Backing In at Big Southern Butte

Every year at this time I think about that hang gliding trip that I went on to Utah with Roger (Black Weasel), Dan (Dangerous Dan), Robbie (Mr. Natural) and his dog Kona (Frisbee Scumbag). My moniker was Jon Boy. That trip was full of brotherhood, adventure, chills and thrills. September spurs us to get in touch to reminisce and this year we ask ourselves, “Could it really have been 41 years ago today”? 

So many stories and new acquaintances came out of our time together and many of the pilots we met told us of amazing flights that were being had at Big Southern Butte in the Idaho desert. We had read stories about the place and knew that there had been some fatalities there but we always rationalized that pilots who died had done something stupid that we would avoid. Since Big Southern Butte wasn’t too far out of our way we decided to stop there and fly. 

Driving north beyond Pocatello we turned onto a secondary highway. It was dark and after a while we turned off onto a dirt road and followed it, dodging jack rabbits and potholes. I would guess that it took about an hour on that dirt before we came to Frenchman’s Cabin where we would crash for the night. All we could really see in the headlights was a ragged log cabin, and an even raggedier shelter for livestock, a couple of piles of junk and log fence. It had to be the place and we were beat so we grabbed our sleeping bags and started for the door. 

Wanted: Dead or Alive

 Originally published 9/14/2021

Be on the lookout for Notch Ear.

He is wanted for Criminal Trespass, Burglary, Mayhem, Willful Damage and Destruction.

He was last seen leaving my garage with an empty peanut bag which he blatantly discarded in the street.  The contents of the bag have not been recovered.  Additionally, he tore apart a pile of Styrofoam chunks that had been neatly stacked awaiting recycling and scattered them around the garage.  He is well-known in the Ridgecrest Neighborhood for leaving a trail of destruction in his wake. 

If you see Notch Ear or any members of his gang do not attempt to apprehend him.  He is a cheeky little bastard and should be considered armed and dangerous. 

He is a Vandal, a Hun, a Visigoth, a Barbarian at the gate, clamoring for blood and bent on destruction. 

 

Just waste the mother.

Search for the Good Road Lunch Room

Courtesy of Gordon Macdougall

While Interlaken Blvd may “officially” be just outside of the Montlake Historic District you would be hard pressed to convince any Montlake Free Range Kid that Interlaken, Louisa Boren Park or any part of “The Ravine” was not their turf.  With that mindset I began trying to find the site where a Montlake icon, the Good Road Lunch Room, had stood. 

It’s well known that Interlaken Blvd follows the general route of the Seattle Bicycle Path that was laid out during the 1890’s.  Many have reported on that so I will leave you to sort through those resources.  The Good Road Lunch Room is mentioned in all of those narratives but the exact location has never been located to my satisfaction.  We know that it was somewhere between Roanoke and 24^th, but where? 

REI - When Hang Gliding Was Mainstream

An abridged version of this narrative first appeared in the January 2003 edition of the Oz Report. You probably didn't know that REI was once a Northwest powerhouse in hang gliding sales and instruction.

REI got into the hang gliding business by purchasing Chandelle Northwest from a gentleman named Ken Greenwald ~1974-1975. Ken had returned from a very profitable season of fishing in Alaska and had some money burning a hole in his pocket so he decided that selling hang gliders would be a fun way to get rich. I’ve never been completely clear on whether he came up with the idea himself or if he had help but in the early ‘70’s hang gliding was exploding. It was being touted as the inexpensive sport that any man or woman could safely engage in to experience the freedom of flight.

It sounded foolproof so Ken started the company and opened up an amazing shop in downtown Seattle. He leased a great showroom in the old Commission District near the ferry terminal. The business was located in the northeast corner of the Maritime Building and had plenty of large plate glass windows to display gliders.

Birthdays, Baseballs and Goose Eggs

 

I celebrated my 9th trip around the sun by gorging on cake and ice cream followed by a roller-skating party at Ridge Roller Rink in Greenwood with my Montlake School buddies Pip M, Scott M, Jeff W, Mike S, Ray B, Marc G, Bobby A and Lester R.  Being fairly new to the neighborhood I didn’t realize how blessed I was to have been accepted by such a solid crew of Montlake kids whose parents had raised them right.  I'm still in touch with two of those "kids" today. 

Lord of the Flies / King of the Carp

 1/1/2006

The Plan

The plan was hatched in Donnie Carlson’s storage area. 

