1995 Youth Outdoor Writing Contest The Winners Are…

The last two lines of Kara Dixon’s poem “Sister” were omitted. The poem appeared in its entirety in the Outdoors & Travel section on January 14, 1996, under the headline: Poetic justice.

Christopher Clouse, a senior at Mead High School, has been judged the winner of The Spokesman-Review’s 1993 outdoor writing contest for high school students.

In “By a Tall Tree,” Clouse uses rich detail and description to capture a boy’s bond to his grandfather.

Runners-up are “Sister,” by Mead senior Kara Dixon; “Ups and Downs of Mountain Biking,” by Josh Johnson of Central Valley; and “Harvesting From the Hunt,” by Ryan Seidel, a sophomore at Deer Park High School.

Clouse will receive $50 for first place, while each of the other winners will get $25. Each finalist will be entered in the Outdoor Writers Association of America National Scholastic Writing Contest, which is open to any outdoor writing published in 1995 by junior high or high school students. This year, OWAA reopened the national contest to poetry.

National winners, who can earn up to $300, will be announced next spring. In the past nine years, 17 finalists from The SpokesmanReview contest have gone on to win national awards.

The entries were judged by 12 of the newspaper’s writers and editors. The winning entries once again have been illustrated by Spokane artist Dale Hamilton, a graduate of Central Valley High School.

Writers who made the final rounds of judging from a field of 161 entrants were Ryan Johnson of Lewis and Clark, Ryan Cassidy of Ferris, Pat Way of Post Falls, Adina Smith of Mead, Cori Travis, Sherrie Larson and Kristen Coles of Deer Park, Jake Steinback of Shadle Park, Chris Meenach of Freeman and Tyrel Newbill of Gonzaga Prep.

The newspaper’s contest is announced each fall. Entry deadline for the 1996 contest is Nov. 29.

BY A TALL TREE

By Christopher Clouse

Senior, Mead

The cold will not bother me today. Not even rain can stop a funeral.

I slide down the hill of clay toward the pasture, gripping a jar half full of water. My goldfish floats at the top. I struggle to keep my balance in the storm, moon boots too heavy with mud to leave the ground.

At the bottom of the hill, the rusted semi-trailer sits on steel wheels, chiseled into the ground. I remember the first time greatgrandpa Harlow saw this jimmyrigged barn, home for hay, horses, and field mice. Mom had brought him from the retirement home to visit for a couple of weeks. With one hand resting on his hip, he took off his sea-blue fishing hat and gave his head a good scratching.

“If that ain’t the ugliest barn I ever saw. What did ya do with the old one?” He propped his crumpled hat back on his head. “Never you forget, Boy. Something might be dull with time or worn by years, but as long as it’s doing its job, just leave it be.”

Shovels, rakes and pitchforks lean against the inside of the trailer like tired farm boys. I grab a shovel, and head toward the trees. A path beaten down by unshod hooves leads through the wet crab grass to decaying pine needles. Under the pines, only mist seeps through the tent of branches.

I can still see Grandpa wandering here that afternoon. We’d crossed the field, grasshopper heads thumping against our bare shins, and taken refuge in the shade where the smell of pitch permeated the air. Grandpa loved the big trees.

“It’s easier to get to heaven when you’re buried by a tall tree,” he told me.

He began searching the ground with the concentration of a heart surgeon, picking up twigs and small branches. “Gotta make us a fire. It’s gettin’ cold.”

Suddenly he stopped and put his finger to his lips. “Shh!” he warned, “Something over there, behind them trees. Injuns, Boy. There’s Injuns.”

“There aren’t any Indians around here Grandpa.”

“Look! Look! Can’t ya see ‘em? Them Injuns running crazy. Screaming like they been tickled by wild fire. Where’s my bow?”

I decided his final screw fell right there beside the pine cones.

“But there ain’t nothing there but wild rose and tree limbs.” His face went white as paste and the veins on his temple bulged. “OK, OK. Don’t get all riled up. Here, Grandpa. Here’s your bow.”

With one motion he snatched the bow from my hands, extended his flanneled arm, squeezed one eye shut and pulled back slowly with his other arm. “It’s all in the aim,” he whispered. He released the invisible string then leaned forward, wide eyed.

I lay my hand on his shoulder. He swayed under the weight. “Did you get him?” The distance in my voice surprised me, as if part of me had slipped into his world.

He cocked his head back and lifted his shoulders. His chest pushed out the front of his shirt. Reaching up with both hands, he adjusted his hat forward and answered, “Won’t have to worry about no Injuns today.”

An explosion of thunder jars me from my memories. I wipe the dripping bangs from my forehead. There will be no need to worry about Indians on this day either.

I scan the gaps between trunks for a good place to sink my shovel and choose a spot beneath a great pine. I can’t tell how tall it is through all the intertwining branches that close off the land from the sky. But I do know that it would take at least three of me to stretch around the trunk. It must be tall.

“It’s easier to get to heaven…”

Hunkering down, I inspect the soil, claw my fingers into the dark dirt between roots. Squeezing my hand into a fist, I excavate a handful of ground and sift through it, picking out flakes of mica. “Poor folk’s silver,” Grandpa called it, “just like silver ‘cept it don’t cost ya nothing.’ “

A few shovels full of dirt makes a hole the size of a shoe box. Roots wet with pitch form walls for the grave. I dip my finger into the jar and hook it around the fish. Even as I hold it, the scales are fading. It’s hard to believe they once shimmered like a hundred tiny mirrors, tossing light through water. I slip the fish into the hole, then sprinkle the mica on its body. Now it will always shine.

Still on my knees, I cover the fish fistful by fistful. It is harder than I thought. On the other side of the valley, Mom is stepping out onto the porch. Her face blurs in the rain. She waves me in. Her black dress dances with the storm. I rise to my feet, and walk into the downpour.

