, but he does it as often as he can.

"The love, the passion for skating," Roe says. "It's one of those things where you've got it so bad that, man, if you don't do it, there's just a huge part of you missing."

If Skate World closes its doors, Roe and others who love roller skating will have to decide whether to take to the streets or leave their skates hanging idle in the hallway. _

Below: Georgette Gale of the Emerald City Roller Girls takes off her kneepads after practice.

Roe believes that roller derby will at least temporarily help the popularity of skating.

Above: Frederic Roe disco dances at Skate World.

for the past twelve years. " [The owners] were taking money out of their own pockets and keeping the place open. That's when you saw most of the mom-and-pop rinks disappear.

There were four or five rinks just in this immediate area, and they just couldn't make it."

The world of roller skating was much different before its initial fall in the eighties.

Skate World opened in 1976 and joined the ranks of many rinks that were home to the disco-dancing skate craze beginning in the seventies. Flashy dress, funky dance moves, and a

Kids want to skateboard or do whatever is cool right now, not what was cool twenty years ago." /I

disco ball accompanied hundreds of roller skaters jamming to Gloria Gaynor or the Bee Gees. But the skating phenomenon ended in the eighties, along with disco dancing.

The mass production of inline skates in the eighties bolstered the sport temporarily. This trend, however, eventually reached its peak and fell, leaving the roller skating world fighting to stay alive ever since.

Some skaters, like Roe, have hung onto the fad that once swept the nation.

14 flux 2007

"I never really grew out of the seventies," Roe says. "I kind of hung in there like the Fonz, you kno~ I just kept coming. I never stopped. I sort of still live in that era. I want to have fun and skate!"

The reasons for roller skating's decline are unclear. Roe believes it's a symptom of the times.

"People are playing video games or watching ~ getting fat," says Roe. "They're hanging around doing nothing, walking around the mall, going nowhere."

Marlow Anderson, who has been skating for forty-five years, says, "It's just not cool anymore. Kids want to skateboard or do whatever is cool right now, not what was cool twenty years ago."

Others, such as Laird, believe it is all part of a natural pattern.

"Skating traditionally runs in cycles. It trends up, it trends down," says Laird. "They call it a seven-year thing."

But this "trend" has not been enough for rink owners to keep their faith. Nor has it been enough incentive for the owners of Skate World to hang on. They recently decided to sell one of the four rinks they own. Local enthusiasts wonder if Skate World is next.

"I hope it doesn't happen, but it probably will," Roe says.

"I know the owners, who live in California, and I know that unfortunately; when they pass, the first thing that their kids are going to do is sell these rinks in Kelso, in Gresham, in

On Sunday nights, Roe disco dances on his skates as his son zooms past him. Fifty-nine-year-old Rex Betz does l80-degree spins and weaves his skates in and out on the floor. Marlow Anderson carries his skates in a black metal case bearing a dancing skeleton on skates across the front.

He has owned the case for twenty-seven years.

While Skate World is home to many veterans of roller skating, it is also home to a new roller derby team: the Emerald City Roller Girls.

On Thursday evenings the rink is filled with the sound of bodies slamming into the floor and the grunts of derby girls picking themselves back up. Denim mini skirts and colorful striped socks whirl around the rink as the girls swing each other from side to side.

"That's freakin' bad-ass right there," exclaims one member of the team as she slams into the rink's outer wall.

She is covered in sweat, and her black negligee top is looking less lively than when practice 'began.

Prior to practice, the girls help each other with skate repairs and talk about their developing derby league. Names such as "Short Round" and "Dolly Hardon" are discussed as possibilities for derby identities.

While Roe believes that roller derby will at least temporarily help the popularity of skating, he still fears that Skate World may have to close its doors.

"I would take to the streets," Roe says. "Yup! Even as an old dinosaur, I'd go back outside."

Chris is not as keen on the outdoors. He says he would travel to Portland's Oak Amusement Park, a rink that he is not too fond of and would not attend as often.

If Skate World closed, it would be Chris' third upset. His old rink, Rollerzone, closed down last year. A few months after Rollerzone closed, the sports park in Corvallis where he used to play roller hockey converted to a soccer arena.

"I was really upset when they converted to soccer in Corvallis," Chris says. "I love playing hockey. It's skating, but it's more. I love football, and I love skating, and hockey's the perfect combination of both to me."

For now, Chris makes his pilgrimage to Skate World almost every Sunday night. He exits his red 1985 Mustang with a gym bag in hand. Wearing an old pair of blue, black, and silver hockey pants, he walks on the red matted carpet

flux.uoregon.edu

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Estranged from county services, rural homeless people grow together and fend for themselves

F

red Biscoe watched his friend ick die on a sweltering afternoon lastJulr Fred was accustomed to friends' deaths, but he had never before witnessed one. It happened in the makeshift camp where they lived in Veneta, Oregon, at the base of the Coast Range eight miles west of Eugene. Nick was the camp cook.

Like Fred, Nick spent that day on a can-collecting route.

Some days Nick would ride up to thirty miles, traversing the mostly unincorporated communities around Fern Ridge Reservoir with a bike he constructed from spare parts - a red Raleigh frame, BMX-style handlebars, and pink brake cables. Fred worried about Nick on the busy roads, so he pestered Nick to tell him the day's route over morning coffee. Nick - who spent a lot of time reading science fiction novels in his tent - was unusually chatty on the morning of his death. He headed north up Territorial Highway in Veneta, then east on Clear Lake Road to

Ten minutes later, the paramedics arrived and ordered everyone to leave. Fred stayed.

Opposite: Fred Biscoe takes a break near his camp outside ofVeneta, Oregon.

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Eugene. Inexplicably, he did not bring water. Delirious when he returned, Nick ditched his rig on the railroad tracks near camp and staggered home.

Fred returned that afternoon to find Nick convulsing in his tent. A girl named Rockstar - a camp groupie - had a cell phone. Fred yelled at her to call the paramedics and go wait for them. Ten minutes later, the paramedics arrived and ordered everyone to leave. Fred stayed. "I should have listened to them," he said eight months later. ick tried to crawl from his tent but failed. The paramedics pulled him out and placed him on Fred's new sleeping bag. Then Fred looked on as ick perished in their arms.

Fred's friend Karla founded the camp, which sits on private proper~ and before Nick's death it saw a flurry of tenants. Karla grew up in Veneta and knows the property owner from childhood, but she bounces from one camp to

by BEN MYERS photos by CONNER JAY

another in the area. After an extended hiatus, Karla returned to camp a few weeks before Nick died lastJulr Nick's death caused no ripples outside the camp in the rapidly expanding town of Veneta, which expects its population of 4,200 to quintuple by the year 2050. At an annual planning meeting inJanuary; city leaders fretted about matching infrastructure updates with population growth. They did not mention the homeless camps on the outskirts of town.

Fred's camp stabilized after Nick's death. Karla stuck around and Patrick Molina, another of Fred's friends, got out of jail and moved in. Fred, Karla, and Pat called themselves the "camp elders" and voted on important decisions. The elders admitted only people they knew because, Fred said, Veneta is an outpost for fugitives.

Two recent tenants stopped in Veneta en route to the Oregon coast. Although the elders admitted them temporarily; Fred was suspicious. Their practice of holding signs on the corner of Veneta's main intersection violated the camp's taboo against panhandling. "They don't realize it's a small communitr They'll get burned out of here," Fred said in early Februarr By March, Fred heard the panhandlers reflected poorly on him and he kicked them out of town.

Fred spoke of the transients on February 5, his fifty-third birthday. Like many days, Fred sat on the railroad tracks with his campmates and nursed bagged cans of Steel Reserve and rolled cigarettes with brown and yellow fingers. Shielded by the camouflage hat that Karla bought for him, Fred's pale eyes beamed from his earthen face at a rainbow ring around the sun. The ring meant rain was coming. "It usually rains on my birthday; " he said. His friends gave him a pet rock as a present, and someone said he should expect AARP notices in the mail. "I don't have any mail. It's the third tree on the left!" Fred shot back.

Then the conversation blended with reminiscence of ick.

Pat, with typical bluster, called out, "Remember that shit he cooked that one time?" Fred was irritated at the apparent disgrace but relented. "He was wondering why all these bowls were laying around, nothing eaten out of them. Even the dog

wouldn't eat it," Fred said with a melancholic chortle. It was the only bad meal ick ever cooked. Most of ick's meals came with a creative signature, Fred remembered. "He liked fruit in his chili," he said. "I was amazed."

Fred once tackled long can routes like ick but is now "semi-retired." The painful lumps in the joints of his hands

Some Veneta residents wonder why their sleepy town appeals to Fred and his friends.

Below: While on awalk to pick up aload of cans, Pat Molina stops to help Veneta resident Marianne Thompson.

make long-distance riding difficult. He now relies on "can accounts" - Veneta residents who invite him into their homes to dispose of cans.

On an overcast day in April, Fred and Pat trudged to Kyna Childs' house. Childs met Fred three years ago when she saw him stooping by the roadside searching for cans. She impulsively invited him to come take the cans out of her garage. Later, her husband "felt him out" by leaving $300 in plain sight. Fred passed the test. He also refused sincere offers of food and a bike.

On the way to Childs' house, a squat, middle-aged woman stooped over a weed whacker that refused to start. "Uh-oh," Fred said. "Marianne is having a tizzy fit." Pat approached and tried to help her. "Come on, Gorilla," Fred encouraged Pat, calling him by the nickname he earned with his thick black hair and beard. Pat tried several times to start the machine with no luck. "Sor~" Pat said, and Marianne thanked him anywa)!. Less than a minute later, they passed a younger Veneta resident. 'Jeremy!" Pat called out. Jeremy asked the two what they were up to. They replied, "Going on a can account." "Right on," Jeremy responded, and the men continued on their way to work.

Some Veneta residents wonder why their sleepy town appeals to Fred and his friends. Last Februa~ in an informal gathering of community leaders, one resident asked what draws homeless people to Veneta. She theorized that Eugene has better facilities. Lane County's largest city has the highest concentration of social services county wide - along with the largest population that needs them.

A recent study by the county estimated that 2,278 of the 335,180 people in Lane County are homeless. Of those, 288 live in rural areas. Veneta resident Dean Schlect, who manages ShelterCare's Royal Avenue program in Eugene, said the imbalance creates a safety hazard. "I know that if I were homeless, I would want to be in a smaller community without the kind of meann~ss you're likely to encounter in a metropolitan area," Schlect said.

Fred prefers his self-made role in Veneta, with no hope of rehabilitation, over the risks in Eugene. "I stay away from that place," Fred said on a brittle winter da)!. "I'd rather sit out here by myself" He woke up that morning soaking wet. 'Just go out and deal with it. Start a fire," he said. Starting a fire was difficult with wet wood; he used tree sap instead.

Churches try to fill the void of services in Veneta, but their pastors know they cannot provide adequately for the homeless. "Sometimes the misconception is that we expect the Christians to fix people," said Pat Coy; associate pastor at Olivet Baptist Church. "I don't think we fix anybod)!. We simply help people where we can."

Coy sits on the board of directors for the Love Project, a food pantry in Veneta staffed mostly by volunteers from churches. The Love Project allots up to sixteen boxes of food a year per family; they also let Fred and his friends take leftover bread and vegetables.

