Flux 2014 by Sam Katzman

FLUX ISSUE 21

SHADOW WRITERS THEY GET PAID; YOU GET THE GRADE

FLUX

SHADOW WRITERS

THE LONG WAY HOME

THE PRESSURE PILL

STEWARDS OF THE SLOPES

CLEARING THE AIR

BUCKLES & SPURS

Tournaments and barcades electrify an old classic

Northwest oyster farmers fear a more acidic ocean threatens their future

Black market essay writing is on the rise— and nearly impossible to catch

One family’s journey through the welfare system to find a home in Oregon

Some students are popping unprescribed Adderall to maintain their focus and their GPAs

Meet the volunteers of the Willamette Backcountry Ski Patrol

Should aerial pesticide spraying be legal in Oregon?

For Kelsi Eastman, rodeo is a way of life

PINBALL is BACK

CHANGING TIDES

ISSUE NUMBER

contents TA B L E O F

A LETTER FROM

THE EDITOR

he first time I got a taste for how consequential journalism could be was when I met Les Zaitz, a veteran investigative reporter for The Oregonian. He told me and several other young journalists about a time when he had questioned a state superintendent about a trip the man had taken at public expense. The official said he had only used a rental car to get to and from the hotel, and that he hadn’t used the car for personal use. Zaitz pressed him and asked pointblank if he was telling the truth. The official defended himself and pressed back. That’s when Zaitz pulled out a white triple-ring binder and laid it on the table. He opened it and started paging through rental car receipts. showing that the official had driven more than a thousand miles beyond what he had claimed. The superintendent blanched. He said nothing. A minute passed. It was the silence of the double-damned and thrice-guilty. After Zaitz’s investigation, the official—a former chairman of the Oregon Government Ethics Commission—was accused of more than 1,400 ethics violations by the organization he once led. Zaitz showed me that journalism could make a difference—and hold lying, power-abusing officials accountable. Since then I’ve tried to practice the principles of journalism: truth telling, verification, and independence. This year on Flux I’ve had the privilege to be surrounded by people who feel the same way—that our work matters to the public interest and that at its best, journalism is disciplined, rigorous, and ethical. Flux’s mission is to report original stories about the proud, dynamic people in the Pacific Northwest, and our 21st issue is devoted to reporting on the fundamental consequences of human activity in our region.

Dashiell Paulson, Editor in Chief

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ISSUE TWENTY-ONE

FLUX EDITOR IN CHIEF Dashiell Paulson MANAGING EDITOR, PRINT Sam Katzman COPY CHIEF Corinne Dorthea Mooney

PUBLISHER Madison McCallum PUBLIC RELATIONS DIRECTOR Samantha Hanlin BUSINESS STRATEGISTS Alex Kelmensen Spice Walker

SENIOR FEATURES EDITOR Laura Hanson FEATURES EDITOR Marissa Tomko WRITERS Anna Bird Casey Minter Sam Poloway Bryan Robinson Brandon Sandberg Wyatt Stayner Ben Stone Darcy Walker EDITORIAL INTERN Peter Hampton MANAGING EDITOR, MULTIMEDIA Tommy Pittenger

All the color we print comes in green At TechnaPrint, weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re committed to more than just outstanding printing at an outstanding price. We also believe in a strong commitment to our environment and that includes smart management of our forests. Thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s why we offer chain-of-custody-certified paper, chlorine-free paper, post-consumer recycled paper and soy-based inks â&#x20AC;&#x201D; all while providing you with printing and graphic services of incomparable quality and value.

PHOTOGRAPHERS Alisha Jucevic Alex McDougall Karina Ordell Elora Overbey Andrew Seng MULTIMEDIA PRODUCERS Kathryn Boyd-Batstone Michael Buisan Adrian Garcia Jeff Mercado Alan Sylvestre

ART DIRECTORS Charlotte Dupont Julia Letarte PRINT DESIGNERS Chloe Brobst Lisa Donato Mackenzie Henshaw MacKenzie Wehrli

INTERACTIVE DIRECTOR Chelsea Kopacz INTERACTIVE DESIGNERS Kelly Buckley Ashley Norquist Delaney Pratt

EDITORIAL ADVISOR Lisa Heyamoto DESIGN ADVISOR Steven Asbury PHOTO ADVISOR Dan Morrison

Flux is the capstone student publication of the University of Oregon School of Journalism and Communication (BSmFME 4USFFU &VHFOF 0SFHPO t t XXX UFDIOBQSJOU DPN

NorthwestMADE REVIVING THE ART OF HANDCRAFTED GOODS

3 1. Forage for mushrooms with this rucksack by Archival Clothing 2. Keep your essentials safe while hiking in the rain with Archival Clothing zip bags 3. Jot down notes about your favorite craft beer, cigars, or coffee in a 33 Books Co. notebook

elcome to the Pacific Northwest, where our beards are thick, our flannels are worn year-round, and our journals are designed to take notes about beer. Our brooding creativity and thrifty craftsmanship make local products an accessible, economically conscious trend. Regional entrepreneurs have taken advantage of the laid-back lifestyle to make custom leather loafers, twill rucksacks, beard oils, and upcycled fabric bowties. It’s nostalgic, it’s handcrafted, it’s authentic—it’s the Pacific Northwest.

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ISSUE TWENTY-ONE

Make a statement with this upcycled fabric bowtie by durian & the Lyon

Chop your own firewood in this handcrafted leather apron by Judeco

Snack on this artisanal black licorice made with Jacobsen sea salt harvested from the Oregon Coast

Soften your beard and give it a shine with Tree Ranger beard oil

Items courtesy of Plume Red and Heritage Dry Goods. Visit plumered.com or heritagedrygoods.shopify.com

Keep your iPad safe and dry with this Heritage Dry Goods sleeve made from vintage wool blankets SPRING 2014

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Olympic National Forest

Seattle

Manson Spokane

NorthwestWEIRD THINK YOU KNOW EVERYTHING ABOUT THE PACIFIC NORTHWEST? THINK AGAIN

Skamania County

Clarkston

Zillah

In Spokane, Washington, a four-foot buffer zone is mandatory in strip clubs. Customers are not allowed to come within four feet of strippers, and police have been known to set up stings to stop it. The “World Champion” red cedar tree lives in Washington’s Olympic National Forest. At 178 feet tall and more than 19 feet in diameter, the 1000-year-old tree is the tallest of its kind.

Boring

Clarkston, Washington, has the numerically highest zip code in the United States at 99403.

Florence

Eugene Narrows

“Jefferson”

12 | FLUX |byISSUE TWENTY-ONE Illustration LAUREN BEAUCHEMIN

With around 80 ghost towns, Oregon has the highest number of abandoned hamlets in the country. With just a few remaining buildings, Narrows is one of them.

The town of Manson, Washington, posted a “Danger: Falling Cows” sign in 2007, after a cow fell onto a passing car from an overhead cliff. The Undiscovered Species Protection Act in Skamania County, Washington, protects Sasquatch’s God-given rights by making it illegal to harass him. The law passed on April 1, 1969, but the legislation was no joke. Whatcom County, Washington, went further to protect Sasquatch in 1991, when officials declared their county a “Sasquatch protection and refuge area.” Zillah, Washington: Where devout Christians worship at the Church of God-Zillah. Though only coincidentally named, the congregation erected a wireframe Tyrannosaurus rex statue holding a sign that reads “Jesus Saves” in front of the chapel. Eugene was the first Oregon city to have one-way streets. Thanks a lot, Eugene.

Nobody knows who keeps restocking a mysterious soda machine in Seattle. The beat-up machine is located on the corner of East 10th Avenue and John Street and includes six choices of soda: Pepsi, Coke, Mountain Dew, and three buttons labeled “Mystery.”

