Stories from the 2006 Festival!

Theme 1 Stories: Tcha Tee Man Wi

• Biking to Marys Peak - Steve Cook
• Close to Home - Melody Oldfield
• Fire in the Sky - Beth Tweedell and Michael Proctor
• Fireworks - Bruce Marbin
• The House of Agates - Bud Hamm
• In the Dark - Sandy Ridlington
• Key to the Mountain Still Up There - M. Boyd Wilcox
• A Looney Lunar Picnic on Marys Peak - Lindy Young
• Nature’s Fourth of July - Michael Grant
• Never Been Up There - Kathryn Frischknecht
• Peak Moments Worth Sharing - Pat Wray
• Sending My Son Up the Mountain - Cindy Towne
• Sharing It With My Baby - Nikki Lancaster
• Sledding, Interrupted - Beth Brown
• The Snake and the Elephant - Anne Gillies
• That's Snow Mountain - Jana Zvibleman
• Wedding Above the Clouds - Faith Junghans
• Where Spirits Dwell - Jay W. Pscheidt
• Woman in the Wind - Karen J. Zimmerman

Theme 2 Stories: How Has Storytelling Touched Your Life?

• Michael and the Big Fish - Anchen Texter
• My Poem - Dianne Roth
• Storytelling a Family Tradition - Wolfgang Dengler

Biking to Marys Peak - Steve Cook

All Corvallis cyclists worth their salt have ridden to Marys Peak.

For me, this ride begins when the road plunges into the forest, the shoulder disappears, the switchbacks begin and the trucks terrify. The sign at the turnoff says “Marys Peak 9 miles” and doesn’t say “3,000 feet up.”

The traffic disappears, the forest scents assail the nostrils, and the sweat drips. The 500-foot decline half way up really sucks. Feeling confident at seven miles, head and arms get soaked and water bottles replenished at the creek. Up and a little down, smugly I ride across the parking lot, to the gravel road to the communication site on top, where I relax a couple of hours with lunch and a book.

Down. It is frightfully steep, 45 mph steep, and aside from that darned uphill in the middle, a ridiculously fast return to the highway. The 35 mph straightaway leads back into the switchbacks. I’ve ridden thousands of miles in many states and foreign countries, but cranking at 30 mph down and around those big sweeping switchbacks is the coolest feeling possible. I’ve never replicated it anywhere.

“What did you do today?”

“Oh, I rode to Marys Peak,” cool as you please, ignoring the complaining quads.

Close to Home - Melody Oldfield

I’ve lived here seven years but have never been up on Marys Peak. My office used to be in the Kerr Administration Building at Oregon State University, and my window faced Marys Peak. I loved watching the sunsets over the mountain.

Now, I’m in a different building on campus, and I don’t have that view, and my windows at home face the Sisters. But whenever we go to Eugene, on our way home I watch for Marys Peak — it’s my marker so that I know we’re getting close to home!

Fire in the Sky - Beth Tweedell and Michael Proctor

Once this summer we decided to go to the Peak for a sunset. Of course we were running late. Halfway up, we almost decided to go back, but we went ahead to the top in the dark.

We were standing around up there when suddenly there was a light shooting across the sky. First I thought, "Is it a police car?" Actually it looked like something from Harry Potter, coming right out of the woods. It happened so fast.

Luckily, we both saw it, so neither thought the other was crazy. A huge green-blue light in the eastern sky - a ball of fire, with sparkles, and it had a tail. It was really big and right there, low, flying north. We were amazed.

As quick as it came, it disappeared. We figured it crashed somewhere in Philomath or Corvallis.

The next day, there was an article in the Gazette-Times: other people had seen it, and no trace was found. My guess is that it was a piece of a meteor.

If we had made to the Peak for the sunset, we would’ve probably already left and we would’ve missed that incredible sighting.

Fireworks - Bruce Marbin

We heard that Marys Peak was a good place for Fourth of July, so we packed up picnics, binoculars, lawn chairs, blankets, and bug repellents. Although the sky was still light, the parking lot was already full. Walking up the path in a parade, we kept turning to "oo" at the sunset. Our group went all the way up past the towers, and squeezed in among friends and strangers on the crowded hill facing east. As dusk darkened, we watched electric lights come on way below, on street lamps and cars and houses. People were telling each other "That’s Philomath." "That might be Monroe." "Where’s Eugene?" "Is that Albany?"