The line between poverty and homelessness is thin but crucial. Schlect said that any program that deals with homelessness must deal with psychiatric disabilities. His comment reflects the distinction between situational versus chronic homelessness. Chronic homelessness, defined by the federal Department of Housing and Urban Development, refers to people with a disabling condition who have experienced homelessness for one year continuously or four times in the past three years. It is usually associated with a psychiatric disability compounded by other diagnoses. There are no services in the Fern Ridge area for people who experience chronic homelessness.

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arla was absent on Fred's birthday in Februar)!. She had contracted pneumonia in addition to chronic bronchitis. She also suffers from a debilitating mental illness. Fred heard she was staying on a friend's couch, which is how he knew her condition was serious. He said that Karla, homeless for fourteen of her forty-three years, normally refuses to rely on others. Fred was worried but not

noticeably panicked. "She might be the next one to go," he said matter-of-factl)!.

Last fall, Lane County adopted a ten-year plan to end chronic homelessness, aimed at engaging community partners.

Similar ten-year plans are sprouting up across the countr)!.

Project Homeless Connect, a one-day bazaar of services at the Lane County fairgrounds in Eugene on February 8, was part of the plan. The event was sponsored by the County; along with 150 partnering organizations and individuals.

Volunteers from the Love Project gave bus passes to Fred and his friends in order to get them from Veneta to Eugene.

More than a thousand people attended, double the highest expectations. People swarmed in and out of booths. County employees darted around while local politicians looked on enthusiastically. Fred popped outside for a cigarette, looking excited and overwhelmed. He and his friends sat at cafeteria tables, feasted on burgers, and enjoyed live music. Six weeks later, "bumfest" - as Karla called it - was a fun memory with no lasting impact. Karla said she ate, saw friends, and saw how many people are homeless. But the guys were itching to leave before she could get a haircut.

Things have changed for the worse since that da)!. Fred and Karla recalled Project Homeless Connect from their new daytime hangout spot, a grassy path a few yards from their spot on the tracks. Fred was pretty sure his ribs broke when his bike ick's old bike - took an awkward turn downhill.

Karla hauled off to settle elsewhere, leaving six tents to Fred and Pat. "It's like a haunted camp," Fred said. It was filthy and the rats were breeding. "Nick and I burned a lot of shit

in that place before. Got it back to looking somewhat decent.

Now it's a mess again," Fred said. He and Pat are planning another burn, once Fred's ribs heal.

The camp mayor may not survive as more new camps spring up and others are torn down. Some of Veneta's residents will keep saving cans and others will observe the homeless from a distance. Veneta's harmony with its homeless residents will endure.

But that prediction skirts two realities. The first is Veneta's rapid expansion. Fred's domain diminishes with every new resident who does not recognize him. "I've seen many towns like this grow. If they get too big, I leave," he said. He'djust returned from Childs' house, and he and Pat were sipping beers in the veranda of the Veneta Church of Christ. He

Above: Fred and friends organize recycling collections at their regular daytime spot.

III've seen many towns like this grow.

If they get too big, I leave.

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articulated the second reality one month before his birthday: "I don't think I'm going to last too much longer." His words sometimes sputter forth in hacks and wheezes and they frequently involve death, the only permanence Fred knows.

It is uncertain what will happen when Fred's time in Veneta expires, whatever the cause. Mter ick died, Fred asked a sheriff's deputy about funeral services. This is how Fred learned that Nick had been wanted for attempted manslaughter; "Nick" was an alias. He had no funeral or burial. Nick was lost for good.•

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n an ever-changing world where adaptability is key to survival, economies must evolve to sustain their countries. In Saudi Arabia, where the reality of a diminishing oil supply threatens the longevity of the Kingdom, newly crowned King Abdullah bin Abdulaziz is taking progressive steps in order to ensure the nation's success in coming years.

With the establishment of the King Abdullah Scholarship in 2005, the Kingdom will send approximately 18,000 of its most promising students abroad to study in Western universities. The students can choose to study professional fields such as medicine, engineering, computer science, math, business, economics, or finance - fields that will increase self-sufficiency in the Saudi econom)T. The government gives each student about five years to earn either their bachelor's or master's degree abroad with the hope that they will return home at the end of their education and diversify the Kingdom's oil-based econom)T. Raised in a society governed by Islamic law, the Saudi students enter a new world as they immerse in the campus lifestyles of universities across the United States, United Kingdom, Australia, andJapan.

At the University of Oregon, where more than 100 Saudi students stud~ the kind of experiences that come with living a new life in a non-Islamic culture range. From Saudi women being able to drive for the first time, to other Saudis feeling reluctant to pray openly among non-Islamic students, they are experiencing a foreign culture and new ideologies. And in the midst of these experiences, they adapt and grow - just as their Kingdom must do in order to survive in an evolving global econom)T.-

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Previous: Newly arrived Saudi Arabians make up the largest group of Muslims who visit the Abu-Bakr As-Siddiq Islamic Center in Eugene, Oregon.

Right: College students aren't the only ones affected by an educational migration; families experience change too.

"They are like little monkeys!"

Abdulrahman Shaker says of his three children, Abdullah, two (left); Fatinah, four (above); and Abdulaziz, six (not pictured). While Shaker prepares for graduate school and his wife Arwa Balilah (center) studies English, the children attend day care and preschool where no one speaks Arabic. Originally from Jiddah, the children had ahard time adapting to the new environment, Balilah says, but "now they correct our English ... they fight in English!"

Opposite Above: The OregonIdaho Methodist Conference founded the Wesley Center more than fifty years ago, as aplace where people can come and go regardless of their religious views. In 2005, The Reverend Jeremy HajduPaules made more space available for Muslims to pray, areaction to the growing numbers of Muslim students.

Left: After his last class of the day, twenty-two-year-old Fahad AI Dossari (left) of Dhahran prays with other students in aonce-vacant room at the Wesley Center across the street from the University of Oregon campus.

Right: Twenty-year-old best friends, Abeer Albashrawi (left) and Sajida Almatrook (right), of Qitif, are inseparable even while studying in a foreign country. The two share similar values, although Albashrawi chooses to shed the head covering that is mandatory in Saudi Arabia.

Below: "Now she is always out of the home!" Arwa Balilah's husband, Abdulrahman Shaker, jokes. Balilah recently learned how to drive, a practice not normally afforded to women under Saudi law.

Left: In preparation to study accounting, twenty-year-old Ali Alhusain of Riyadh takes English classes on the University of Oregon campus.

He holds aphotograph of his father, who studied at the university in the late seveties.

Unlike his father, Alhusain's educational experience is based on necessity.

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by EPHRAIM PAYNE photos by MATT NICHOLSON & EPHRAIM PAYNE

Restoration forestry takes root in the Siuslaw

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utumn rains on the Oregon Coast herald the end of another parched Pacific Northwest summer. Clad in'Gore-Tex and fleece, an unlikely collection of visitors to the Siuslaw National Forest greets the storm. You might expect these rural landowners, U.S. Forest Service employees, timber industry representatives, and environmentalists to be on opposite sides of a courtroom or forest protest. The stereotypes developed during the timber wars say that what's good for the environment hurts the economy: Logging is an enemy of forest health. Loggers and tree-huggers are supposed to hate each other. Environmental conflict is supposed to flourish in timber count~ But the Siuslaw Stewardship Group is doing something revolutiona~ They're agreeing - agreeing that healthy communities need healthy forests, agreeing on the inflexibility of some environmental laws, and agreeing on the need to restore the habitat for endangered species. They're braving the weather together on this fall day - the University of Oregon-educated environmentalist, the Oregon State University-trained timber industry man, the landowner, and the forester - to survey a forest restoration project around an area called the Misery Thin. Contrary to forest management standards, they all agree that old growth is valuable and that restoration forestry - selectively thinning over-crowded tree plantations - can help bring it back.

Johnny Sundstrom, original group member, stands out in a Carhartt jacket, cowboy boots, and blue jeans. Crows

feet crease the corners of his hazel eyes, and a small stud glimmers in his left ear. His wit electrifies the whole group; carefully timed wisecracks turn uncomfortable silences into moments of shared humor.

The Siuslaw Stewardship Group was born in timber countr~ The hamlet of Mapleton lies on the estuary of the Siuslaw River, which slices into the bedrock of the Oregon Coast Range. Little shops and stores cluster along this stretch of Highway 126 between Eugene and Florence. Family farms sprout in the river's bottomlands.

The Coast Range is still teething by geologic standards, shaping itself with periodic flash floods and mudslides, but its forests were ancient by human standards when logging began.

A patchwork of wind-twisted pines and sharp-needled spruce clung to the foggy river. Towering Douglas-firs and western redcedars ruled inland. Giant trees more than 250 years old housed rare animals including northern spotted owls, marbled murrelets, and northern flying squirrels. A patchy canopy covered an under-story of moss-cloaked western hemlocks and a carpet of evergreen shrubs and sword fern.

Beneath the canopy stretched a web of interlaced roots and mycorrhizal fungus, weaving the biotic community together in tight interdependence. Steep-sloped mountains protected the forest community until new technology opened the Coast Range to logging after World War II. Thanks to its old growth, the Siuslaw National Forest was the most productive national forest in the country at its peak

Opposite: Johnny Sundstrom stands in ameadow among sapling trees planted by the Siuslaw Stewardship Group to prevent erosion along the bank of the Siuslaw River. The trees, planted with funding from restoration logging, will benefit local salmon populations by stabilizing the soil and preventing erosion.

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Above Left: Amachine measures and cuts alog from an over-crowded plot in the Siuslaw National Forest.

Thinning is used to reduce the number of young trees that were densely replanted after clear-cutting. This reduces the risk offorest fires and provides room for trees to mature into old growth.

Above Right: Amachine lowers acut log onto alogging truck to be taken to the mill.

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The tree plantations replacing old forests were overin the mid eighties. The Mapleton Ranger District cut two crowded fire hazards, almost impossible to walk through. The billion board feet of timber between 1960 and 1990. Five young trees weren't growing fast enough to become valuable mills operated at the industry's peak. When lumber prices timber. Congress had under-funded the Forest Service, fell or logs fetched more money overseas, mills closed and the timber economy slumped. The fishing fleet in nearby postponing costly thinning for decades.

Siuslaw foresters developed a plan to use profits from Florence provided extra work for loggers. timber sales for local habitat restoration instead of sending Things changed radically when a lawsuit halted the the money to the federal treasury. In 1995 Sundstrom flew Siuslaw's timber flow in 1988. Clear-cuts in the watershed's to Washington, D.C. with headwaters triggered the Siuslaw National Forest's landslides, killing salmon Radicals firebombed Forest supervisor to pitch the plan fingerlings and destroying to Vice President AI Gore's spawning beds. Slides became Service property, spiked trees, Reinvention of Government so common that Sundstrom and traded insults and sometimes Task force. Their ideas were - a longtime area resident who manages a livestock death threats with timber workers radical at the time - too radical. and forest management across fire-road barricades.