Boring, Oregon, and Dull, Scotland, partnered up to create a new holiday on August 9, “Boring and Dull Day.” The nation’s most photographed lighthouse is the Heceta Head Lighthouse outside Florence, Oregon. A 51st state was proposed in 1941 that combines parts of Southern Oregon and Northern California to create the state of Jefferson.

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TwentyONE

Five Spirits You’ve Never Heard Of Move beyond vodka and gin to more unusual booze

Most Popular Craft Breweries in the Northwest

weird BEER

Rogue’s Beard Beer is brewed from a yeast derived from Brewmaster John Maier’s beard. Yes, you read that right.

OF 2013 EWERIES TOP 50 BR BREW

CIATION ER’S ASSO

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Lost Coast Brewery & Café

ISSUE TWENTY-ONE

Distilled rice liquor (sometimes made with other starches)

South Korea, where it is the most popular drink

Chilled, neat and in a small, shot glass-sized cup

Pisco

Grape brandy

Peru & Chile

Made with lime, syrup, egg white, ice, and bitters. Served straight up

Raki

Distilled grape pomace flavored with anise seed

Turkey

Straight with chilled water on the side or mixed in to turn the drink a milky white

Mezcal

Distilled liquor from maguey, a Mexican agave

Mexico, mostly in Oaxaca

Straight with sliced orange and sal de gusano—fried worm larvae, chili peppers, and salt

St. Germain

Elderflower liqueur

France

In any number of cocktails, but it mixes particularly well with champagne

Five steps and four senses is all it takes

SEE SWIRL SMELL SIP SPIT

Full Sail Brewing Company

Ninkasi Brewing Company

How to drink it

TASTE WINE LIKE A PRO

Deschutes Brewery

Rogue Ales

Where it’s from

Soju

TO CELEBRATE OUR 21ST ISSUE, BELLY UP TO THE BAR WITH THESE TIPPLING FACTS

TOP FIVE

What it is

oregon shares

the 45th

parallel

with the

Burgundy

region in

Flux Recommends

the

Richmond Gimlet

Invented in Eugene, Oregon, this refreshing cocktail was created for a waiter at Marché restaurant by bartender Jeffrey Morgenthaler. Perfect for a warm summer night. 2 oz. Tanqueray No. 10 gin  1 oz. fresh lime juice  1 oz. simple syrup large sprig of mint

Shake ingredients well over ice and strain into a chilled cocktail glass. Cheers.

DID you KNOW

france

OREGON ranks second in the country for MOST CRAFT BREWERIES per capita, following VERMONT. WASHINGTON ranks eighth. SPRING 2014

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PINBALL

BOUNCES BACK United States.“When we started I thought, maybe, just maybe, we’ll hit a thousand members, but it’s been this steady snowball of growth,” says Josh Sharpe, president of the association. “The people who get grabbed into it tend to stay into it.” But why has pinball’s popularity—especially as a competitive sport—grown so much? “As a culture, we’re attaching to nostalgic things, but that’s only part of it,” Rubley says. There is no digital substitute for the body of a pinball machine; there’s no replicating its mechanical whirring and blinking fields of luminescent filaments; there’s no way to accurately digitize a 27-millimeter steel ball slamming into metal bumpers at 15 miles per hour. For many players, money matters. The Pinburgh Match-Play Championship offers more than $60,000 in cash prizes and the planet’s top-ranked players will meet this summer for a weekend of knuckle-whitening play in Denver, Colorado, for the 11th annual World Pinball Championship. Back at Blairally, the steel ball in Rubley’s and Davis’ game is a powerful force. It traverses the playfield, rolling over movie star caricatures, busty women, and outrageous scenery. With a deft flick of his wrist, Davis catches the ball on the machine’s flipper, and sends it flying toward a game-winning score. The tug of gravity ensures the inevitable “Game Over,” but in this competition, as well as the pinball revival, there is always another quarter. X

By CASEY MINTER Photo by ANDREW SENG

William Rubley’s opponent, Clark Davis, flips a quarter to see who goes first. Rubley wins. A shining steel ball jumps out of a tattered wooden pocket. Rubley pulls the plunger back and quickly releases it, propelling the ball up a winding ramp. A spirited pinball duel has begun. “When you’re playing, there is this great combination between skill and luck,” says Rubley, taking a break from the game at Blairally Vintage Arcade in Eugene. “It’s not enough to be lucky, and it’s not enough to be good. You have to play often enough to capitalize on that beautiful combination.” To players like Rubley, pinball is a serious sport. Every year, tournaments are held across the globe to recognize the world’s best pinball competitors. Rubley is part of the West Coast’s emerging competitive pinball scene, but he’s also part of a greater trend. The pinball industry and the culture surrounding it are experiencing a revival. “It’s picked up slowly, but a lot of people are trying it out,” says Davis. “Around 2010, the whole idea of bars with pinball machines caught on, with huge local popularity in Chicago, Seattle, and Portland.” The International Flipper Pinball Association, the main league for worldwide competitive pinball, has grown from 500 to 22,000 registered players in eight years. The organization plans tournaments and compiles player stats to generate a global ranking system that includes top pinheads—an endearing term for those passionate about the art of pinball—from Australia, Sweden, Italy, and the

changing

TIDES Oyster farmers have worked on the Northwest coast for more than a century. But the ocean where they labor is becoming more acidic, and their future is in doubt By BEN STONE Photos by KARINA ORDELL

& KATHRYN BOYD-BATSTONE

Mark Wiegardtâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s family has farmed oysters for more than a hundred years. He works with his wife, Sue Cudd, owner of Whiskey Creek Shellfish Hatchery, to supply oyster larvae to farms all over the region. 18

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M Mark Wiegardt steps slowly through knee-high water, pausing over some jagged lumps of browngray shells with a bent flat-head screwdriver. Like the three generations of oyster farmers have done before him, he picks up one of the clumps of oysters and rests it on his thigh, stabbing and wrenching until the shellfish crack apart. The creatures inside these shells are more valuable than ever, and Wiegardt tries his best to make them look nice by bashing off the sharp edges. Biologically, oysters seem simple; they are as sedentary as organisms come. But many things are unclear about Northwest oysters and the muddy water in which they live. It is impossible to see by looking at the water, but the Pacific Northwest’s ocean chemistry is changing. A phenomenon known as ocean acidification has shocked the Northwest oyster industry, causing farmers and hatchery owners to modify decades-old ways of cultivating oysters and to reconsider the murky future of their industry. As one of the managers of Whiskey Creek Shellfish Hatchery in Netarts Bay, Oregon, Wiegardt understands the concern surrounding ocean acidification better than almost anyone. The trouble began six years ago in the hatchery’s vats, where the oyster larvae began to turn from a healthy brown to a sickly pink. Like most other hatcheries on the West Coast, Whiskey Creek grows Pacific oysters—a Japanese species introduced to America in the early 1900s. Whiskey Creek grows oysters in fresh

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Above: The calm waters of Netarts Bay are home to Whiskey Creek, one of the largest oyster hatcheries in the United States. Netarts Bay is one of only a few places on the West Coast where Pacific oyster larvae can grow and thrive because of the normally gentle conditions in the bay. Mature oysters spawn in the bay and millions of mobile, microscopic larvae are then collected by the hatchery to be sold as seed to oyster farmers along the West Coast. Left: Farms such as Oregon Oyster Farms in Yaquina Bay buy seed from Whiskey Creek. They allow the oyster larvae to set on empty oyster shells, and after the larvae mature into true, shelled oysters, they’ll be tossed into the wild to fatten up for a couple years before being harvested.