His house sat at the corner of Boyer and Everett Ave. E.  Everett Avenue sloped about 75 yards down to Portage Bay where it dead ended at the remains of a rickety dock surrounded by cattails and Lilly Pads.  The dock had been the sidewalk for a houseboat community that was displaced by the building of the 520 viaduct. 

Donnie’s house was built on the hillside with the main floor at ground level on one side and the exterior basement door at ground level on the opposite.  A deck off of the living room extended over the basement door and the deck supports provided the main framing and footprint for the storage area.  The walls were enclosed using translucent corrugated fiberglass panels.  Access from outside was through a light wooden door that was held shut with a screen door hook.

The area was used for storing outboard motors, oars, life jackets, seat cushions, fishing poles, reels, nets, tackle boxes, lawn mowers, rakes, garden tools, large mysterious olive drab canvas things of unknown purpose.  Interesting artifacts were stacked, slung and hung everywhere in this 8’ x 10’ space and emitted intriguing smells that really got the juices stirring in this young boy.  The mingling scents emitted by jars of salmon eggs, cheese bait, vinyl seat cushions, well-aged fishing creels, air-dried kapok life jackets, motor oil, gasoline, dried grass, army surplus pup tents with just a hint of rodent pee filled me with wonder.  My God, what a magnificent smell.  The light that filtered through the fiberglass paneling played across salmon flashers, trout lures, odd floats and old jackets that were suspended from the rafters.  This was a cathedral and any boy who entered was overwhelmed by the possibilities.  It was in this temple that Donnie unveiled the prize given to him by his Grandpa. 

In his hand he held a green trident spear tip.  Four sharp prongs, each finished with a barb, all set into an elongated cap designed to fit over the end of a shaft.  He held it out to me and smiled.  It was beautiful, dangerous, wicked, perfect!  I was transfixed.  What more could a boy want?  Without any idea of how I would use it I knew that I had to possess one and it had to be soon.

Ole Nissen - Tailor

 

Ole Andreas Nissen was born in Ansager, Denmark in 1887.  Like so many Danes at that time he worked the family farm.  He was a diminutive boy and when he was 14 years old and finished with school his Mother gave him the kind of advice that no boy that age wants to hear. 

“Ole” she said, “I want you to learn to be a tailor.  You have skinny wrists.  You won’t cut it as a farmer”. 

Being smaller than his peers must have been something that he had dealt with for all of his short life and to have his Mom confirm what he had struggled to deny was a harsh toke.  Then, the next thing he knew was that she had swung a deal with a tailor who lived in the next town and so off he went to serve an apprenticeship.  After 3 ½ years he and his skinny wrists came away with a paying profession that he actually liked and excelled at.  It turned out that Mother knew best.  

He saved his money and at age 20 immigrated to the US where he arrived in New York City, boarded a train and headed west.  Everywhere he went, though, tailors were not in demand so he picked up whatever work was available.  Carpentry, cooking, waiting tables, whatever and after a few months he arrived in Seattle.  Nobody was hiring tailors in the Emerald City so he traveled up and down the coast, California to Vancouver, BC picking up piecework sewing and other odd jobs.  Vancouver panned out for him and he was able to get steady work sewing.  At age 27 he was back in Seattle and opened his own shop where he sold his first suit for $29.  

The last Wednesday of each month was his night to play cards at the Danish Brotherhood and one Wednesday he was playing with the VP of Washington Mutual Bank who asked him to make a blue serge suit for his wife.  The suit was a hit and soon the banker’s wealthy friends and their wives were among his clientele. 

Looking to expand and upscale his business he bought a lot at 2805 E. Madison Street in Madison Valley.  The property was long and narrow with a house towards the middle of the lot.  

It had a nice front yard facing Madison Street and a large-ish back yard on E. Arthur Pl.  In 1925 he had the house picked up, turned 180 degrees and set on E Arthur Pl.  On the Madison Street side, he had a storefront built to house his new tailor shop and a tenant who ran a barbershop.  He operated at his Madison Street shop from 1925 until he retired in 1967.  He passed away in 1986 at the ripe age of 99.  

The house that he had picked up and turned around still stands at 2832 E Arthur Pl.  It is the home of “The Music Factory”, a music school that employs professional musicians who work with students of all levels in guitar, piano and voice.  

The storefront that he rented out and where he proudly displayed his own sign is a french restaurant called “Voila! Bistrot”.

You may have eaten there.  I think he would approve.