"They said it couldn't cooperative when he's not acting as an ambassador for . be done," Sundstrom says. the Siuslaw ational Forest - could recognize the sound "Sometimes you just have to wait." of one over the telephone. The local landowners sued the What seemed like a good idea to the Siuslaw's forest revolutionaries wasn't good politics in D.C. Congress funds government, stopping the flood of timber from federal land.

"Our timber industry was dependent on Forest Service the Forest Service in its budget, but if districts kept timber profits, then control of national forests might localize. wood," Sundstrom says. "It ground to a halt."

Activists staged tree-sits and human blockades from Idaho The economic and social fabric of the community began to California to prevent logging in old-growth forests. to unravel. People moved away to find jobs. The national forest transferred its district office from Mapleton to the coast, The timber industry poured millions into congressional taking forestry and service industry jobs with it. campaigns. Radicals firebombed Forest Service proper1:)r, While Mapleton bottomed out in the early nineties, spiked trees, and traded insults and sometimes death threats environmentalists and loggers all over the Pacific orthwest with timber workers across fire-road barricades. Destitute fought over the protection of the northern spotted owl timber communities held massive rallies to draw media and old growth - placing the environment on one side attention to their plight. The Forest Service was polarized between old-school foresters who favored tree plantations of the growing timber wars and logging communities on the other. But not in Mapleton. Residents partnered with and ecologists more concerned about ecosystem health than timber harvesting. Relinquishing management of national federal, state, and local agencies to hammer out common environmental goals for the basin. Restoration dollars trickled forests to local interests wasn't an option in this politically volatile environment. in for the Siuslaw's logging-damaged salmon habitat. These developments signaled economic potential for the basin's But the Siuslaw National Forest's visionaries didn't quit working behind the scenes. In 1999, Congress authorized ecological restoration.

a national five-year stewardship contracting pilot program.

Stewardship contracting meant that foresters wouldn't just mark trees for cutting. They'd design timber sales to spur the regeneration of old growth. The rules included a provision to use thinning profits on local restoration and community revitalization. Stakeholders would advise the Forest Service how to spend the money. For those who saw the links between the community and the forest, it was an exciting moment.

"The foresters jumped on it," Sundstrom says. "They came to the community for help forming a stakeholder team to determine local needs."

The Siuslaw Stewardship Group coalesced in 2002.

Composed of Forest Service employees, landowners like Sundstrom, the Siuslaw Watershed Council, other local agencies, and non-profits like Oregon Wild, the new group was sure to spark fresh dialogue.

Environmentalists wanted old growth, while timber interests wanted a steady supply of logs. Foresters wanted efficiency and stability in their forests, and locals wanted forest jobs again. People with such diverse interests could work together or just as easily degenerate into the adversarial stalemate of the timber wars. Nobody involved with the project knew what would happen.

The group, bound together by a common vision of restoration across the board, met at the Watershed Council's crowded building a stone's throw from the river. Everyone agreed that forests were more than just groups of trees.

Stewardship contracting offered them a unique opportunity to influence forest management decisions. But they had questions about how stewardship logging would work: Could they design moneymaking timber sales that included restoration goals? Could they spend public money on private land? For months they slogged through long meetings, learning how to use the group's newfound authority.

After more than a year's work, the group members thought they were ready. They requested restoration proposals and picked ones that would benefit the community.

Among their plans were training for the volunteer fire department and funding the oldest outdoor school program in Oregon. They intended to restore the watershed and revitalize the community.

But when the fledging group tried to take on: the assistant secretary of the U.S. Department of Agriculture ruled that timber receipts could only be used for restoration on public and private land not on community revitalization. While the stewardship-contracting handbook stated funds could be used for projects like education and firefighting, officials said this was not the case. The decision shattered the group's carefully crafted plans.

"It was almost a deal breaker," Sundstrom says.

Group members felt betrayed. Promised one thing, they'd been given something less. It was a familiar feeling for the community that had lost a battle to keep a district ranger office in Mapleton after collecting 400 signatures in twentyfour hours and scrambling to find a new location for the office. One angry member, venting the emotion many shared, quit the group.

But cooler tempers prevailed that night, and the group postponed any decisions on what to do for a month. The situation was tenuous. The group hadn't made it past the first round of proposals before the rules changed. They risked losing credibility with the community whose support they depended on.

"That was a blow to us as well as our partners," says forester Dan Seggotta. "It was less than we were expecting under the pilot program."

The new rules blocked foresters from using restoration funds to plan future stewardship contracts - restricting their ability to build momentum.

Basin residents saw that local foresters were on their side. Group members realized that politics would keep on

Above: Members ofthe Siuslaw Stewardship Group meet in the Siuslaw National Forest (Sundstrom, second to the left).

changing, but the Siuslaw wouldn't - unless they made it. a profitable, lawsuit-free national forest. Now they want to They refocused on restoring public and private land, shelving spread their homegrown revolution across timber country their grander plans for a better political climate. Their work - changing the environmental stereotype from one of started to payoff conflict to one of cooperation. If they succeed - if they A revolution blossomed on the ground. Instead of stitch restoration forestry into the fabric of timber country marking trees, foresters trusted logging contractors to cut the - they could prevent political shifts from changing the rules right ones, saving $60,000 again and maybe even regain a year in paint and labor.

Instead of marking trees, foresters the power to fund community Oregon Wild, formerly revitalization projects. trusted logging contractors to cut opposed to logging on public The group is helping with land, helped design timber other collaborative efforts the right ones, saving $60,000 a sales instead of blocking them. statewide, including the year in paint and labor.

Logging profits financed the Alsea Stewardship Group, restoration of salmon habitat.

Sustainable Northwest, and Environmentalists worked with timber giants like GeorgiaRural Voices for Community Conservation. Organizations Pacific instead of fighting them; the biggest challenge wasn't such as Cascadia Wildlands Project in nearby' Eugene, tired stopping loggers from cutting too many trees, but getting of conflict and gridlock, are using the Siuslaw National Forest enough timber companies involved to make the plan work. as a guide for their own restoration efforts.

Restoration knit the group together, but road building "We're out there helping people use the authority and threatened to pull its work apart. The Misery Thin, a stand learn about it," Sundstrom says. "We wanted to get other of scrawny forty-year-old Douglas-firs crowding a knifepeople up to speed so they wouldn't hit the same problems edged slope in the Siuslaw National Forest, looked like an with the authority that we did, so we would have a critical ideal stewardship sale. Given room, Conifers grow quickly; mass push for change and improvement."_ but only during their first eighty years. Thinned in time, the stand would rapidly mature and someday become old growth.

If not, it might never grow big trees and could weaken and succumb to disease or catch fire and burn.

But the Misery Thin had a catch. In order to get at the stand, the group had to build a new road. Forest roads often trigger landslides in the Coast Range, something the Siuslaw National Forest had seen more than its share oÂŁ Environmentalists usually fight roads with the same ferocity they fight clear-cuts. The group wanted to close roads, not build them. Members questioned whether building new roads would compromise their mission.

The State Department of Forestry; obligated by law to replace a washed-out road, could have built a road and sold the timber the old wa~ Valuing the group's input, foresters asked for their support.

The group realized it could build an expensive, environmentally sound road ~r give up Misery Thin and risk the results of a regular forest road, which could lead to more landslides. It chose to build. It was a defining moment for the group members; they realized that carefully planned roads, like selective thinning, could be tools for forest restoration.

The Siuslaw National Forest employees' faith in the process bound the group and its allies together even more tightl~ "It has really paid dividends in getting community support," Seggotta says.

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ignoring the rain, members of the group surveying the Misery Thin imagine the forest it will become after logging. The remaining trees will grow majestic, their branches once again interlacing in a protective canop~ The animals that build their homes in old growth will return to nest in snags left by loggers. Beneath the forest, mycorrhizae will spread, supporting the forest's nutrition cycles. The thickly graveled Misery Road should soak up moisture and prevent mudslides.

If the group continues, it can restore the Siuslaw National Forest and rebuild their communi~ But to do so they need allies. The Forest Service is plagued by lawsuits and loses money on most timber sales. The group members are helping turn the Siuslaw National Forest into OW;

Opposite: Ben Stringham, owner of asmall logging outfit, manages the thinning ofaplot ofthe Siuslaw National Forest. Logging companies such as Stringham's make bids to the Forest Service for the rights to log sections ofthe forest, and the highest bidder is granted permission to log the area under the guidelines set by the Forest Service.

Below: Local foresters and environmentalists look at the pre-logged Misery Thin.

The Siuslaw Stewardship Group arranged the sale of timber in hopes of creating a healthier forest.

Below: Grosowsky climbs "Tsunami;' one of his favorite routes at Smith Rock.

During his time in Oregon, Grosowsky established many routes like this in the worldfamous state park.

n his birthday in 1989, Adam Grosowsky calmed himself as he checked the anchor one last time. From where he stood, a metal cable spanned tautly over a chasm, bolted into the rock 300 feet above the desert - a terrifying void to gape into, let alone walk across. During the years leading up to his birthday; Grosowsky aggressively practiced balancing the wire in preparation for what came next.

"If you wire walk and you look up there, you think, that's the most perfect place to put a line," he says. But few visitors to Oregon's Smith Rock State Park would stare up at the rift and feel compelled to cross it by way of balancing along a narrovv, metal cable. The crossing looms high overhead, a meandering river just to its west. The snow capped volcanoes of the Cascade Range line the horizon. Though just thirty feet across, the gap spans two vertical walls of rusted basalt - a wirewalker's dream. "It's this weird sort of esoteric thing.

God knows why you do it," says Grosowsky's close friend Brooke Sandahl. He was present on the spire, known as Monkey Face, when Grosowsky first completed the crossing with a protective leash in 1986.

As the sun set on his thirtieth birthday in the late spring of 1989, Grosowsky experienced what he calls the defining moment of his life. It was warm, he remembers, and he felt ready as he put aside his protective harness and approached the edge of Monkey Face again.

In order to walk between these sets of bolts, the wire must be ratcheted down to the tautness of a guitar string to minimize play along its length. The line will still sway - but to a manageable extent, forcing the walker to counter the motion with a delicate combination of power and grace.

"Strength to weight ratio, he's one of the strongest guys his size you're ever going to meet," says SandaW, a rock climber known, like Grosowsky; for revolutionary ascents throughout his career. "He's definitely in the upper ranks of climbing." And at age forty-eight, Grosowsky maintains his top physical form and uncanny sense of balance.

Credited with originating the phenomenon of slack lining, which draws from the practice of performance wire walking, Grosowsky was one of the first individuals to place them, along with high wires, in dramatic locations around the

United States. A slack line is commonly a piece of nylon webbing, one inch wide, strung and secured between two points.

The challenge of balancing along its length is extreme. As the line flexes and swings from side to side, it creates the sort of mind-over-matter test of wits climbers like Grosowsky and Sandahl crave. This test has led Grosowsky to complete walks at the Lost Arrow Spire, several thousand feet above Yosemite Valley; and at Monkey Face in Smith Rock. But to the general public, Grosowsky's reputation has grown over the past twenty years mainly because of his acclaimed largeformat oil paintings.

On Monkey Face, among the settling shadows on that spring evening in 1989, Grosowsky could very well have been one of the subjects of his artwork. And his decision to balance the line unprotected that day represents a defining moment not only for him personally but also for the observer seeking to understand the scope and range of his body of work as an artist.