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Left: Wiegardt breaks apart oysters that have grown in clumps. The oyster’s defensive shells are now proving to be their greatest weakness against ocean acidification, which dissolves their calcium carbonate exoskeleton as it begins to develop. Below: Worldwide oyster demand is on the rise. The Northwest industry is worth more than $110 million. Many restaurants and oyster bars around the country rely exclusively on the armored creature to bring in customers. Just as ocean acidification compromises the marine food chain, it also threatens thousands of livelihoods in the Northwest.

bodies of water connected to the ocean, known as estuaries, but most of the West Coast is too cold for Pacific oysters to spawn naturally. So, oyster seed suppliers like Whiskey Creek act as an incubator. Whiskey Creek houses huge vats of seawater that serve as swimming pools for young oyster larvae to develop. When the larvae are mature enough, the hatchery packs them in balls of paper towels before sending them to independent oyster farms along the coast. The farmers take the oyster “seed” to their nurseries and dump it into giant tanks filled with vacant oyster shells and saltwater. In a matter of hours, the tiny larvae start and finish a cutthroat race to attach to empty shells or risk dying of exposure. After a couple weeks, the larvae “set” onto their chosen shells and become mature oysters. At this stage of 22

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development, the farmers remove the shellfish from the tanks and throw them into the bay. The oysters will stay here for a couple years, fattening up by filtering algae and other nutrients out of the water. Eventually, the farmers will return and gather their harvest so the full-grown oysters can be sold to clients. In the late summer of 2007, the oyster larvae at Whiskey Creek didn’t make it out of the bay. Without warning, the larvae began to fail by the millions inside the vats. “Everything was dying. The larvae were pink. Every larva in the place was not feeding,” says Sue Cudd, owner of Whiskey Creek. That summer, Whiskey Creek was forced to shut down for several weeks and couldn’t supply its customers with seed. But what was even more concerning for the company

was no one could understand why the larvae were dying. “The changes were so dramatic, we thought there was a very strong possibility that we were going to go out of business,” Wiegardt says. A year after the first die-offs, Whiskey Creek engineer Alan Barton scrambled for clues as to why Whiskey Creek’s methods were suddenly not working. He began testing for diseases and chemical disorders in the bay water that fills the hatchery’s tanks, and found that the pH levels were far below average. Thinking his measurements must have been faulty, Barton began sampling the water and sending it in vials to Oregon State University’s oceanography department to be analyzed. Upon finding that his measurements were accurate, Barton realized the die-offs had begun at about the same time the pH in Netarts Bay was dropping to previously

unheard-of levels. The water was becoming more acidic. The acidic water in the bay was corroding their shells, causing the larvae to die when they tried to form an exoskeleton. But discovering the cause of the die-off didn’t necessarily bring a solution. That is, until Barton thought back to his first experience trying to re-create an ocean on land. When Barton was young, he kept fish and regularly buffered the tank with soda ash and other chemicals to regulate the water chemistry. Maybe, he thought, the chemistry he used in his childhood aquarium might translate to Whiskey Creek’s larvae containers. “We threw buffer in every single tank. The next day they were brown and feeding,” Cudd says. Since then, Whiskey Creek has become far better at sustaining healthy brown larvae in its vat water, and now SPRING 2014

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WE THOUGHT THERE WAS A VERY STRONG POSSIBILITY THAT WE WERE GOING TO GO

OUT OF BUSINESS - MARK WIEGARDT, OYSTER FARMER

uses an automatic system to constantly buffer the water. However, Barton’s buffer cure is confined to hatchery tubs, and no method exists that can de-acidify entire oceans. The die-offs made 2007 a definitive year for the small community of West Coast oyster farmers. For some, it meant an uncertain future. Nick Jambor, owner of Ekone Oyster Company in Willapa Bay, Washington, still receives enough paper towels of seed to fill his shells, but he recognizes that his business could be in danger in the coming years if ocean acidification remains unresolved. However, a sense of loyalty to the people at Whiskey Creek keeps him going. “I’ve always felt that I was going to ride this thing out with them,” he says. Kathleen Nisbet, a manager of Goose Point Oyster Company in Willapa Bay, saw the 2007 die-offs differently—as a signal to change. In

SHELLING OUT The demand for farmed oysters has never been higher. Their complex flavor and eco-friendly life cycle make them the seafood treat of choice for connoisseurs and locavores alike. “Right now, the business is booming,” says Xin Liu, the co-owner of Oregon Oyster Farms in Yaquina Bay, Oregon. “I think for everybody in the West Coast oyster industry, if they have the product, they can sell every

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2009, Goose Point began constructing its first oyster hatchery in Hilo, Hawaii, in order to lessen its dependence on hatcheries like Whiskey Creek, which draw water from the Northwestern tides. Though the Nisbets had long done business with Whiskey Creek—and still do—they felt they had to set themselves apart geographically to “insulate their business” from the acidic waters. “I employ 70 employees; I’m responsible for 70 families. That’s a big deal to me,” says Nisbet. “I can’t just say, ‘We’ll figure it out.’ I’ve got people I have to feed and it was our responsibility to look at what we needed to do.” But even as one crisis seems resolved, another one looms. Both Wiegardt and Roberto Quintana, engineer at Ekone Oyster Company, feel that mature oysters are now at risk. Quintana says that he has begun to see health defects in oysters out in the bay that he can’t correlate with natural

By BRANDON SANDBERG

single one of them very fast. We have some customers who have been waiting in line for three years; I just don’t have enough oysters to sell to them.” Worldwide, seafood is the fastest growing form of food production. Farmed seafood production has grown by an average of 8.3 percent annually since 1970, according to the Food and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations.

However, since the beginning of the industrial revolution, Earth’s oceans have been absorbing man-made carbon dioxide, which is now causing a detectable and detrimental effect on marine life. As carbon dioxide lingers in the ocean, it’s converted into carbonic acid, which in high enough concentrations corrodes the developing shells of many marine animals, including oysters. The phenom-

enon is called ocean acidification and experts say it’s affecting the entire ocean ecosystem. George Waldbusser, an assistant professor in ocean ecology and biogeochemistry at Oregon State University, says that the long-range effects of a more acidic ocean need to be addressed with policy. “Oyster growers and shellfish growers all over the world are starting to see issues at different times of the year,” he

says. “There could be a more emergent and pressing problem globally that could be bigger than just here in the Pacific Northwest.” Seafood farmers like Liu have responded as best they can, but the problem is long term and unpredictable. “Over the last seven or eight years, ocean acidification has really affected business a lot,” Liu says.“But that’s just the way it is when you do business involving Mother Nature.”

A worker at the hatchery releases steam from one of the tall vats of algae where oyster larvae feed. There are only three hatcheries on the West Coast, including Whiskey Creek, which supply and unite the many Northwest oyster farms.

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492 E 13th Avenue, Eugene

With the future of the West Coast oyster industry in doubt, Wiegardt has travelled to Washington, D.C., many times to testify and meet privately with members of Congress about the threat of ocean acidification to the industry.

events. “Last year was when I first heard some of the old-timers from around here who were like, ‘We don’t know what the hell happened,’” Quintana says. There is no consensus on what to do if water chemistry in the bays turns inhospitable for mature oysters. Quintana says there are a few options: genetically engineer a more hardy oyster species; try to apply buffer chemicals directly into the bays; or perhaps just give oysters more time to mature in their safe nursery tanks. But for some, the thought of such dramatic changes to old farming techniques makes them question the longterm survival of the Northwest oyster industry. “Those are big, philosophical questions,” says Jambor. “Do you get out of this business because you think it’s going to go down in 30 years? I don’t know.” Whiskey Creek’s Wiegardt, however, is hell-bent on not letting the Northwest oyster industry go down in his lifetime. In the last few years, he has travelled many times with other Northwest shellfish producers to Wash-

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ington, D.C., to tell their stories and ask lawmakers for funding to build monitoring stations that measure the water’s acidity. “Farmers in general, I think we all like to complain a little more than we should. [But] any time you know a little bit about something that may have a huge impact, you need to communicate that,” Wiegardt says. “It’s not responsible to hide from the facts.” That’s not to say Wiegardt would rather hack through national bureaucracy than drive his boat through the maze of shallow banks that furrow his oyster fields. “Going back to D.C. is a hard trip,” he says. “You gotta wear a suit, which I have a problem with.” But Wiegardt thinks he has been well received in the Capitol, and he accepts these trips as his responsibility to the small community of Northwestern oyster farmers who know each other by first name. “It’s not all doom and gloom,” Wiegardt says. “We’re solving a problem here as we speak.” X