Finally there were shouts - some of us had spotted the first tiny spray of fireworks. The distant reds, whites, blues, and greens, and yellows and oranges and purples, kept us all pointing and applauding for over an hour. There were no bangs, no smokey smell. For over an hour, we enjoyed the miniature show around the valley, courtesy of the towns.

The best display of the night was over our heads - the stars were bright and abundant, and they lasted through our tired walks back down in the dark.

The House of Agates - Bud Hamm

When I was a teenager in the late 40’s and early 50’s Mary’s Peak was my back yard and playground. My grandparents and great-grandparents had homesteaded Peak country, and I knew the landmarks--the schoolhouse, post office, and cemetery. Each year my cousins and I spent many days camping, fishing Shot Pouch Creek and exploring the old homesteads on foot and by horseback.

One summer day we followed an old track nearly overgrown with brush. It led down a canyon where we discovered a small abandoned cabin. An old, rusting Indian motorcycle, its tires flat, stood in a tacked-on shed. Through a broken-out window we peered into one of the cabin’s rooms, and discovered the floor was covered in agates—not a scattering of agates, or even a carpet of agates, but agates several inches deep: banded, speckled and mossy agates, agates of every color, polished and gleaming in the dim light.

Years later I attempted to find the cabin again, but the old roads were completely overgrown, so the cabin may be there yet, by now a pile of decaying boards covering a trove of beautiful agates.

In the Dark - Sandy Ridlington

About 30 years ago, my husband and I went camping on Marys Peak with a friend. For some reason, he used to call my husband and me “Mr. and Mrs. Front Porch.” That irritated me — it seemed to reduce us to nothing more than a bourgeois married couple.

Anyway, because it was a dry, hot summer, we slept out without a tent. We laid out our sleeping bags in single file along a narrow path, talked in the darkness for awhile, and then slept soundly. In the morning, all around our sleeping bags, we saw new deer tracks. One set of tracks came within inches of where my head had been. We’d obviously been inspected at leisure.

Another time, when our daughters were young, the church minister decided that their Sunday School class should go to the top of Marys Peak for Easter sunrise. We all gathered there at her assigned time. In the dark and extreme cold, we waited, and waited, and waited, and waited, and waited. The sun just wasn’t rising. It seems she had forgotten about daylight savings time!

Key to the Mountain Still Up There - M. Boyd Wilcox

Marys Peak is the key mountain for me. And it’s probably still up there; the key, that is.

It fit the ignition on my 1955 Chevy, two-door sedan. It was May of 1966, and as I was about to graduate from Oregon State University and head into Peace Corps, I took a rare break from studies and work to drive up the mountain.

It was a warm, sunny day - about 60 degrees - and after trekking all the way to the top from the parking lot, on the way back down I stopped in the meadow’s inviting grass to catch a few rays of sun. My white T-shirt, the kind with a little pocket on the left-front, came off to serve as a blanket.

After 10 minutes of bright sun on my pale back, I stood up, grabbed the T-shirt and shook the grass and debris off its surface. The key to my car went flying out of that pocket into the deep, soft turf of this old mountain.

I looked and looked for it, pawing thoroughly into every root ball and tuft in the area, but to no avail.

Fortunately, I had a spare key elsewhere, so I could drive back to Corvallis. But I’ll bet that key is still up there, somewhere, now even more deeply ensconced than before.

But if somebody’s metal-detector happens to unearth it, perhaps they could let me know. I’d like it back, just for sentimental reasons.

Never mind, DON’T tell me if you find it. Because if you did, then I’d have to try and find the car to match.

A Looney Lunar Picnic on Marys Peak - Lindy Young

Where to watch the lunar eclipse? Where’s the sky the clearest, with the least people? The choice was obvious. Before sunset, my daughter Lenore and I packed a picnic and drove the winding

“Wow! Where’d all these people come from?” she exclaimed. There were cars everywhere and people setting up long telescopes, crouching over huge, professional contraptions, and aiming binoculars eastward. We hiked with others to the top.