Grosowsky depicts solitary characters, dark and brooding.

The compositions are lonely and romantic, as if the subjects are hiding in the shadows, wanting to emerge into the light.

Contrast defines the oil-laden canvases, the effects of his dominant method: chiaroscuro. The play between dark and light engulfs the subject, pitting them at the mercy of the shadows'mood.

In the style of masters like Caravaggio and Rembrandt, Grosowsky's use of chiaroscuro accentuates the focus of his paintings, drawing the observers' eyes toward certain expressions on the subject's face or the directions of their gaze. The style dramatizes the works. A sense of longing lingers in the contrasting shades.

Grosowsky's painting career has burgeoned in recent years. Through a steady str.eam of contract work for clients such as Nordstrom Inc., in addition to his gallery and private shows, he paints relentlessly; And for Grosowsky; this dedication spans his disparate passions of climbing, wire walking, and teaching. '

product of two artists, Grosowsky is climbing in his earliest memories. '1\s a tiny little kid, one of the first things I can remember is climbing the trees in the woods behind our house. We called them the back-backyard," he says. "We had every tree in the backbackyard wired." But he remembers there was one exception, a seventy-foot standout with no branches for the first forty feet and only a vine running down the trunk from the crown where the foliage began. Climbing to the top was the young Grosowsky's obsession for weeks.

"Each day; I'd shimmy up the vine, add four or five more moves, get scared, and climb down. The next day, I'd come back, add another four moves, and come back down. Eventually; I could link them all together and found myself just below the branches, so I just reached up and grabbed on," he says. "Ever since then, I've always had an impulse to solo."

As an adult, Grosowsky has regularly put himself in places of extreme danger, and he recalls these moments with nonchalance. He is known for climbing both vertical and

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overhanging routes alone, with no rope or protection. In the world of climbing, this controversial practice is called free soloing. All that is used to make an ascent are climbing shoes, a bag of gymnastic chalk to control sweat, and a great deal of mental and physical confidence. One mistake, slip, or loose hold means death. Yet his art, Grosowsky says, elicits the most tangible fears for him. 'fut and climbing are two very different parts of my life, but there's more overlap than one might think. Making paintings can be terrifying. In the end, your success is determined by the tastes of other people, and that can create a tremendous amount of performance anxiety;" he says. "In a way; being alone in your little box of a studio with your work is a lot like soloing."

Above: Grosowsky steps off the Lost Arrow Spire 2,500 feet above the ground in Yosemite National Park. He is credited with pioneering walks in dramatic locations like this. (Photo courtesy Adam Grosowsky).

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Despite these fears, in 2007, as he begins to finally break through what he calls the "glass ceiling over the orthwest art scene," Grosowsky's work is gaining more notoriety than ever, selling in prestigious galleries and grossing upwards of $20,000 a piece. With his ambitions set on more national exposure, he hopes to place his work in the established art communities of New York and San Francisco.

But in this rise to success there is a formula, a safe and consistent approach to painting that has ensured Grosowsky healthy profits as a career artist. The subject matter and style of his paintings follows a distinct pattern. A lone character dwells between shadows, staring into the backdrop or outside the frame. The colors are consistent, parrying the middle ground in favor of stark contrasts. The moods are intense and dark, with the exception of his vivid landscapes, which Grosowsky says are his least favorite works.

"He kind of blends an old-master type of image and re-modulates it into a contemporary form," says Bob Kochs of the Augen Gallery in Portland, Oregon, where Grosowsky showed his work for about fifteen years before shifting his sights toward more lucrative markets. "His style resonates with a large quantity of collectors," Kochs says. "We did fairly well with him all the way through."

n a gloomy winter morning in December 2006, Grosowsky enters the bistro at the Midtown Market Place in Eugene, Oregon, pausing to shake the hand of an acquaintance and then a fan before he reaches the barista counter. It is 9:00 A.M., the time he arrives to get his coffee everyday.

Grabbing the day's paper, he sips from his cup and makes his way to a table against the wall in the main pavilion of an adjacent room. He sits facing the fireplace, below a spanning oil painting. It features a bright architectural landscape in which a woman leans on a white railing under marble columns and arches, looking out over a Mediterranean body

Across the room, a group of middle-aged women whisper that he hasn't even stopped to glance up at his own painting.

Opposite: Grosowsky poses with recently completed paintings in his Eugene, Oregon, studio. Their subject matter reflects his dominant motif.

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of water. Her back is to the observer. Vibrant accents of yellow and red make the image pop from its frame. Grosowsky dons his glasses, crosses his leg, and opens the paper.

Across the room, a group of middle-aged women whisper that he hasn't even stopped to glance up at his own painting or any of the other five large-format pieces in the room he's produced over the years.

When he moved to Eugene in order to climb at nearby Smith Rock, Grosowsky lived with a friend and waited tables to support his unorthodox lifestyle. For one of his first public works, he painted a large mural in the restaurant where he worked for years as a waiter before landing a job as an art instructor at Lane Community College.

In teaching, Grosowsky settled and achieved his "proudest accomplishments."

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"He genuinely enjoys giving instruction and witnessing success," says Grayson Revoir, one of Grosowsky's most successful students in recent years. "When you show dedication to what he's teaching, he relates to you in a different wa~ He touches you." Revoir is now in his first year at The Cooper Union, arguably the world's best art school. Grosowsky helped him get there through mentoring and paying for his personal portfolio photographer to shoot Revoir's work. "He gets excited when he sees the same commitment that he has to his own work," says Revoir.

His roles as a teacher, artist, climber, and wirewalker, along with his frequent patronage of the university town's bars, have made Grosowsky somewhat of a local legend. A seedy local rock-tavern, The Black Forest, features a fish tank stocked entirely by Grosowsky - added ambiance for his visits. He'll disappear into his loft studio in town, emerging days and dozens of canvases later. But Grosowsky is always the same as before he entered, consumed by the need to feel more fear, more heightened awareness.

length on a later date, Grosowsky wanted to feel comfortable soloing the section of intense exposure at the top.

When he topped out after the rehearsal solo ascent, he sat quietly next to his gear on the summit, his hands shaking as he reached into his pack, pulling out and lighting a cigarette. It took him several moments to calm down as adrenaline coursed through his body. Then he smiled and started to laugh.

Somewhere in between that slab of rock at the top of Zebra to Zion and the backyard in Carbondale, Illinois, Grosowsky's life grew into something extraordinary. But whether that growth translates into greater success as an artist on the national level depends on the judgments of audiences in bigger cities. Still, he remains undeterred. "When I set out to do something, I will not be denied," he says. -

Opposite: Grosowsky is untied 300 feet above the ground on the top section of Zebra to Zion. The partial "free solo" was in preparation for an un-roped ascent of the entire route on alater date.

Below: Afinished piece waits in Grosowsky's Eugene studio.

n the day he turned thir1:)r, Grosowsky practiced the walk at Monkey Face again, beginning in the morning and ending as the sun fell toward the horizon. As it set, he looked back at his climbing partner, perhaps in need of affirmation. "I think that if you want to do it, you should do it right now;" his friend told him. Grosowsky gathered himsel~ his harness laying on the rock close b~ This was the moment he'd been practicing for during the previous three years. He was going to try balancing the high wire unprotected.

Walking to the edge, he placed one bare foot onto the cable, then the other, and so on until he had slowly and awkwardly balanced his way halfway out across the rift, swaying uninhibited in the wind. Maintaining his focus and keeping his gaze on a fixed point to help his balance, he crept along the remainder of the line, stepping off safely onto the other side.

"Once you take the first step and get going, you're committed; in that wa~ it's no different than accomplishing most things in life," he says. "I don't clearly remember what it felt like, but when I stepped off at the other end, I was completely speechless."

This accomplishment exemplifies the drive that has led Grosowsky to experience and understand certain reaches of human physicali~ "More 'well-adjusted' people think that this is really unhealthy human behavior. And I can understand that perspective. Maybe it is in many ways," he says.

"But I'm completely captivated by that kind of virtuosi~" Sandahl can attest. "It's always his goal at the end to try and do a walk without protection," he says. "Because for him, that's the true test."

On a balmy Friday morning in the early spring of 2007, Grosowsky free soloed the final quarter of Zebra to Zion, a classic Smith Rock climb ending atop an exposed vertical flake of basalt that hangs about 300 feet above the ground.

Rehearsing for a planned free solo ascent of the entire route's

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by CAITLIN FROST photos by BRIANNE M. WILLS

How renowned designer Elizabeth Kollo cut a path to fashion and freedom from the fabric of an oppressive society

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Opposite: Elizabeth Kalla in her Beaverton, Oregon, studio.

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nless you lived there, you can't even imagine," says fashion designer Elizabeth Kollo, sitting at the kitchen table of her Beaverton, Oregon, home.

"You couldn't trust anybody; not even family," she continues, her accent tugging at her words. "Everyone was afraid."

The elegant fifty-seven-year-old has coiffed hair, sharp features, and round hazel eyes. She's wearing a handmade, fitted tweed jacket with black lace embroidery on the front panel and bunched loops of wool surrounding the cuffs - the style of a European sophisticate. Kollo, an ethnic Hungarian, lived in Romania until 1984 under the dictatorship of Nicolae Ceausescu. His regime controlled every aspect of socie~ Secret police tyrannized the people, threatening them with torture. In Bucharest, the city where Kollo conducted her fashion design business, Ceausescu was accused and convicted of committing acts of genocide.

In a controversial coup d'etat in 1989, he and his wife were pursued across the Romanian countryside until they were captured and executed by a firing squad.

Before the coup and amid the oppression, Kollo flourished as an artist. She established herself as a fashion designer within a small sector of cultural elites in the Romanian capital. Her cotton dresses and hand-dyed garments were in high demand, even among Communist Party members, garnering the designer acclaim and prosperi~ But the wealth of her achievements did not exceed her desire to escape Ceausescu's tyranny: The oppressive environment prevented Kollo from realizing the kind of life she envisioned for herself - a life that could only be designed in a free socie~ She planned to escape Romania and never return.

On this damp winter evening inside Kollo's suburban abode, the Pacific Northwest air and muddy-gray skies are kept at bay; The interior, a festival of orange and yellow walls, is vibrant in contrast to the climate outside. Large paintings share space with floor-to-ceiling mirrors. The home feels like a massive fitting room in an upscale boutique. Kollo lives alone now, her three daughters having left the nest. She uses the extra space as a design studio. flux.uoregon.edu

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Above: Kollo sews apurse similar to the one she designed for the Power of the Purse Auction.

Opposite Above: Kollo with the wedding dress she designed for her daughter Cristina.

Opposite Below: Kollo shows her attention to detail on the cuff of ahand-sewn sleeve made with wool, lace, and ribbon.

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munist Party talent scouts selected her to attend a governKollo scurries into her kitchen with an energy as dynamic ment-run boarding school. She went on to the University of as the room's decor. She hugs her newest creation, a handbag Cluj, where she studied tapestry and fashion design. she was requested to design for the charity event "Power of Mter graduation she became the head pattern maker for a the Purse." The event paired local designers with Portland major knitting company. Three years later, she decided it was "purse-onalities" to create one-of-a-kind bags, which were time to launch her own business. She produced designs and auctioned to raise money for Girls Inc. Kollo was matched sold them to government-owned shops that taxed 40 percent with her client, Portland philanthropist Arlene Schnitzer. of her sales. Kollo's clothes immediately generated a buzz.