NOW PLAYING

shadow

WRITERS Writing essays for college students is both legal and lucrative; but even the writers question the ethics of their work

By CASEY MINTER Photos by ALEX McDOUGALL & TOMMY PITTENGER

he glare of the computer screen reflects in the bleary eyes of Tony Stirpe. He absentmindedly reaches for a lukewarm cup of coffee on his cluttered desk as he continues writing an analysis of Hamlet through an Aristotelian lens. He has three, double-spaced pages to get the B- he seeks. An hour later, Stirpe is done. But instead of putting his name at the top and turning it in to a professor, he emails his paper to a faceless customer and waits to collect $51.98. Order 15964375 is complete. Stirpe is a professional essay writer from Eugene, Oregon. He gets paid by the page to write academic papers for anonymous students who send him their assignments over the Internet. He is part of a growing industry of so-called shadow writers who make money from college students who would rather pay someone else to do their work. “I wish I could grab these students, shake them, and say, ‘No! You write it, trust me it’s easy,’” Stirpe says. “But instead I’m taking the money.” The business of shadow writing can be lucrative. Stirpe says he makes enough money to afford a nice vacation every year, but those who do it full time can earn much more. Writer Dave Tomar wrote in an article for The Chronicle of Higher Education that ghostwriting earns him $66,000 a year. UnemployedProfessors.com is one of many websites that sells writing services to students, claiming to know the “tricks of the trade whereby your professors trap you.” A shadow writer for the site, who operates under the name Professor Rogue, wrote in an email that he’s written

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“everything from one-page response papers for freshman intros to most of an Ivy League dissertation.” What these shadow writers are doing is not illegal. Websites such as UnemployedProfessors.com are careful to include statements condemning academic dishonesty, and custom essays are advertised as reference material rather than stand-alone assignments. This loophole allows companies to avoid potential legal issues, but it leaves their customers in a bind. Although the essay writing services operate within the law, students who are caught using a purchased paper for a grade can face dire consequences. “This would be a very serious violation of academic integrity,” says Sandy Weintraub, director of student conduct and community standards at the University of Oregon. “When someone is using someone else’s words and putting their name on it, that’s overt dishonesty.” Three types of students typically hire shadow writers, according to Stirpe: “International and ESL students; busy, nontraditional students returning to school to get a degree for work; and lazy college-age kids who have more money than they know what to do with.” Caleb Oriko* falls into the first category. Oriko is an undergraduate exchange student from Kenya. He says in an email that he has used several academic freelancing websites, including UnemployedProfessors.com, and has been satisfied with the results. “I get very busy sometimes and need the services of an academic writer,” he says. “English is my third language; it’s tough to write a paper that’s up to the standards.” As it turns out, the standards for ghostwritten papers aren’t always that high. Though Oriko was looking for A-quality papers, many students specify that they’re seeking more middle-of-the-road results. “I’m writing B or C papers,” Stirpe says. “I’m just trying to get somebody through their course and not raise any suspicions.” One of the reasons this particular brand of cheating is on the rise is because it doesn’t raise any of the usual red flags, says UO’s Weintraub. “It’s difficult to catch,” he says. “We have software and it’s a good tool, but certainly not perfect.” Plagiarism detection programs such as Turnitin and SafeAssign scour the Internet for thousands of pieces of writing, comparing student work against massive databases to catch copy-paste plagiarism. But it’s nearly impossible for these tools to detect a custom written essay. Jonathan Bailey is an anti-plagiarism consultant who runs Plagiarismtoday.com. His site keeps tabs on new ways students are cheating, and he works with lawyers and academic institutions to combat these ever-evolving short cuts. “We’ve seen the rise of custom essay writing websites as

plagiarism detection technology has evolved,” Bailey says. He believes that these services are becoming more popular in order to thwart the anti-plagiarism technologies universities now have in place. Bailey recently conducted a study to test the effectiveness of many of these custom essay writing websites. His research included pitching two different graduate level prompts to random freelance writers working for the largest custom-writing service sites on the Internet. He says the work he received in return for a $250 payment had glaring grammatical and factual errors as well as some suspicious passages that would have been flagged by detection software. “It’s kind of a crapshoot every time you do it,” Bailey says. To combat this type of cheating, Bailey advises professors to require multiple drafts of an assignment, create assignments that specifically reference class lectures or require some sort of in-class work alongside the essay. Writers like Stirpe are aware of the ethical problems involved in their work. “I’m not doing anything wrong; I’m not violating any moral or ethical parameters, but it is disturbing to me that so many people are,” Stirpe says, “Every college in this country has a student code or an honor code. Isn’t there a responsibility to your own education?” Stirpe writes for an essay mill company called UVOCorp. When UVOCorp was founded in 2008, it was one of three major academic writing services in the world. Now UVOCorp owns a host of websites with domain names such as Affordablepapers.com and Customwritings.com, which consolidate hundreds of orders from students across the globe for shadow writers to bid on. Stirpe says that during midterms or finals, he’ll see more than 200 orders posted each day. He chooses which topic he wants to write about, and then bids against other writers for the assignment. If chosen by the customer, he’ll work out the details and complete the order. Stirpe does not pocket all of the customer’s money— UVOCorp takes a cut. Prices for papers can vary from relatively cheap to extraordinarily expensive depending on several variables: the academic level of writing sought (e.g. high school, undergraduate, graduate), the deadline, the grade sought, the number of pages, and the number of sources required. Stirpe didn’t finish his undergraduate education at Arizona State University, but says he writes to keep his mind hungry and to make money on the side. He’ll gladly pocket the $50 he made analyzing Hamlet, but regrets the impulses that make students seek him out. “It’s not worth it,” he says. “If you’re trying to actually succeed, be the best, and have a true comprehension of what you’re studying in school, don’t use our service.” X

I’M NOT DOING

ANYTHING WRONG - TONY STIRPE, SHADOW WRITER

* At the time of publication, Flux could not confirm that Oriko used his real name.

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THE LONG WAY

HOME One familyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s journey from homeless shelters to a home they can call their own By WYATT STAYNER Photos by ELORA OVERBEY

A stack of apartment paperwork is the only thing that stands between Wayne Johnson and a home. He and his family have been homeless for the past two months, moving to a new shelter each week as they work to get back on their feet. 32

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Calm comes late to the temporary homeless shelter housed in Eugene, Oregon’s Temple Beth Israel synagogue. It comes after the kids refuse dinner in favor of Reese’s Pieces and host fake light-saber wars with metallic poles, after they make each other cry, and separate before re-uniting to play hide and go seek. The calm always comes, but sometimes it takes time. And sometimes, you have to go find it. By now, the evening routine is familiar to Wayne Johnson, Tara Merrill, and her son, Mykeal. After a hard two months of homelessness, they’ve learned how to have family time in just about any location. Tonight they choose the synagogue’s vast main room, which has high ceilings that are held up by glossy wood beams. They shuffle over to a corner and huddle together in three leather chairs. John34

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son pulls out his cell phone for a game of Madden NFL; Mykeal sits on the arm of his mother’s chair to watch The Cleveland Show. They split white ear buds and laugh. “You don’t really have a place to go retreat to calm down or focus on something,” Johnson says. “You’re just stuck in the middle of whatever’s going on, unless you want to hide in a closet somewhere.” This is just one of a string of night shelters the family has called home. Since entering St. Vincent De Paul’s night shelter program, which is run by First Place Family Center, the family has moved to a new church or synagogue every Monday for the past two months. It’s a transient lifestyle, but it has been the best choice for them. It has kept them off the streets, and in good hands. “The biggest thing is that I don’t have to go through this alone,”

Above: When 8-year-old Mykeal and his family first became homeless, they stayed in a shelter that required women and children sleep in a separate area from the men. But that was hard on Mykeal, who had grown attached to Johnson, his mother’s boyfriend. “It was pretty important for Mykeal’s security and feelings to try and find some place where we could be together,” Johnson says. Left: Johnson carries Mykeal to a quiet corner of the homeless shelter after the boy got into an argument with a friend about how to properly perform a Kung Fu move.