SISTER

By Kara Dixon

Senior, Mead

Coals burn

into pale ash, sparks

running on wind.

Heat rocks the unsteady

log back and forth.

I try to drown out the methodic thump,

knowing it calls

me to the sister

I must give up, tonight.

The white ash swirls.

How many times we

camped by the fire,

shivered at each other’s

ghost stories, howled

at the far off cry of wolves.

How many times I

followed her down a game trail,

or along the river,

chasing her cat.

Now she goes where I cannot follow.

UPS AND DOWNS OF MOUNTAIN BIKING

By Josh Johnson

Senior, Central Valley

There comes a time in the life of every young man when he feels indestructible. Upon entering this stage, a guy is overcome with a surge of power which, incidentally, sends the brain and all of its rational functions on vacation. I recently experienced it first-hand.

I changed from being a cautious, discerning individual one day into a (italic) bang me in the head with a club and call me Thor the Caveman (end italic) type of person the next. The switch was sudden and unexpected. It was also what prompted me to try mountain biking.

My friend Ben, an experienced mountain biker, decided to ask me, a mountain biking illiterate, to join him on a cycling adventure. I, being in the prime of my indestructible stage, had no qualms with this and quickly agreed to come.

The first part of our trip was filled with a wide variety hills whose only similarity was that they all led straight up. It was during one of these grueling stretches that I discovered a gear on my mountain bike - the pedal viciously and still go the speed of an overweight turtle gear. Great frustration welled up within me. I was exerting all of my effort yet was moving at a pace so slow that a cube-shaped boulder could have beaten me up the hill.

With perspiration dripping off my body, we finally reached an area that was flat. I exhaled a sigh of relief at hearing Ben remark that it was all downhill from here. My indestructible feelings were starting to abandon me. Going downward sounded very relaxing and…

“Josh,” Ben interrupted my thought, “before we start going down, I just wanted to make sure you knew that you are going to need to lean back quite a bit to prevent yourself from flying over the handlebars.”

“No problem!” I responded. I was beginning to feel undefeatable again. Of course I knew to lean back if I felt I would fall! My biking instincts had been finely tuned over the course of many years of vigorous training.

I had learned how to ride early on and took extreme pride in the fact that I almost shed my training wheels before my training pants. Yes, I was a bike-riding masterpiece; and, in the heat of the moment, I caught myself hoping that Ben would not become embarrassed if I was just as good as him.

My confidence didn’t last long, however, for Ben had taken his bike off the trail and was now preparing to maneuver it straight down the face of the mountain.

“What about the trail?” I whimpered.

Ben smiled. It was a knowing smile, and in the way it spread across his face, one could notice a malicious curve. He was, no doubt, enjoying this very much.

“We will make our own trail,” he replied.

I soon discovered that our own trail had more downhill potential than a cliff. As we started our descent, I noticed my white knuckles tightly clutching both hand brakes. My mind focused wholeheartedly on leaning back. This leisure ride on a mountain was no longer a sport. My sole desire now was survival. I had to make it home.

It only took a minute before I realized that I had no skill whatsoever in the art of leaning back. All of a sudden, I was laying flat on the ground underneath my bike, my hands still securely fastened to the handlebars.

Success continued to avoid me as I crashed in rapid intervals. There was a point along the way, probably after my third wreck, that a feeling of desperation shot throughout my body. I was leaning back with an intense, never-seen fervor. I pushed my feet against the pedals with all my might, vigorously tugged back on the handlebars, and tilted my head awkwardly behind me. I even remember sucking my face in. It was to no avail, though. My new style had less control than before. I couldn’t even see where I was going.

This could help explain why I ran into the tree. It wasn’t a big tree. Those with knowledge on the matter probably wouldn’t even label it a tree; it was more of a long flexible branch rooted stubbornly in the ground. As my bike skidded around a corner, I opted instead to flail wildly through the air in my former course of direction. I was now wrapped around the tree, shocked at my new-found flexibility.

Ben, who incidentally had not yet crashed, walked back to me and offered to help me up while trying to conceal his snorts of laughter. I told him that I was not yet ready to get up, but, if he’d bring me a couple of corn dogs and a bed, I’d get back to him in a few days.

Eventually, I recovered my wind and decided that my body would still work well enough to finish the ride safely. We were almost done, Ben guaranteed me. Thankfully, he was telling the truth.

When we reached my home, I had a chance to go over the damages. I had a lot of deep bruises, but nothing had been seriously injured. The bike, however, was less fortunate. Its seat post was bent sharply back to the extent that the point of the seat was sticking straight up. I grinned. The bike was now in permanent lean back position.

Then I smiled even wider - this bike belonged to my little brother. With Ben by my side, I hopped on my 10-speed and rode down the street.

HARVESTING FROM THE HUNT

By Ryan Seidel

Sophomore, Deer Park

It was all worth it. The endless hours of searching. The freezing numbness plaguing my body. I am finally about to bag my first buck. He is a beauty. A large brown body and a rack the size of the Mississippi.

I bring my rifle up, take aim, and now with the day dwindling and light fading, I am faced with the decision of life.

Somehow the forest seems to bear down on me. The squirrels and birds come out and speak among themselves as if I were just another rock or stump. The trees breathe and talk to me about subjects most people would never talk about.

The songs of birds fill my ears. My life seems in order as the blazing sun falls toward the west. The trees grow stiff and the song of a robin dies with the rise of a gentle wind. I look back to the creek and the buck no longer sips from the rush of water.

I slowly trudge back to my camp from the woods. Yes, I am sure it was worth it.

ILLUSTRATION: 2 Color Photos; 4 illustrations by Dale Hamilton