She fiddles with the work-in-progress like a child Pieces went for $2,000 exhilarated by a new toy. The to $3,000 - comparable to In the face of oppression, Kollo purse's plush, black fabric the monthly earnings of an gathers into a honeycomb found her niche as an architect of engineer in Romania at the pattern decorated by an contemporary Romanian fashion. time. Her collections were adornment on the flap. It displayed in art exhibitions and is a marvel for a first-time hung from gallery walls like canvases. Her dresses were made handbag design. "Sometimes I feel like I'm getting a fever," from hand-dyed, thin-stretched cotton, drawing from her she says of her passion for creating new designs. The selfskills with the loom. Layers of textural detail, delicate ruffles, proclaimed workaholic patterns her couture collections in and overlapping fabrics created pieces that complemented a her home design studio under the label Kollo Originals. Her woman's figure. In the face of oppression, Kollo found her beaded blouses, wool-embroidered coats, chiffon dresses, and niche as an architect of contemporary Romanian fashion. other custom-made pieces are catered toward prominent Limos carried her off to the mansions of Communist Party Portlanders and fashion connoisseurs. officials to perform fittings with their wives. She designed specialty pieces for Madam Elena Ceausescu. But in accordance with strict economic policies, Kollo couldn't earn any income beyond the boutique sales of her merchandise. uring her upbringing in a repressive society; Kollo Socialites bribed her to perform services, and she learned used her creativity to entertain herselÂŁ Resources how to work the system. were scarce in Eastern Europe after World War II, Despite her growing demand and fame, the regime so she turned the insides of her parents' kitchen barred the expansion of Kollo's business. Artist household cupboards into makeshift sketch pads. Her favorite things to incomes were capped at $10,000 a year and the "economical draw were wedding dresses. When Kollo was thirteen, Com-

police" hunted commoners who "led luxurious lives." Kollo made more than the instituted cap, illegally; by creating multiple copies of certain styles and disregarding government rules regulating the number of pieces she could sell. Store workers gave Kollo her earnings under the table and kept the government's 40-percent tax. They hid their stolen sums in toilets, flushing the evidence during periodic police raids.

When recalling her criminal acts, she clearly justifies her actions. "It forced us to do illicit things," she says.

Not only was the economy strictly controlled, foreign print materials were either banned or censored. The temperature of household thermostats remained fixed. Hidden audio recording devices lay scattered among the street-side trees to listen in on the conversations of passersby. Ethnic racism pervaded the country and created deep divisions among Romanian people. As an ethnic Hungarian with a grandfather who had once drunkenly burned the Romanian flag, Kollo was born with the Ceausescu regime's target on her back.

Her relationship with the government was complex. On the one hand, she was in high demand for her skills in design.

On the other, she was an outcast because of her ethnicity and suspected of political disloyalties. The Party kept a close watch on Kollo, refusing to allow her to leave the country.

They knew she might never return.

At twenty-nine, she met Dan Balaesh, a security advisor for President Ceausescu. Balaesh's father was the general director of Romanian Broadcasting and a close associate of the president. Officials followed Kollo and Balaesh to monitor their budding relationship. -The Ministry refused to allow a member of the Romanian Communist Party to associate with an ethnic Hungarian. They forced him to choose: his government or Kollo. When Balaesh chose his future wife, the Ministry expelled him. Although a government target, the couple remained in the country. Soon after their wedding Kollo gave birth to their first daughter, Cristina.

t her kitchen table, Kollo sifts through piles of black-and-white photographs from Romania. One photo shows her on the set of a 1980 photo shoot for the Romanian magazine Flacara. She is dressed in a white cotton overlay constructed from the lace trim of a bed sheet. Her long, wavy hair is swept across one eye.

Married and in love, Kollo says this was one of the happiest times in her life. But what the lens couldn't capture is her disgust with the hypocrisy of her circumstances. She praised a regime she detested, sang an anthem she didn't believe, and represented a country she didn't respect. ationalism was forced on Romanians, Kollo says. She knew that she had to find a way to leave.

"Every single day it was like I was trying to beat the lie detector so that nobody would read my thoughts," Kollo says. Her desire to flee Romania increased as her daughter grew. By the time Cristina approached her third birthday; Kollo and Balaesh's plans of escape were established. The couple pleaded with officials to grant them clearance to travel to a soccer match in Paris, a guise for their plans to escape.

Balaesh's father believed the couple's plans to be authentic and used his connections with the government to convince officials to issue passports. The government agreed, but on one condition: Cristina had to stay in Romania as collateral.

On August 11, 1984, Kollo and Balaesh enjoyed a gathering with family and friends to celebrate Cristina's

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Above: On the set of aphoto shoot for Flacara, aRomanian fashion magazine, Kollo (second to the left) wears a dress she made from the lace of abed sheet. Dan Balaesh (far left), her ex-husband, wears ashirt made of the same fabric. The model with her child (far right) is wearing Kollo's designs as well. (Photo courtesy Elizabeth Kollo).

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third birthday; The couple chatted with relatives, concealing the fact that in less than twenty-four hours they would be en route to a secret location in Europe. With the car packed and waiting, Kollo was unable to grasp the severity of her situation and the decision to leave Cristina behind.

"We had to lie to everybody, even my mother," says the designer. "We had to keep it a secret because we were afraid if we told one soul, they would tell someone." Kollo kissed her daughter goodbye that da)', hoping they would be reunited in a free country; Upon the discovery of their escape, both the government and the couple's family were furious. Balaesh's father was fired from his broadcasting job for his broken promise, and Balaesh's brother was dismissed as a military pilot. The government attempted to track down the couple. Kollo feared for their capture because the Romanian government had condemned Balaesh to death. The couple knew that they could never return to Romania.

The government held Cristina in Romania as leverage and the wait for reunification was excruciating for Kollo. While international law prevented Cristina's legal detainment, the involved bureaucracies took time. The only thing that stopped Kollo from risking a return to Romania was the knowledge that her family would never be reunited if she left her husband in Europe - the law was void if the couple separated.

"I don't know how I survived," she says. The couple sought the help of the International Rescue Committee, which relocated them to Los Angeles after three months of hiding in Europe. The organization intervened and forced

the Romanian government to let Cristina go. After thirteen agonizing months, Kollo got her daughter back.

eunited in L.A., the family constructed their new life. Although adapting wasn't eas)', Kollo managed to teach herself English by pasting sticky notes with words and phrases around her dingy apartment.

Fortunately for Kollo, fashion-forward L.A. was ripe with opportunities for seamstresses.

A sizable Hungarian population offered Kollo the ability to network in the foreign city; She quickly metJames Galanos, a prominent L.A. designer and one of the more well-known names in eighties fashion. Galanos was famous for his silk fabrics, hand-sewn beading, and glamorous gowns. He was one of the first American couture designers. After recognizing Kollo's talent, he immediately put her to work in the midst of his booming career.

Galanos introduced Kollo to different materials and a different process of design. She never doubted her abilities to sevy' but she had no idea that the craft existed at such a fine level. As a pattern maker in Galanos' studio, she learned the art of couture design and fortified her style using high-quality fabrics. ''1\ blouse for the daytime was $1,600 twenty years ago, and evening dresses were $30,000," Kollo says. ''1\t that time it was unheard oÂŁ obody paid that much for a Paris designer. But they paid that much for him." Galanos designed pieces for Nancy Reagan and Diana Ross and crafted

$35,000 gowns for Italian princesses. Kollo remembers workNestled among the supermarkets and grade schools ing with Nancy Reagan on numerous occasions - especially of suburbia, Kollo's life as a high-profile couture designer to make a black-and-white-striped silk and gabardine wool is discreet. Yet her pieces continue to astound her loyal dress for the former first lady; following of clients, who seek out her unique and quality Although immersed in a prestigious niche of the fashion craftsmanship. industf)T, Kollo was put off by the glitz and glamour of A premier client is Arlene Schnitzer, whose philanthropy Beverly Hills. "Nothing ever really impresses me about the includes primary funding for Portland's Schnitzer Concert materialistic part," she says. "I enjoyed it, but my dreams Hall and the Jordan Schnitzer Museum of Art at the weren't exactly to work on expensive merchandise. My University of Oregon. Schnitzer relies on the designer for her dreams were to live in a country where I can travel, where I entire wardrobe. "I always sa)', 'If it wasn't for Elizabeth, I'd can say whatever I want to sa)', be a recluse, '" she says. and where I'm free."

On April 5, the Power IIlf you have a comfortable life Kollo yearned for a of the Purse charity event more low-key lifestyle where and you love what you are doing, featured high-visibility local she could provide a decent attendees such as Nicole Vogel, lI you are successful. education for her three publisher of Portland Monthly, daughters, and this desire State Senator Avel Gordl)', and brought her to Portland, Oregon. She began working at Schnitzer. Kollo's newly stitched bag was a big hit at the event an exclusive boutique and then became the head of the and auctioned off for nearly $3,000. "She is truly amazing," alterations department at Saks Fifth Avenue downtown. says Schnitzer. "One of the most intelligent women I know."

Cindy Tortorici, the former general manager of Saks, says Schnitzer says that living under the communist regime gave that Kollo was a godsend. "It's a very Tare talent to be able to Kollo the determination to provide for her daughters in a free create couture creations," she says. "It's a trade." But taking country. care of her children outweighed all other priorities, including Like the designs mastered with her keen eye and vibrant pursuing big-time success in fashion. "During these past imagination, Kollo had a vision for the way she wanted her years, I could have adventured and tried to make it big. But it life to be and designed accordingly. wasn't important to me," Kollo says. "It was more important "In my mind I am successful, and I think that's what to be home when [the girls] come from school, to be able to matters - how you think about yourself and how you define take them to piano lessons and gymnastics ... I very much success," she says. "I think that if you have a comfortable life loved being a mother." and you love what you are doing, you are successful." •

Above: Kollo (center) and daughters Anna (left) and Liz Balaesh at the Power of the Purse event in Portland, Oregon. All are wearing Kollo Originals.

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What happens when the money leaves but the mess stays behind

by TUULA REBHAHN

photos by TREVOR ATKINS, CONNER JAY & MATI NICHOLSON

ining has left a distinctive mark on the town of Riddle, Oregon. Just past the storefronts of Main Street, Copper Way branches off through rows of small houses. On the outskirts of town, signs designate Silver Bullet and Nickel Mine roads, which wind into the forested foothills of the Coast Range.

The abandoned Formosa mine sits on the barren top of one of those hills seven miles from Riddle. Here, metals are more than just references in the local lexicon: Mining has shaped the landscape. Signs are more difficult to find near the Formosa site. In fact there is only one, and its message is one of caution: "Do not drink this water."

Riddle, with a population of about 1,000, is the nearest community to Oregon's most recent proposed Superfund site.

Acidic runoff from the mine has devastated local streams and fish populations - a consequence of loopholes in current U.S. mining laws and environmental policies.