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23 PERCENT OF OREGON FAMILIES WITH CHILDREN

LIVE IN POVERTY

percent of children in higher income houses, according to a 20112012 report issued by the Data Resource Center for Child and Adolescent Health. “I like organic stuff,” Johnson says. “Fresh meat. Oranges. But you’re going to spend $20.” Johnson has never considered himself rich, but money wasn’t always so tight. Several years ago, he was stationed in Malmstrom Air Force Base in Great Falls, Montana. When he arrived, he had been a married man with a son, but eventually his marriage ended. One night, he met Merrill at a bar, and they started building a life together. After he was discharged, Johnson worked as a manager at a convenience store and was able to afford an apartment, but over time things started to fall apart. First, his North Carolina driver’s license expired, and he didn’t feel he could afford to get one in Montana. Then he got pulled over and got a ticket. He couldn’t afford the ticket either, so he set up a payment plan. Then he couldn’t afford the plan, so a bench warrant for his arrest was put out. And when he found himself in the middle of a fight, a police officer ran his

license, and he went to jail for two weeks. Everything started to fade away. His job was gone. Next, it would be their home. The family needed to make a decision. They could go back to North Carolina and live with Johnson’s relatives, but Merrill didn’t want to move Mykeal across the country. Their other choice was Oregon, where her father and sister lived. Merrill had grown up there and decided it would be a good place to raise her son. It was settled. They would go to Oregon to get a fresh start. Things would get better. But they needed to find a home. They were able to stay with Merrill’s father for the first 10 days, but had nowhere to go after that. They chose the Eugene Mission because they wouldn’t have to move shelters each week, but the rules required women and children to stay in a separate shelter than the men. While it was preferable to living on the streets, they still wanted to be together. “We’ve been together for four years—almost five now. They’re used to having me around,” Johnson says. “It was pretty important

Quiet moments can be hard to find in the homeless shelter. Mykeal and his mother, Tara Merrill, huddle in a corner to watch The Cleveland Show before heading to bed.

Johnson says. “Everyone here at First Place is here for you. You feel like they’re in your corner going through this with you.” Though they are grateful for the assistance, they will spend the night listening to someone else’s kid run screaming through the hallways, sharing with another family a room that Johnson has dubbed “the cubicle,” and sleeping on three slim mattresses on the floor. Somehow, Johnson always seems to fall through the crevices that form during the night. “There’s a bunch of smells and sounds that don’t belong to you,” he says, joking. But tonight will be the last night the family has to go searching for a space of their own. Tomorrow, they will say goodbye to the chaos, the uncertainty, and the constant unpacking. Tomorrow, this family will have a home. When Johnson and his family are handed the keys, they will move from one statistic to another. While no longer considered homeless, they will remain in poverty—joining 23 percent of Oregon families with children, according to the 2012 Census. Between welfare, food stamps and money Johnson receives from the GI Bill, his family subsists on $1,482 a month—below what the government considers the poverty threshold for a family of three. But being poor in America is a complicated equation. Since poverty was officially defined in 1969, transportation, childcare and college have risen in price and necessity, while the criteria for 36

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being considered impoverished hasn’t changed. The government adjusts for inflation, but it doesn’t account for societal changes like the need for technology. “The poverty line is actually an outdated measure of whether a family is able to actually make ends meet or not,” says Martha Calhoon, a spokesperson for Children First for Oregon, an organization that advocates for children in poverty. “Families today actually need an income of about twice the federal poverty level to even be able to cover their basic necessities, like the cost of food, housing (and) medical care.” Because of this, some families worry about what will happen if they rise above the poverty line. Families like Johnson’s are caught in a catch-22. Once someone is no longer under the poverty line, they’re at risk of losing benefits like food stamps and welfare payments, even when they still may need the assistance. “It’s like, ‘boom!’” Johnson says, slapping his hand hard against a table. “‘You took a step up. We’re going to cut this off from you.’ Well, wait. I needed that. I’m not rich yet.” You want housing? Get a job. But now you need childcare. Oregon has the least affordable center-based childcare in the country, according to a 2013 report issued by Child Care Aware. You want food? Healthy food is expensive, and many impoverished families are limited to buying cheap foods that are high in fats, salts, and refined sugars. Nearly 40 percent of children in Oregon’s low-income households are obese, as opposed to 18

It’s moving day. The Eugene Mission has provided furniture for the family’s new apartment. The family has been homeless since Johnson lost his job at a Montana convenience store.

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Left: Mykeal spins around in his new room for the first time. “I can jump and stomp around as loud as I want,” he says. Below: For Johnson and his family, their new home isn’t the end of their journey—it’s the beginning. A housing support organization will pay a decreasing portion of their rent for the next three months while he looks for a job.

for Mykeal’s security and feelings to try and find some place we could be together.” Denise Clary, a manager at the shelter, directed them to First Place Family Center. There, they wouldn’t be separated. There, they could be a family. They had to go through an intensive intake process to make sure they would be a good fit for the program and once admitted, they would have two months to find permanent housing. They would have two months to jump-start their lives. Midway through his game of Madden back at the synagogue, Johnson’s friend Josh joins the family in their private corner. The two men walk outside to smoke, the fluorescent lights of the huge room replaced by the dark night sky. It’s a beautiful night for talking about the future. Johnson puffs a Pall Mall menthol cigarette, and Josh smokes a Camel. “It’s nice to have quiet,” Josh says, before the two men lapse back into silence. They stare off at the mountains in the distance. “You’re here to help your family,” Josh says. “But you’re going 38

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to make friends.” Johnson inhales and tips his head in agreement. But then dreams for his new home break the somber mood. “I’m not going to miss him because he’ll be at my place barbequing it up,” he says cheerfully. “And I’ll be at his.” The next afternoon, Johnson is sitting in front of a stack of paperwork at an apartment complex that offers low-income housing. Silver Toleman, the apartment manager, is ready to talk him through the paperwork, but it’s not like he really needs it. “I’m kind of an expert at it,” Johnson says, smiling. He’s had to fill out a complicated income qualification form for every housing complex he’s applied to. This one is at least 40 pages long. “I run around like a chicken with my head cut off just about every other day,” Johnson says. “It’s a lot to remember. A lot of appointments, programs, and who does what for you.”

Johnson corrects a couple mistakes, clarifying that he’s a fulltime student on the GI Bill at Colorado Technical University, and that he’s receiving help from ShelterCare, an organization that helps those who are homeless or facing homelessness. He and Merrill aren’t financing their apartment the way most families do. They will pay the deposit and utilities, but ShelterCare will pay for their first month’s rent, which is $718. It will pay $400 for the second month, and $200 for the third month, before assessing the best way to proceed from there. Johnson signs the lease without flourish, a fake yellow flower dancing on the end of the pen. Each member of the family scatters when they enter their new apartment. Merrill immediately loves the carpet. “Oooh! We have blue carpet,” she says. Johnson does the fatherly thing, checking for any damage to report. In the living room, he finds a pink stain on the carpet.

