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(Steve Dieffenbacher) Overview attunes fire watcher to nature Soda Mountain outing turns into a lesson on a summer lookout's eye for the intricacies of terrain I usually avoid encounters with people while hiking. The human world gets so much of my attention during the workweek, I prefer the sounds of wind and water on the trail. The only human connection I welcome there is the echoing footsteps of a likeminded hiking friend. But every so often that feeling changes. This was the case on top of Soda Mountain a couple of weeks ago. Perhaps it was this stranger's friendliness or the curiosity I've always had about the lives of people who man seasonal fire lookouts. Whatever the reason, when Ken Struck, the Soda Mountain fire watcher waved me and a friend up to his perch after we reached the mountain's summit, I didn't hesitate. I've tended to romanticize the lives of people like him, imagining I'd have hours of free time to enjoy the scenery and work on writing projects if I had his job. The reality, of course, is nothing like that. Struck, a veteran watcher with short iron-gray hair and an easy smile, does have the early mornings and evenings off — he works 10 to 7 — but when he isn't scanning the sky for telltale wildfire plumes and reporting regularly to his dispatch center, he is cleaning up the small window-filled room that holds his fire-locater equipment, stove, sink and bed. Even while chatting he seems alert and restless. As my friend and I stood beside him on the deck that encircles the lookout, he pointed out landmarks with one ear to the radio and a steely gaze on the horizon. Advertisement "It's four miles to the Oregon-California border," he said, pointing to the south. "That lake there is Iron Gate Lake." In the distance along a line slightly the right of the lake was another peak. "That's Mount Eddy," Struck said. He took us around to the north side, then, pointing out Union Peak and Mount Scott in Crater Lake National Park, before moving on to the more distant crests of Mount Bailey and Mount Thielsen. Some of the peaks he mentioned I had climbed. I told him how much I enjoyed the views from their tops, how enjoyable it was to walk through the country around them "I haven't really explored that country much," he said a little wistfully. I realized then how differently people come to their love of nature. I lavish attention on nature's details, noticing the animals, plants and rocks in the areas I walk through. I focus on leaf patterns, bark and soil, shifts in light and shadow. I hearken to the scents of flowers, the calls of birds in the branches. Watching Struck on his deck with his eyes gazing knowingly into the distance, I realized his attunement comes from something more far-ranging — the lay of the land — which seems less intimate. But is it? In the angles of hills, things that seemed mere knobs to me he could identify as peaks by name. He has looked at those crests in so many different weathers, anything unusual about them would stand out, especially a small wisp of smoke. He also had seen something I hadn't — the way light shifts on those mountains over the course of many long summers. He had time, lots of it, to absorb the scope of all the ground around Soda Mountain in a way no afternoon hike I took could approach. "There was snow when I first came up here this year," he said. "When I leave, there may be snow again." After awhile my friend and I left him, and headed down the stairs to a shady spot among the rocks to have lunch. After we were done, we walked by and waved at his distant figure on the deck, our minds already focused on reaching the trailhead a little over two miles away, for a second hike — one in the opposite direction to Hobart Bluff. After so much looking at the landscape from above, we wanted to be back in nature among its sights, sounds and smells. As we trudged downward, I realized again how many paths into nature there are. For me it is important to understand its complex individual elements before I can fully appreciate the whole. For Ken Struck, its distant topography does that, leading to a different kind of intimacy — a powerful navigational sense that comes from the atmospheric subleties of distance. Neither way is better than the other. For each of us, the path we chose into that familiarity was the right one. You can reach Steve Dieffenbacher at 776-4498 or [email protected] Mail Tribune Home | Local News | Sports | Business | Obituaries | Life | Opinion AP News | Archives | Site Map | Community | Classified Copyright © 1997-2006 Mail Tribune, Inc. All rights reserved. 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