Mining began at the Formosa site in 1910 and continued through the next three decades as workers excavated copper and zinc, as well as trace amounts of gold and silver. The hill sat dormant for fifty years before a Vancouver, B.C.-based mine prospector, who created Formosa Excavations Inc., found international investors to back the venture and bought the rights. Formosa Excavations mined the site from 1990 to 1994 and then filed for bankruptcy in 1996. Suddenly left without an owner, the land was placed under the jurisdiction of the Oregon Department of Environmental Quali~ The agency soon realized that the site posed an environmental threat, says state project manager Greg Aitkin. Before declaring bankruptc~ Formosa Excavations attempted to contain its waste by dumping it in the more than three miles of mine shafts left behind. ow, the abandoned mine acts as

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Opposite: Asign warns against drinking from the toxic pool left over from the Formosa mine. This water also runs into the tributaries of the Umpqua River, an internationally known fishery.

The site's clean up is on hold.

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Above: In aquick effort to mitigate the mess, Formosa Inc. piled its mine tailings on askinny ridge and encapsulated them with plastic to slow the leaching of harmful minerals into the groundwater.

Middle: Glenn Dulany has been to the mine several times on hunting trips. "It is nasty. It is really in bad shape, sitting up there all that time running." Dulany believes it would be agood use of taxpayers' dollars to clean it up. "Heck, if you don't, people are going to eat the fish; people are going to get sick:' Dulany lives along Russell Creek, which is fed by groundwater from below the mine.

Right: Farrel Ratliff and his wife Carol stand outside their pottery studio and gallery in Riddle, Oregon. They had seen little in-depth coverage about the abandoned mine, but agreed that taxpayers dollars should be used to clean it up.

Opposite: The tailings below the road to the mine make it easy to route the mine water into Middle Creek below.

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a mixing ground for the acidic waste and rainwater. Heavy metal-laden runoff seeps into the surrounding watershed at a rate of five million gallons per year.

The creeks in the valley below the mine site, Middle Creek and South Fork, bear the pollution's most visible effects. The agency found large concentrations of heavy metals, such as zinc and copper, in these two tributaries of Cow Creek, a stream that eventually finds its way into the Umpqua River, one of southern Oregon's primary waterways. In total, eighteen miles of creek, once prime steelhead and coho salmon spawning areas, are now void of aquatic life. Along Cow Creek, agriculture and fish populations are at risk, and the pollution could taint drinking water in nearby Riddle.

The agency estimates that the cost to fix this problem and establish an effective rainwater management system at the site will be more than $15 million, a sum far greater than budgets allo~ In the past year, some groups have taken matters into their own hands, pushing for answers and action. Their voices played a part in the agency's March 2007 proposal to add the site to the Environmental Protection Agency's Superfund program. The Superfund prioritizes sites across the country that produce toxins considered hazardous to the health of people and the environment and puts into action federal money set aside for large-scale clean-up projects.

Francis Eatherington, conservation manager for Umpqua Watersheds, feels that outdated mining and bankruptcy legislation needs to be changed if Oregon is to avoid similar environmental catastrophes in the future. She and other activists have long criticized the 1872 Mining Act, which makes public lands available to private mining for a nominal fee. "This was just one of many laws intended to promote setdement of the West," she says. This act allows any mineral-bearing land to be purchased no matter its protection status. Furthermore, bankruptcy often enables companies to forgo their responsibility for clean-up of abandoned sites.

This sequence of events can be witnessed across the western United States. "We're not a mining state, so I think people are surprised that we have our very own abandoned mine site," says Aitkin.

The D EQ expects the Superfund listing to go through, but the program's funds are scarce. Of 1,243 total sites on its ational Priorities List, eleven are in Oregon. According to Aitkin, this makes the prospect of timely action on Formosa unlikely, although the EPA will begin emergency mitigation on the site this summer. In the meantime, acidic water continues to percolate into Riddle's surrounding watershed. -

The return to campus doesn't always go as expected for toda 's oun veterans

by LIBBY WHITTEMORE photos by CHRISTIN ROSE PALAZZOLO

D

ressed in U.S. Army fatigues, a young combat veteran stood idly in an elevator in a University of Oregon residence hall and waited. Just before dinner time inJanuary 2006, twenty-two-yearold Kevin Pelatt was on leave from his base in EI Paso, Texas, and visiting his younger brother. He watched silently as the elevator approached the fourth floor.

Without stops, the ride lasts sixteen seconds, and at six-foot-four, Pelatt could easily palm both walls of the unusually petite space and still bend his arms. Red digits, illuminated on a screen, climbed upward and beeped mechanically at every passing floor. Next to him, a passenger braced himself to exit. A bell dinged, they stopped, and the door slid open from the left. After sixteen seconds of mutual silence, the stranger turned to Pelatt, locked eyes with him, and sputtered, "I fucking hate the military:" Then he spit on Pelatt's chest.

Right: Business student and twenty-four-year-old sergeant Marine reservist Shane Addis Boyum at the University of Oregon. Addis served one tour in Operation Iraqi Freedom.

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Kim volunteers at the VFSA with twenty-four-year-old his isn't what Pelatt signed up for.

Sergeant Shane Addis. A university junior and Marine This isn't what any veteran signs up for. reservist from Portland, Addis served eight months in Iraq Educational assistance is a strong incentive during OIF 3 - the third installment of Operation Iraqi for many enlistees. The United States Veteran's Benefits Freedom. Because he's in the Marine reserves, Addis puts Administration provided educational assistance benefits to on his uniform one weekend a month and drives to his post more than 470,000 student veterans in the 2006 fiscal year, to train in the field. But sometimes the weekend begins on according to a report from the Government Accountability a Wednesday. And sometimes he has a midterm on Friday.

Office. At anyone point in time, University of Oregon Sometimes his only decent meal and night of sleep come on Veterans Coordinator Nadine Clark assists approximately 250 Sunday evening during the few hours he has to rest and catch students in receiving their government-sponsored financial aid. up on homework.

And the University of Oregon's Veterans Family and Student Last fall, Addis received presidential orders to attend a Association (VFSA), a support network for members of the small arms repair seminar in New Orleans. When the date armed forces and their families in the Eugene communi~ estimates that almost 100 students utilize their services. changed at the last minute, it conflicted with a business midterm. He arranged to take the test a University of Oregon students Ben week early although he had no time to Mangin, Shane Addis, andJason Kim, like prepare. His professor offered him no so many active service members, enlisted Mangini Addis l assistance in learning the material and for the tuition assistance and the chance to attend the University of Oregon. After his no chance to make up the extra credit and are parents went bankrupt and lost their house, assignment when he missed its due date. home and "I asked my professor for help," Addis Addis knew the military and Governor Kulongoski's Voyager Tuition Assistance says. "He said, Just read chapter seven.' attempting to be Program were his only tickets to college.

I said, 'I have your class in three hours, what they set out Kim signed a two-year contract because and I have classes until then.' He just gave me a smile and a nod and said, 'Good his only options after high school were to to be: students. work or attend community college; when it luck.'" Addis ended up with a C-plus, which did not comply with the business expired, he signed a six-year contract with school's requirements and threatened his the ational Guard to earn in-state tuition.

Mangin entered the military straight from his job atJiffy acceptance into the program.

Lube. Broke and just out of high school, he didn't know what Because of standards that fluctuate between departments he wanted to do with his life. and professors, the VFSA has proposed a new diversity "I knew I wanted to go to college, but I didn't have any plan and bylaws for the university that would even the field for students balancing school with the armed forces. If the mone)!, and I just wasn't ready for college yet. Clinton was in office, there wasn't really much going on - it was a pretty proposal is accepted, student veterans with PTSD will likely receive additional time to complete tests, and the university sweet gig," he says. "Obviously everything changed once Bush took office." will consider PTSD a disabili~ enabling students to receive When the current administration invaded Iraq in early disability assistance. Professors will also receive a set of 2003, Mangin, Addis, and Kim had already enlisted. These guidelines to mediate time conflicts. three soldiers, and so many other college students in the The VFSA hopes the university will recognize the armed forces, were expecting an education, not a war. Four inequalities between the rights of student veterans and years into the current conflict,'Mangin, Addis, and Kim are working veterans. Laws require employers to comply with home and attempting to be what they set out to be: students. their employees' deployment schedule. According to the But not everyone wants to help them.

Uniform Services Employment and Reemployment Rights In the summer of 2006, a University of Oregon Act of 1994, when soldiers return home they must get the psychology lab fired twenty-six-year-old Kim because his same benefits from their employer they would have received annual training for the ational Guard conflicted with his if continuously employed during their service. Students, hours. The lab would not accommodate his schedule. "They however, have no such protection under current legislation.

Addis hopes that by the time he graduates, they will. basically just said goodbye," he sighs.

A few months later in the fall of 2006, another lab "It's just a stepping stone. But if we miss a week of fired Kim because of complications resulting from his material, let us work it through," he says. 'l\.ccommodate us Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). Kim guarded the so we're not screwed."

Pentagon with Operation oble Eagle on September 11, Art major Ben Mangin served eight years in the infantf)T, 2001 and was recently diagnosed with the condition. He says which included service in Kosovo and Iraq. For Mangin, the his supervisor swore at him, told him he'd messed up, and most challenging part of reentering society was boredom. kicked him out with no notice. "I do have problems in certain He immediately realized the pace of what he calls "regular environments," he says, "and they kind of harassed me about society" withered in comparison to Iraq. it. They basically said 'you're a waste of time - get out. '" The withdrawals from the adrenaline that Iraq supplied Kim addressed his concerns to Oregon congressman Peter made it impossible for Mangin to sit in a classroom and concentrate, so he waited a term before beginning classes DeFazio and senator Ron Wyden in an April 2007 meeting again in spring 2006 - a decision he believes is vital to the on campus with VFSA members. He also filed a complaint inJanuary 2007 with the Bias Response Team, a campus success of returning veterans.

"I think that's the greatest challenge facing combat veterans organization that helps to resolve incidents and support returning home," he says. "Life just became incredibly dull. It victims of discriminatory actions. The lab, however, only just doesn't make your heart pound, when you're constantly responded to the complaint three months later when Kim used to this do-or-die situation that's just go, go, go." threatened to take the issue to a public venue.

T

Kim

Opposite: Twenty-five-yearold Jason Kim, arecent graduate of the University of Oregon, guarded the Pentagon with Operation Noble Eagle on September 11, 2001.

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and antibiotics - Addis says insurgents typically pack IEDs with highly infectious substances such as feces, dead animal parts, metal fragments, and human and animal hair - and a surgery; a trip to a doctor in Germany, and twenty-nine stitches, Pelatt boarded the thirty-two-hour flight to EI Paso.

His thirty-six-hour rotations in thirty-degree Fahrenheit temperatures were done. The fear that his parents and fiancee would receive a phone call and an American flag from the U.S. Army was gone. He was safe.

But Iraq lingered with Pelatt in Texas. "You feel like you're still in combat," Pelatt says. "People will think you're depressed but you're not. We're so used to being on guard all the time." Like Kim, Pelatt suffers from PTSD and "what we call the ten-mile stare. When we look at people, we're kind of looking through them," he says. According to Veterans Affairs, at least 20 percent of Iraq veterans return home with "servicerelated psychological disorders." And this his February, surgeons "We're figure only takes diagnosed instances into inserted three screws and one metal plate into Pelatt's right following our boss, account.