“We’ll have to see what’s up with that,” he says. Mykeal declares every room in the apartment his. “I can jump and stomp around as loud as I want,” he says with excitement. All the appliances in the apartment have seen better days, and there’s a washer-dryer hookup in the kitchen, but no one minds the interior design. “I don’t care if it was the crappiest apartment in the world,” Merrill says to Johnson. “I’d still love it.” No longer checking for things that need to be repaired, Johnson takes a moment to enjoy his new home as he walks down the hall, stops, and looks around. “Good, good feeling,” he says, satisfied, exhaling so deep that it sounds like he’s letting the past two months out. Montana. The job. Jail. The move. The mission. The shelter. The struggle. It’s not over now, but at least they have a home. He gathers himself, and looks down, surprised. “I like this color carpet.” X SPRING 2014

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the

PRESSURE

PILL

College students are taking prescription ADHD medication as a study aide, putting their health at risk By WYATT STAYNER Illustrations by MACKENZIE WEHRLI

he first time Paul Aye* took Adderall was the day he took the SAT Reasoning Test. He was a little nervous about the test, so a friend with a prescription gave him just what he needed—a clear capsule filled with tiny orange beads. The 20-milligram, extended-release Adderall pill wouldn’t make the test any easier, he was told, but it would help him stay focused. Aye scored a 1680 and was accepted into the University of Oregon. But the pressure only intensified when he reached college. He only used Adderall for final exams his freshman year, but that would change. His sophomore year, he was taking chemistry and bio-calculus while balancing a part-time job.

* Name has been altered to protect the source’s identity

H N Roughly three out of four students who used Adderall without a prescription thought that it had an “overall positive effect,” according to Dr. David Rabiner’s Duke University study. Full-time college students were twice as likely to use Adderall than their peers who weren’t enrolled in school full time, a Department of Health and Human Services study found.

GPAs HAVE TO BE HIGH...

THE PRESSURE TO SUCCEED IS MOUNTING

Methamphetamine

H N

Amphetamine mixed salts (Adderall)

- AL SIEBEL, UNIVERSITY OF OREGON COUNSELOR

Even the small assignments started to feel like too much. “It just all stacked up,” Aye says. Since then, his use has escalated. Now a senior, the environmental science major popped an Adderall pill about four times a week in the month leading up to his most recent final exams. And he’s not alone. Aye is part of a growing group of students who are illicitly using Adderall as a study aide. Around 15 percent of college students use drugs like it without a prescription, according to a survey from the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services, and it has become so widespread at colleges across America that many students consider its use to be normal. Aye knows a lot about the drug. He can tell you how Adderall alters the chemistry of the brain and leaves it exhausted of dopamine, how it kills the appetite and ability to sleep, and how its amphetamine salts can cause vicious mood swings. But most of all, he can tell you how it has helped him get through college. “Adderall has definitely enhanced my knowledge [because I’m] able to focus for long times,” he says.

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Taking Adderall doesn’t make Aye a genius. But it does give him the ability to study for hours. He says his Adderall routine varies term by term, and he has developed his own set of rules for taking the drug. He forces himself to eat even if he’s not hungry, and to drink lots of water to stay hydrated. But the most important rule? No Adderall for short homework assignments. “You get to the point where you realize you only have an hour of work,” Aye says. “[You realize,] ‘I don’t need to take this.’” Adderall is usually prescribed for Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD), and Aye believes he has some symptoms, like the inability to focus at times. But he’s afraid of trying to get a prescription. “I don’t want to have that consistent supply because I know I’ll take it all the time,” he says. Adderall can be as addictive as cocaine and opium, according to the Drug Enforcement Agency. The agency considers Adderall a drug with “high potential for abuse,” which can lead to an extreme dependence. In Oregon, illegal possession of Adderall carries a punishment of up to five years in prison and $125,000 in fines, while an intent to sell doubles those numbers. Aye credits the pressures attached to his major as part of the reason he uses Adderall. This is a common reason behind students’ increased use, according to Al Siebel, senior alcohol and drug counselor at the UO. “We are living in a time where GPAs have to be high,” Siebel says. “As an undergraduate, or a graduate, the pressure to succeed is mounting.” According to a 2009 U.S. Department of Health and Human Services study (the most recent figures available), full-time college students were twice as likely to use Adderall than their peers who weren’t enrolled in school full-time. But the majority of those students aren’t using the drug to get ahead—they’re using it to keep up. It’s unclear whether students today are under more pressure than previous generations, but a 2010 Hofstra University study

showed that there has been a rise in mental illnesses such as anxiety and depression. From 1998 to 2009, the number of students with moderate to severe depression rose seven percent, and there was a 13-percent rise in the use of psychiatric medications for depression, anxiety and ADHD. Dr. David Rabiner, a researcher and expert in ADHD at Duke University’s Trinity College, led a study on non-prescribed Adderall use and its rising popularity. The confidential survey found that the majority of students who used the drug without a prescription were trying to self-treat a perceived case of ADHD. They were concerned about their grades, and felt that attention problems were causing them to fall behind. “It wasn’t like you’ve got people who are doing fine, but they really want to do better to enhance their performance to above and beyond an already excellent level,” Rabiner says. “In our data, it was really people who were struggling and trying to address that.” Overall, 70 percent of the students in the study who used ADHD medication without a prescription thought that it had an “overall positive effect.” The study also found that only 2.5 percent of Duke’s freshmen admitted to using ADHD medication, and that 20 percent of the school’s seniors have taken it. “That certainly suggests that there are a lot of students who initiate during their time in college,” Rabiner says. Though most non-prescribed Adderall users take the drug to study, it’s also consumed to enhance partying. Siebel says mixing the drug with alcohol is the most harmful way to ingest Adderall because it can override the “downer” effects of drinking. “It can allow a person to consume more alcohol, and not realize how drunk they are,” he says. He cautions against using Adderall without a prescription—even just to study once or twice a term—because it has the ability to increase heart rates and can cause dependency. “If you’re not prescribed, and you don’t realize what the side effects of certain amphetamines are,” he says, “that could be life-threatening.”

Adderall’s chemical structure closely resembles that of methamphetamine, a recreational drug known as crystal meth. Adderall’s side effects are similar, including increased metabolism, loss of appetite, and increased focus, but meth affects the user harder and faster.

But some students say Adderall is worth the risk. Brandon Blackmore is preparing to graduate from the UO this spring. He has also used Adderall as a study aide throughout his college years. “Without it, it’s just really hard for me to get the motivation to stay studying,” Blackmore says. “I’ll read a paragraph and then I’ll look at something online. If I’m on [Adderall] when I read … I’ll just keep reading.” Neither Aye nor Blackmore say they like what Adderall does to their body—especially the feelings of exhaustion that come from regular use. But both believe it was necessary to take the drug in order to pass their classes. Now with graduation on the horizon, they agree that the end of their Adderall consumption is in sight. Blackmore plans to get a job that interests him, and looks forward to not feeling so overwhelmed by the pressure and workload of school. “If I didn’t have school, I doubt I’d take it,” Blackmore says. Aye has similar feelings—he’ll leave the pills behind with the textbooks and classes. “I guess I could be termed ‘lazy’ to some people, but I know I have a good work ethic,” Aye says. “But [Adderall] helps. It’s not something I’m going to do my entire life, but it works.” But Rabiner says that may not be realistic. “I’m not surprised that students would say, ‘Look, I’m just doing this to deal with the academic stresses during college. As soon as I leave, I’m going to stop,’” Rabiner says. “That may be true for the majority, but there’s also many people who do become dependent, develop a real problem around it, and for whom just stopping when they leave college would be far less likely.” X

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By ANNA BIRD Photos By ELORA OVERBEY