Perhaps the majority of civilians will hand in order to reassemble the bone in and our boss never relate. These student veterans and his finger. Shrapnel lies just beneath the skin of his face, cheek, elbow, and bicep happens to be the others like them will probably encounter more unsympathetic professors and, as - eternal souvenirs of debris from the president. II Mangin says of the stranger who spit on improvised explosive device (lED) that Pelatt, people who "don't really understand severed his finger and splattered tendons the way the world works." But they may across his chest. also encounter the small group of University of Oregon "It was December 20 at 8:47A.M.," he recites instinctivel)!. faculty who, once a week, stand in the middle of campus and "I was on patrol, and I was riding in the gun turret." Pelatt's take turns reading off the names of soldiers who've died. The upper body paid the price of exposure when a roadside bomb proposed bylaws may pass, and veterans may eventually find detonated next to his unit's vehicle. It fractured his nose, they can step out of what Addis calls "the shadows." cracked his goggles, and sent metal fragments into his, face, "On campus, you don't want to mention it so much. arm, bulletproof vest, and helmet. The shrapnel that landed It's just safer to keep your peace," Addis says. "Really; it's in his cheek and bicep muscle still felt tender four months a simple job that we're following our boss, and our boss later. "I watched it go off in my face," he says. "It threw me happens to be the president." backward, and it severed my pointer finger. It was dangling As Pelatt wiped the stranger's spit from his uniform with by a vein." his hand, shock paralyzed his speech. He knew the stranger Despite his inability to fire a weapon, Pelatt wanted to had aimed for his face, and he knew he couldn't do anything stay in Iraq. "I hoped I would either just lose the finger, or about it. So he walked awa)!. Nine months later, Pelatt's unit they could fix it and I could stay;" he says. But after four left for Iraq. _ days in a hospital receiving intravenous pain medications The transition from combat to classroom requires decompression time, says licensed clinical social worker Gary Hunter. "School is a different kind of stress than the war-zone," says Hunter, the team leader for the Eugene Vet Center, which offers veterans services that include postcombat counseling. ''War is life-and-death at any minute, but there are always people telling you what to do, where to go, how far to go, when to return," he says.

Mter eight years of infantry service and a term to decompress, Mangin is now pursuing a career in photograph)!. He considers himself fortunate to have readjusted from combat and found his niche at the universit)T. Kim plans to pursue a master's in education at the University of Oregon. Addis hopes to embark on a career in business but says he might be deployed again in the meantime.

T

Right: Pelatt's finger after it was nearly severed on December 20,2006 - three months into his tour of duty in Iraq. He received aPurple Heart after the incident.

(Photo courtesy Kevin Pelatt).

Opposite: Twenty-two-yearold Kevin Pelatt lies in bed after surviving an explosion.

(Photo courtesy Kevin Pelatt).

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can't wear that. They're not the basketball team - they don't have an equipment manager on hand to wash uniforms for them after every match. They haven't had time to do laundry since the last match and won't have time to do it before they leave for Denver the next morning. This is ridiculous, they say; they need more than three options for matches.

From where he's perched on a bench at the front of the room, Reber cringes and sighs in exasperation. Usually assertive with effective conflict-management skills honed from years of training, the coach quickly realizes that in this case he's way out of his league.

"Oka)!, oka~ I'll try and get us more match clothes, but can we please just pick something?" he begs. "This is taking up the entire meeting."

"Siwa," Reber looks pointedly - and hopefully - at Powaska, "It's your turn to pick, so what do you want to wear?"

"I already picked, but no one likes my choices!" Powaska, whose nickname "Siwa" (pronounced shiva) means "grey-haired" in Polish, protests in exasperation. "Clo wants something else, and Hozi doesn't like it."

Reber pushes his yellow Ducks baseball cap more firmly onto his head, looking as if he wishes he could disappear into its confines, "Okay Claudia, what would you like?"

"I don't care. I'll wear whatever," Claudia Hirt says, sounding resigned.

"Me too," Carmen Seremeta says, eager to get the wardrobe selection out of the way so that the Ducks can finally start practice.

While their uniform disputes are one of the more convoluted logistical nightmares of day-to-day team operations, Powaska says it's also one of the most fun parts of team decision-making. And it's one of the few times that one will ever see the Ducks arguing. Aside from bickering over clothing choices or the occasional disagreement about dirty dishes in the house that four of them live in, the six members of the Oregon women's tennis team are a team in every sense of the word.

"Everyone's so open. It's one of the characteristics of this team," Mexico-born Ceci Olivos says. "So even though you're new, you feel like you've known [the team] forever."

"I think our team is different from everyone else," Powaska says. "We're more like a famil~ It's really unusual. We're from all over the world, and everyone brings something new, something fresh, and we all just complement each other very well."

With the exception of the collegiate level, tennis is an individual sport. On the junior circuit known as the International Tennis Federation, most tennis players grow into the game with the mindset that they're competing for the betterment of themselves and that the individual is all that matters. All the women on the team have had some experience with the

by STEFANIE LOH photos by JOHN GIVOT

When a team is more than the sum of its players

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nternal strife has befallen the usually indivisible members of the University of Oregon women's tennis team as they sit around their tiny locker room deep within the heart of McArthur Court, having an intense, important discussion.

"I like the tight black top," Anna Powaska says, her curly blond ponytail bobbing /lWe're from all over the world, and everyone as she leans over to lace up her tennis shoes. brings something new, something fresh."

"We should wear that and the meshy skirt."

"That one's too tight," Monica Hoz de Vila protests at the same moment that Dominika Dieskova individual game and varying levels of individual accomplishpoints out that, by principle, she does not wear black. ment at the international level.

"How about you guys wear what you wore last weekend?

Poland-born Powaska and Bolivia-native Hoz de Vila The green top and white skirt?" asks the sole male in the trained at two of Europe's most prestigious tennis academies room, Oregon coach Paul Reber, in search of the quickest in their formative years. Hirt played the Switzerland club solution to a seemingly simple problem. circuit, and Slovakia-born Dieskova traversed the globe with Their differences temporarily forgotten, the team unites a personal coach, playing tournaments with and against the for a split second to vehemently veto Reber's suggestion. They likes of current professional Women's Tennis Association

Opposite: Dominika Dieskova and Ceci Olivos congratulate each other on their doubles win against Washington.

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notables like Shuai Peng, Dinara Safina, Karolina Sprem, three matches in a weekend, and it's so fast. Sometimes when you're playing bad or serving bad, you don't have the time to and world o. 4 Svetlana Kuznetsova. stop and focus."

Many different factors have brought the women together The Ducks had one weekend off throughout their threein Eugene, Oregon, an unlikely gathering point for a group month, twenty-three-match season. The women practice of women who have all harbored dreams of playing professionally at some point in their lives. Some, like Powaska, view dail)!, with court time supplemented by conditioning workouts twice a week. When they have to travel for matches, their arrival at the collegiate doorstep as the twilight of their they leave either Thursday or Friday and often don't careers, a final hurrah before retirement. Others, like Dieskova, ended up in the collegiate game because the high costs of knew that once we got on the court, we're not playing professionally became too friends; you just have to kick her ass and hope that much for their parents. Still others, like Hoz de Vila, were lured she's maybe going to fall and sprain her ankle. II to America by a scholarship that get back until Sunday night. They have to finish homework would allow them to simultaneously continue their education in time for class on Monday. Then the week starts all and their athletic careers - something very rare in Europe over again. and Hoz de Vila's native Bolivia.

"It's not like playing individual tennis where you can stay Regardless of their motivations, the women transitioning from the pro game to the collegiate one quickly realize that mad at your game. You just have to get over it and keep going," Olivos says. "Because you can't stop. It's not about you. they have entered a different world. In the esprit-de-corps It's about the team. And like times when you lose but we win, environment of college tennis, there are seven points up for you don't have to be mad because we won. I think you learn grabs in each team match or "dual." Two teams first face off not to be that hard on yourself." against each other in three doubles matches, and the team that manages to win two of the three doubles matches is alMany of the women say that at some point in their preOregon tennis careers, the selfish mindset required to fend for lotted a single point. Then the teams field six singles players, oneself at the lower echelons of the junior tour took its toll with each singles match worth one team point regardless of individual match scores. At the end, the team with the most on them.

"Tennis players are all about the individual - taking care points within this best-of-seven structure wins the dual.

Most players who transition from playing individual junior of their own business. And that's how most individual athletes are," Powaska says. "I had friends in this environment, but tennis to the collegiate game experienced an initial shock at how much less emphasis is placed on individual excellence I knew that once we got on the court, we're not friends; you and how much more rigorous the schedule is compared to the just have to kick her ass and hope that she's maybe going to fall and sprain her ankle." relative leisure of the individual circuit, where players train Dieskova welcomed the instant network of support the daily but also have the luxury of deciding which tournaments team element brought to a game where many players thrive they want to enter and how far apart they want to space their match days. on being an individual.

"The transition was hard," Olivos admits. "Because in "The team thing was so weird at first but then became the season, we're playing every weekend. Sometimes we have kind of nice," says Dieskova, who has the most extensive

III

Above: Claudia Hirt serves during one of the Ducks' doubles matches.

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pre-Oregon resume of all the Ducks. "On the pro tour, even when you have a friend or maybe someone you used to hang out with when you were younger, it's more like, 'Good luck.... unless you're in my half of the draw. If you're close enough [in the bracket] to me that I ,could play you, it's like OK, I'm gonna kill you. '" ow, four years after she first entered the realm of team tennis, Dieskova believes that she will re-enter the professional tennis world upon graduation next winter, having learned some valuable lessons. Mainl)!, she says she's mellowed out.

"I learned to say to my opponent, 'Goodjob, good point,'" Dieskova says.

But most college tennis coaches agree that getting these individualistic players to relax their them-against-me view of the tennis world enough to buy into the mindset of playing as a team can be challenging.

"The team element is very important, but it's a harder sell to a kid," says Kevin Eple)!, the women's coach at the College

team-oriented environments on the college tennis circuit.

Word spread that the up-and-coming Oregon women's tennis program offered not just a shot at national success, but also a fun college experience within a supportive family-oriented team system.

"I wanted to be on a team that was a team," says Seremeta, who signed with Oregon two years ago despite offers from tennis powerhouses like Epley's William & Maf)r, University of California at Berkeley, a perpetual national title contender, and more academically prestigious schools like Columbia. Seremeta originally pegged UC Berkeley as her first-choice school, but the Bears slipped to fifth on her list after she took her recruiting visit and realized how individualistic the team was.

"You could tell from the recruiting trips that some teams just weren't very close - there were some girls who would bicker, and there was just overall conflict within the team," Seremeta says. "This team was incredibly close. They did everything together, and I liked ils a lot."

We have to rewire kids to understand that Schyllander stresses teamwork over competitiveness, his mantra being that "the seventh n college it's a team sport and that you're player on the team is every bit as important as the first." art of something greater than yourself. II After matches, four of the six women go of William & Mary and a close friend of Oregon Director of home to a big seven-bedroom house four blocks from the Tennis Nils Schyllander.

Oregon tennis facili~ Seremeta is the only American in an "We're going after these seventeen-year-old girls who've international household with Hirt, Oliva~~ and Dieskova. been coddled their whole lives and have had childhoods Between practice, time spent together on the road at away where the world revolves around them, and it's all about them matches, and other mandatory team events, one would think winning and succeeding," Epley says. "We have to rewire kids the women would want nothing more at the end of every day to understand that in college it's a team sport and that you're than to find some space away from each other. But with this part of something greater than yourself. Once they make that team, that's not the case. transition, they find it more rewarding." '~ lot of teams are kind of clique)!," says Seremeta, who Under Schyllander, who coached the women for seven explains that on most teams, players usually end up breaking years before he took over the men's team this year, Oregon into little groups. "We don't have that at all." made the postseason five times and rose to become a top"On this team, it's always family first," says Duck alumthirty program nationall~ Within the Pacific-l 0 Conference, nusJanice Nyland, who played tennis for Oregon from 1998 the Ducks gained a reputation as one of the most cohesive, to 2002.

Above: The team gathers to support Monica HOl de Vila, who is engaged in battle against Washington's Joyce Ardies on Senior Day.

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Twenty-six-year-old yland, whom the team affectionately calls "grandma," is another example of how the familial ties created during a player's playing years continue to endure long beyond graduation.

"I think it's a matter of friendship. All these girls that I played with, I would consider myself friends with them in addition to being teammates," Nyland says. "I don't think that's true for a lot of teams."

Even though Nyland graduated II before most of the current players got to Oregon, she lives with Powaska, hangs out with the girls on a regular basis, and comes to every home match to cheer on the team.

"I'm still in contact with all my teammates," Nyland says.

"We have our own picture galleries, we're in email contact on a list that has everyone's name on it, and we talk to each other about everything.

"Tennis is over, and we're now all out conquering a different world, but we're still on a thirty-year plan for Oregon women's tennis to bring peace to the world," she jokes.

aska wanted to begin with, a white shirt with lime trim for their doubles matches, and the lime tank top for the singles matches.

As the girls begin shoving rackets into equipment bags and pulling on sweats in preparation to head out to the courts, Reber heaves a sigh of relie~ leans back against the wall, looking drained, and makes a mental note to follow through on his

All these girls that I played with, I would consider myself friends with them in addition to teammates./I

T

Below: With eager forks, the women dig into aslice of cake courtesy of Oregon coach Paul Reber at one of their pre-match dinners.

he plan for the Ducks to take over the world is in full force in the locker room as the current team tries to figure out an acceptable compromise to their wardrobe conundrum.

Dieskova, one of the two seniors in the group, tries to direct the discussion by throwing out suggestions of all their possible wardrobe options.

Finally, with some muttering and residual murmurs of dissent, the Ducks settle on the fluf% meshy skirt that Pow-

offer to get the team more match clothes - anything to avoid another lengthy discussion like this one.

In his short time with the team, he's learned that the women are familiar enough with each other that they won't hesitate to squabble like sisters over the little things - wardrobe options, for instance - that seem pressing at the time, but that never matter in the long run. So a team consensus is usually the best way to go.

"We pick out our match outfits together, and to not waste time, Paul decided that for each match, there will be one person picking the outfit, which is really not working too well," Powaska says with a wry grin, "I mean like for the Denver match, when it was my turn to choose the outfit, of course I'm gonna pick something I like. But Ceci will say it's too big for her, Baba will say it's too short for her, Hozi won't even know what I'm talking about, and Claudia will say yes and wear something else," Powaska says, breaking out into giggle as the absurdity of the situation hits her.

"So yeah, we should just decide as a team." •

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perspectives I

My Ironyear

by NANCY RASKAUSKAS photos by JOHN GIVOT

Below &Opposite: Raskauskas warms up one week before lronman Arizona by competing in the Beaver Freezer, asprint triathlon in Corvallis, Oregon.

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I ARRIVED AT THE FINISH UNE BRUISED, scratched, and chafed. I was punched in the face during the melee of the swim, sunburned from the long windy bike ride, and violently ill during the run. When I set out a year before to train for Ironman Arizona, a triatWon in Tempe, I had no idea what I was getting myself into - but crossing the line after a 2.4-mile swim, l12-mile bike ride, and 26.2-mile run, I finally understood what it was all about.

Punishing my body in this way was an idea that had grown on me over a number of years. I'd kicked it around since seeing a race on television in grade school. I wrote it on those goal sheets that school counselors like to hand out. "When I grow up I want to be ... an Ironman."

A year ago, on a whim, I withdrew the last of my inheritance from my favorite grandfather and sent it in for the $475 race fee. He would have shuddered at the thought of me doing such a race. I could almost hear him saying with his concerned Boston accent, "The i-dear is, it's just too dangerous hone~" But I knew that with his money invested I would hold myself accountable to my

In the end, it comes down to 140.6 miles, up to 17 hours, and the courage to tri

training, and I started doing longer and longer races.

In the meantime, I started graduate school and centered my studies on the culture of endurance fanatics. I interviewed racers, volunteers, spectators, and medical staff I drove to British Columbia and slept in my car to see the Ironman Canada race firsthand. I volunteered at the finish line and escorted delirious racers filled with the ecstasy of finishing and the agony of injuries to the medical tent. A long line of ambulances waited to take injured racers to the emergency room that night.

the digestive tract. Those days are still a blur of searing pain and morphine dreams. The experience changed my life, not just because I would have to take up to twenty pills a day to stave off new attacks. More importantl~ I learned that pain is temporary and recovery is possible.

In the world of Ironman, this type of mental toughness is commonplace.

During interviews I heard many amazing tales of resilience in the face of severe injury and illness. Thirtynine-year-old Ted Raszka, who works in pharmaceutical sales in Salem, Oregon, is a three-time finisher "I don't think anyone outside of Ironman races. He was diagnosed with Hodgkin's disease the sport really understands at the age of thirty-one. It took him almost two years to get up the constraints of training." the strength to start exercising again. When he did, he found the new Even after that spectacle, I decided rhythm of triathlon training helped to go through with my plan. After all, I him feel in control of his life again. had some practical experience with "Like a lot of cancer survivors, I turned difficult times. As a junior in high to endurance sports," he says. school I was rushed into an emergency I could identify with that need for surgery that left me with a six-inch scar control over a body that had betrayed running down my abdomen and an the mind. unexpected diagnosis: Crohn's disease, an auto-immune disorder that attacks The training was difficult, but finding time to train was even more challenging. I already kept busy studying, commuting more than two hours a da~ and working part-time. I began waking up early and staying up late. Long bike rides and runs consumed the weekends, and my boyfriend began to wonder if there was any time left for our relationship. In the end, he was proud of me for doing the race. However, there were many times after my sixteen-hour days of school, work, and training when we both wondered how long we could keep up this routine.

My interviews revealed that I wasn't the only one struggling to find a balance.

"I think they should make a new category called 'family man, '" says thirty-six-year-old Drew Holmes, who works in insurance in Bend, Oregon.

He balances training with frequent commutes to Portland, housework, and family time with his wife and young daughter. The Ironman Canada in August 2007 will be his first attempt. A self-proclaimed "morning man," he has a system to fit training into his daily life

where he commutes to work by bike, works out at lunch, and dedicates his evenings to his famil~ He also reserves Saturday as a family day but makes Sunday his long workout da~ Even without family pressure, training can take a toll. Twenty-fouryear-old Tom Pritchard was diligent in setting aside time to train for his first Ironman, leaving a full-time job in marketing research to give him time to focus on the race. Even with these adjustments, he's found that there are still hurdles. Money is a big one, and he's spent his savings on racing gear and training. He's also felt a rift form between him and his friends. In theo~ they think the idea of the race is awesome, but he says, "I don't think anyone outside the sport really understands the constraints of training."

We wouldn't know if the sacrifices were worth it until race da~ On the day of the race I woke up at 4:30 A.M. When I got to the venue I dropped off gear bags, pumped my bike tires, applied several coats of sun block, pulled on my wetsuit, and joined the 2,000-or-so other atWetes at water's edge.

I let out a hoot as I jumped feet first into the thick brownish waters of Tempe Town Lake but had to tread water for about fifteen minutes before the sound of the cannon. The swim was an hour and twenty minutes in a blender of other racers' arms and legs, and I lost skin off my back from wetsuit chafing. Of the eight hours on the bike, I spent four riding into a stiff h~ad wind. On the run, my stomach, stuffed with food from aid stations, suffered from the jostling, and I did some of my best sprinting of the day to the nearest portable toilets. The entire day had a distinctly surreal quali~ I found myself lost in thought, but not about what I was doing. As I worked toward the finish, darkness eventually fell, and the course began to emp~ Each aid station was an oasis. I took it right down to the last allowable hour but was still able to run the final several miles and to sprint across the finish line feeling solid. I did what I came to do.

Two days later in the airport, I hit the post-race low. I hardly ever c~ but I sat in security with tears running down my face as the bewildered guard rifled through my carry-on bags - dutifully lifting and scanning my cameras, school books, souvenirs, and finisher medal.

The entire year of training, interviewing, and immersing in the race had ally caught up with me. _

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Plan your summer now 2

O~

SUMMER SESSION

Earn credit in a variety of formats: fourweek courses as well as shorter workshops and seminars are available throughout the summer to suit your needs. Formal admission to the university is not required.

JUNE 25-AUGUST 17 Immerse yourself in art workshops, languages, environmental studies, computer science, journalism, marine biology, or music.

Take advantage of innovative, summer-only courses. Earn credit for an archaeological dig or a photography workshop while enjoying the dazzling Oregon summer.

Satisfy your curiosity and expand your world. Take a weeklong seminar just because the subject fascinates you.

Or, if you can't wait IN OREGON to finish college and start shaking up the world, satisfy a major requirement with a four-week course and graduate early with a competitive edge. Whether you're advancing professional goals or personal growth, summer session has something for you.

Soolctyour _

Parting Shot Oregonian Conrad Hodson begins aproject in his outdoor blacksmith shop. Together with his partner, Margaret Weller, Hodson crafts artisan metalworks, selling them at seasonal fairs, markets, and shops around Eugene.

In the summer of 2007, the two will celebrate forty years together as collaborative art makers in an unconventional union. Describing themselves as polyamorous, they have chosen to define their relationship by unique standards. Captured here by photographer Holly Leitner in the routine of his decidedly bohemian lifestyle, Hodson and his shop create an image of western Oregonian artisan culture.

uosummer.uoregon.edu

Visit f1ux.uoregon.edu, and click on "Mr. and Ms. Smith" to watch, hear, and read how polyamory sustained the couple through forty years of art and unorthodox love. Then explore additional multimedia content for all the stories featured in Flux 2007, along with exclusive documentaries, online features, and behindthe-scenes footage.

20075_5 First four-week session: June 25-July 20 Second four-week session: July 23-August 17 Eight-week session: June 25-August 17 Eleven-week session: June 25-September 7 photo by HOLLY LEITNER

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o

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UNIVERSITY OF OREGON

Summer session course offerings are listed on our website, uosul11l11er .uoregon.edu.

Or, to order a 2007 Summer Session Catalog, call (541) 346-3475

or toll free (800) 524-2404.