When the temperature drops and snow blankets the mountains of Central Oregon, the Gray Jay flits about and hovers close to those who wander into its forests. Most birds migrate to warmer climates to avoid frigid winters, but here the Gray Jay thrives. Like the Gray Jay, winter isn’t the off-season for the volunteers of Willamette Backcountry Ski Patrol (WBSP), who thrive in the frigid valleys of the Cascade Mountains. A group of trained and certified volunteers, the WBSP monitors the recreational trails and backcountry wilderness of Gold Lake Sno-Park near Willamette Pass Ski Resort. Just after sunrise on a frosty Saturday morning, volunteers open the quaint, 20-by-30-foot log cabin nestled among the snowdrifts and Douglass firs. Joseph Calbreath removes the window’s wooden shutters, spilling in light to reveal an old, sturdy picnic table and a woodstove in the middle of the room. Other volunteers arrive, exchanging “good mornings” and “how are ya’s.” Mike Young flicks on the radio to listen to the weather and ski conditions. Amid the static and buzz, husband and wife Don and Josie Elting begin boiling water for the warm drinks they provide to the public. Meanwhile, Dave Predeek fiddles with the straps of his

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radio harness as he assembles his gear for the day. Most of the 60 WBSP volunteers are retired. They share a love for both people and the outdoors—and that love doesn’t change with the seasons. A lot of the work WBSP does is preventative, but there have been a few search-and-rescue missions over the years. Much of a patroller’s duty is to be on call and provide visitors with a warm shelter and information. There has been a dramatic increase in the number of snow enthusiasts since WBSP was formed in 1982, and volunteers believe their services are an important part of maintaining a safe environment. “[In] a lot of areas, you’re talking hours—or maybe overnight—before somebody comes to help you,” Calbreath says. “Having the Ski Patrol handy right here on weekends when it’s most crowded, it could save lives.” Calbreath says he knows they’re doing a good job when families repeatedly bring their children up for snow excursions. While on patrol, he takes advantage of a break and grabs a bag of trail mix to snack on. He puts some in his hand and makes an offer to the Gray Jays. Calbreath whistles to let the birds know he means no harm. “These guys never leave—these are the true mountain bird.” X

Above: Joseph Calbreath, 65, feeds a local Gray Jay that has alighted on his hand. Calbreath has been volunteering with Willamette Backcountry Ski Patrol for 22 years and is currently the training director. He recently retired as a weatherman for KMTR-Eugene. Left: Dave Predeek, 73, broadcasts the temperature and ski conditions at Gold Lake Sno-Park. When Predeek isn’t on the mountain, he volunteers at Mount Pisgah Arboretum and the Obsidians of Eugene.

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clearing

THE AIR

An Oregon woman takes her fight against aerial pesticide sprayingstatewide By BRYAN ROBINSON Photos by ALISHA JUCEVIC

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Far left: Every year,Eron King looks forward to seeing the migrating salmon populations in nearby Fish Creek. When water from the creek was tested last year, small amounts of pesticides such as 2,4-D and atrazine were found. Left: Timber companies spray herbicides on cut timberlands to ensure thereplanted saplings take root a nd grow into healthy trees. But activists like King worry that the chemicals could be harmful to humans.

If you ask what lured Eron King to her rural home in Triangle Lake, Oregon, she’ll say the salmon. Seeing the migrating fish in the appropriately named Fish Creek near her property is an event she looks forward to every year. Protecting these wild fish populations was also a reason King and her family moved to the area in 2007. So when she heard Seneca Jones Timber Company was going to spray herbicides on one of its clear-cut lots a mile from her home, she became concerned. And when she learned more about the possible negative effects from herbicide exposure, her concerns shifted from the fish to her family’s health. King says the timber company notified her that it would be using 10 different herbicides on the hillside a mile from her house. A morning fog postponed the spray for several hours, she said. Once it began, King grabbed her camera and turned her lens to the sky as Seneca Jones’ helicopter did loop after loop over the clear-cut. King’s video shows a mist drifting down onto the patches of soil, one side of the mountain still shrouded in fog. Her voice can be heard whispering to her sons as the helicopter surfaces, “Look, you can see it right there.” In the days and weeks following, King noticed that

her two sons came down with terrible coughs. She said her youngest would cough so much he would sometimes vomit. She remembers explaining the situation to her doctor, who was reluctant to attribute the symptoms to the herbicides without evidence to draw a direct correlation. King began talking to her neighbors with similar symptoms. She felt sure that the herbicides were causing the illness, and she began a mission to prove it. The use of pesticides—the general term used to describe substances that kill or repel unwanted plants or animals—has always been controversial. And in the years since they have become widely used, many have questioned their safety. Timber companies say pesticides are the most efficient way to control undergrowth, and that they apply them both legally and responsibly. Activists such as King, however, believe the chemicals in pesticides can harm more than what they’re intended to kill. What’s more, they say, when applied aerially they can drift across permitted spray boundaries—even when used carefully. Aerial spraying isn’t illegal, but companies can be fined and sued for chemical trespass when pesticides drift onto other property. But rather than make a case

for chemical trespass on her property, King has taken on a bigger fight: to not only prove that pesticides might be harmful, but to stop their use in Oregon. In 2008, she formed Standing Together to Outlaw Pesticides with eight other Triangle Lake residents. The group went to board meetings for the Oregon Department of Forestry and the Oregon Department of Agriculture and requested they test their water, land, and bodies for pesticide contamination. But it wasn’t that simple. A tangle of government agencies regulates different aspects of the issue, and their requests were denied. “Saying that we rejected those requests might be a little harsh, but also understand where our authorities are,” said Mike Odenthal, Oregon Department of Agriculture’s pesticide investigator. “Once something is in the water, it falls outside the scope of my authority.” Faced with this roadblock, King and the group approached Dr. Dana Barr, president of the International Society of Exposure Science and research professor at Emory University. They asked her to test urine samples of 43 Triangle Lake residents for 2,4-D and atrazine, two herbicides used by Seneca Jones to manage timber plots around the area in 2011. All samples came back positive. Seneca Jones did not respond to King’s specific claims, but said that it employs the best management practices when it comes to pesticides, and that they are used judiciously.

“We have a passion for and truly understand the intrinsic values that this land possesses,” the company wrote in an email, “which includes providing habitat for a variety of wildlife, recreational opportunities, water quality and an important source of material for our production facilities.” But King was concerned when the spraying continued. Records from the Oregon Department of Forestry show that between 2009 and 2011, spraying increased by 57 percent in the Triangle Lake area. The Oregon Health Authority stepped in to investigate and contacted the Department of Environmental Quality to conduct its own urine tests that autumn. It found that 59 of the 64 people tested positive for 2,4-D, but not for atrazine. However, the case was suspended because there is no technology to test air samples for pesticide contamination. With the investigation in her own backyard stalled, King focused her fight elsewhere. Last October, more than 30 people in Oregon’s Curry and Josephine counties reported health issues following a pesticide spray near Cedar Valley. Now, King is working alongside members of these Southern Oregon communities. But eliminating pesticide use altogether is not realistic, according to Scott Dahlman, executive director of Oregonians for Food and Shelter, which lobbies for private timberlands in Oregon. After a harvest, timber companies replant the plot with SPRING 2014

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King’s family enjoys the rural life. They grow their own vegetables and get milk and eggs from their animals. “I’d like to stay here for possibly the rest of my life,” King says.

seedlings, which compete with other vegetation for sunlight and other resources. To cut down on unwanted plants, timber companies spray these plots with a mix of herbicides. This is the most cost effective way to manage forestland, Dahlman says, since the alternative is manual removal. “There are probably some [companies] at different times that will hire people to do hand management, but that’s pretty rare,” he said. “I would say that herbicides would be the predominant method to take care of competing vegetation during reforestation.” Dahlman is a supporter of pesticide use on private timberlands and says he doesn’t see any problem with the chemicals when companies follow the directions and warnings on the labels. Dr. Randy Phelps of the Child Development and Rehabilitation Center at the University of Oregon disagrees. He said children in development are extremely susceptible to negative effects from even the smallest amounts of herbicide contamination. “The issue is that millions of embryos and fetuses are being exposed to trace amounts of pesticides,” Phelps said. A study done by the Columbia Center for Children’s Environmental Health found that 48 hours after exposure, 83 percent of the 230 mother and newborn pairs studied had seven of the eight measured pesticides in their plasma. According to Phelps, the side effects associated with low levels of pesticide exposure range from genital and anal deformities to a reduced head circumference in developing children. He says one of the pesticides that cause this is atrazine. According to the Environmental Protection Agency, atrazine

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is the most commonly used agricultural pesticide in the United States, with approximately 76 million pounds applied throughout the country in 2007. Atrazine is a Restricted Use Pesticide, meaning only those with professional applicator licenses are allowed to handle and apply the chemical. However, even when pesticides are applied legally, they don’t always land where they’re supposed to. Oregon Health Authority’s investigation showed that pesticides could drift as far as four miles away from the applied area. This is called chemical trespass, and is illegal in Oregon. However, Marianne Dugan, an environmental lawyer in Eugene, said that it is only illegal if the applicator deliberately does not follow the label’s instructions. “We conduct all herbicide applications with experienced state licensed applicators,” Seneca Jones wrote in an email. “[We] follow established laws and regulations, including manufacturer label specification as required by the EPA.” To reduce the risk of chemical trespass, the Oregon Department of Agriculture and the Oregon Department of Forestry have set up buffer zones around drinking and fish bearing streams—60 feet for ground-applied pesticides and 300 feet for aerial pesticides. However, no such buffers exist for residential areas or schools. King sees this as a flaw in the system, and she hopes to educate Oregonians about the issue. In the end, she says, she wants to provide a safer environment for her and her children. “I’d like to stay here for possibly the rest of my life,” she says. “And that’s not going to happen if they continue to spray.” X

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buckles

spurs & Words & Photos By ALISHA JUCEVIC

elsi Eastman competed in her first rodeo at age three, and she’s been in the saddle ever since. “I always ride horses with my mom. She would just carry me or put me in a backpack, and off we went,” Eastman says. Now a senior at McNary High School in Keizer, Oregon, Eastman remains dedicated to her horses and to rodeo. Though she balances school with a part-time job that helps pay for

horse supplies, her priorities have not changed. She cuts down on outside activities to free up her time, and even missed her senior prom to compete in a rodeo. “My goal is always to be the best at rodeo I can be and just get better every year, so you just kind of forget about everything else,” says Eastman. “I’ve just grown up with it my whole life.” She has competed in some sort of rodeo association every year since she was a child: the Northwest Junior Rodeo, the Junior High School Rodeo, and the Oregon High School Rodeo. “I’ll have horses forever, and I hope when I am older I can train horses,” she says. Next year, Eastman will most likely attend Chemeketa Community College and compete as an independent rider in college rodeo. She hopes to transfer to a four-year college rodeo team, and compete in the Women’s Professional Rodeo Association and the National Finals Rodeo.

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Eastman cares for a cut on her horse Tex’s back after she cleans stalls. She pays close attention to her horses’ health. “I know when they get mad and I know when they are sore. Someone can get on their horse and not even know what the difference is between when they are healthy and when they’re not. I know my horses pretty much inside and out,” Eastman says.

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Above: Eastman practices team roping with David Kelly at Para Hevea Equine Facility in Molalla, Oregon. Eastman’s stepfather, Kevin Stickley, coaches her in breakaway roping and team roping. “He’s always been to all of my practices and pays attention just as much as I do,” Eastman says. “He’s able to tell me what I am doing wrong and what I need to fix and how to make me better and faster and just as tough as all the other girls.” Below: Before roping practice at the Para Hevea Equine Facility, Eastman practices goat tying. For this rodeo event, competitors ride their horses to the end of the arena to a goat staked on a rope. The riders must dismount their horses while in motion, run to the goat, get it on its side and tie its legs together. The goat’s legs must remain tied for six seconds, and the contestant with the fastest time wins.

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Eastman dismounts her horse Stanley at full speed, running toward a goat ahead of her in a goat tying event. Though rodeo is a competitive sport, Eastman says everyone is supportive of one another and she always looks forward to seeing her friends at rodeos around the Northwest. “Everyone wants to help out,” she says. “You’re excited when you win, but you are also excited for other people to do good, because I know all the other top people out there work just as hard as me or harder.”

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Above: (left to right) Beth Stickley, Paul La Vine, Eastman, and Kevin Stickley set up the rental stalls at the Crook County Fairgrounds in Prineville, Oregon. Eastman is part of the Oregon High School Rodeo Association. Participants compete in as many rodeos as possible to accumulate points toward their final standings at state competitions. Kevin Stickley, Eastman’s stepfather, has been coaching her this year and always attends her rodeos. Her boyfriend, La Vine, and her mother, Beth Stickley, come whenever they can. Left: Eastman takes off her purple Nike’s and slips on her black cowboy boots when she arrives at the barn. She wears custom initial spurs and says her ostrich boots are her favorite. Right: Eastman feeds and waters her horses at 5:30 a.m. before a Prineville rodeo so they have time to digest before their first competition. “You have to maintain them and keep them in shape and give them good feed. It’s like getting them ready for track season,” she says.

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Top left: Belt buckles are awarded to rodeo champions in most of the large competitions. Eastman’s family has a collection of buckles they’ve won over the years. Her brothers ride bulls, her stepfather ropes, and her mother also grew up riding. Bottom left: Eastman leads her horses into their trailer after roping practice. She and her stepfather drive nearly an hour to Molalla, Oregon on Tuesday and Friday nights to practice breakaway and team roping. In these events, riders run into the arena and attempt to throw a lasso around the neck and legs of a running calf. Above: Eastman sits comfortably in a saddle at Double “H” Western Wear Ranch & Feed Store, where she buys feed and medicine for her horses. She feeds her horses a mixture of alfalfa and grass, depending on what they need.

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north the road

By JEFF MERCADO Illustration by LAUREN BEAUCHEMIN

wo black suitcases lay on my bed, packed and ready. I wouldn’t be leaving to attend the University of Oregon for another month, but I had already formed my escape plan from Lynwood, California, a city with a history of halting dreams, and a stone’s throw from Compton. At 24 years old, I was finally realizing my potential. I needed to walk away from my past to find my future. Coming out of a high school where close to 50 percent of students weren’t expected to graduate college, I never had any motivation to achieve anything beyond a stable income. In the years after high school, all I had to show for myself was a transcript from five different community colleges and three dead-end jobs that rewarded me with nothing more than termination papers. In the midst of this battle against mediocrity, my two siblings were atoning for their older brother’s lack of ambition by accepting offers to universities. It was then that I decided I was not going to become a statistic—another poor Mexican kid who didn’t amount to anything. My mother had fought too hard to pave a different road for me. When she was just 17, she packed her suitcases and decided to leave everything she knew to come to the United States. There was no future for her under the scorching Mexican sun; but when she

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learned she was expecting her first child, she realized both she and I deserved better opportunities. At five months pregnant, my mother trekked across the border with the aid of a “coyote”—an immigrant smuggler. Later, she would name me after him. Yet she saw my move north as an act of treason. She had recently lost her job manufacturing auto parts, and as a single mom, she needed both my income and support. “Mi hijo,” she would say, “Why are you going so far? Can’t you find a school closer so you can stay and help me with the mortgage?” She wanted me to go to college, but she never imagined I’d move so far away. Leaving my family in such dire circumstances was the hardest decision I have ever made. My mom lost the car, and almost lost the house. She filed for bankruptcy and is still fighting her way back to solid financial footing. But she would be reminded by my actions that, sometimes, escape is the only way out. My own journey north has led to a life I am proud of. I found my calling, but I also found myself. To leave my mother in the wake of such turmoil felt like the most selfish act I could commit, but when I walk across that graduation stage in June, it will be a victory for us both—a single mother who dreamed of a better life for her son and a son who finally started living it. X

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UNIVERSITY OF OREGON S C H O O L O F J O U R N A L I S M A N D C O M M U N I CAT I O N