As the sky paled, the distant Cascades began to fade into the evening mist. Then the faint orb of the full moon rose above the haze. People murmured, “There it is! Wow, it’s the moon.” We watched through binoculars as the Earth’s shadow took the first bite out of its shine.

Suddenly — darkness. The moon, high above us now, appeared eerily brown.

“Here’s something round,” I told Lenore, as we fumbled for our food. “But I don’t know if it’s a boiled egg or an apricot!” That just set us to laughing and laughing.

As we ate and watched, the faintest hint of silver appeared. Within minutes we were blinded by a shining crescent as the Earth’s shadow released its hold on the moon. “Wow! Ooh! Look there!” Shouts of wonder all around us like Fourth of July. We could see again.

We chuckled at the picnic debris strewn around us. Eventually, cars began to leave the mountain. The liberated moon lit the way home.

Nature's Fourth of July - Michael Grant

Marys Peak is a looming glory, silhouetted by the fading sun in contrast against the rich, vivid sky. Sometimes walking down my street, I glance over at its majesty. When I learned of my chance to witness an astronomical milestone atop Marys Peak, I jumped at the opportunity.

Everyone who viewed the Perseid meteor shower last August knows it was a marvel — nature’s Fourth of July. I had the rare pleasure of seeing it atop a mountain rich with Indian history and lore.

Hiking up the mountainside, sleeping bag and tarp in hand, the sky was stunning. It seemed like stars that had never existed had suddenly appeared. Snuggled up in my warm sleeping bag on the damp grass, the sky was on fire. Stars intermittently sped across the sky like a firefly race.

Talking with friends about what lies beyond the stars, there was no place I would have rather have been than Marys Peak. At one point, a comet streaked across the whole sky, instigating “oohs” and “ahs.” It was a magical experience.

The Indian name for Marys Peak — Tcha Tee Man Wi — means “where the spirit dwells.” At that moment, the spirit was around us.

Never Been Up There - Kathryn Frischknecht

We've lived here since 1956 - we moved here when our kids were in school. But - would you believe? - I have never been up Marys Peak. I love it though. I look at it when I'm out working in my front yard - I can't see it from my windows, because the neighbor's house blocks the view. All our four kids have been up there, though, lots of times, hiking in the summer, or playing in the snow. And our grandkids. I was always home tending the babies, the littlest ones who couldn't go, or I was working. I like to look up at it - I watch the sunsets, or I look at the snow up there. It makes me feel like home.

Peak Moments Worth Sharing - Pat Wray

Back in early February my wife, Debbie, and I attended the Tcha Tee Man Wi Storytelling Festival at the First Presbyterian Church. Tcha Tee Man Wi (cha tee mahn wee) means Place Where Spirit Dwells and is the Calapooia Indian name for Marys Peak.

This festival is one of those events that makes Corvallis special. No one should miss a magical storyteller such as Ann Glover, who mesmerized us all with her multi-lingual stories and incredible string art.

The master of ceremonies asked members of the audience to write down their memories of Marys Peak for inclusion in future stories.

“You should do that,” Deb whispered. “We could write it together.”

Her eyes were not actually twinkling; glinting would be a better word.

“OK,” I squeak. “I’ll go first.”

The story begins during our senior year in high school in Virginia in 1966. We were both 17. School had been cancelled for snow, and we were out on my Flexible Flyer sled, hurtling down the roads.

Flexible Flyers are made of heavy wood and steel, with twin parallel runners. They are ideal for hard-packed snow and ice, but useless on thick, powdery stuff. Deb was leery of one particularly steep and icy hill.

“No problem,” I explained. “I’ll turn off before we get to the steel posts.”

She trusted me, and lay down on my back for the descent. As promised, I turned long before we got to the steel pipes.

Unfortunately, turning a Flexible Flyer is not always the same as changing the direction in which it is moving. We hit a three-inch steel fencepost sideways, breaking ribs on both sled and people.

This event marked my first transition from trusted love of my life to are you crazy? In Deb’s mind I have flip-flopped between the two ever since.

Fast-forward 16 years to a beautiful winter day in Corvallis. Deb and I take our kids up to Marys Peak for a day of sledding. We are excited, having spent the previous six years stationed in North Carolina and Florida.

We have a toboggan, two inner tubes, two saucers and a long-since-repaired Flexible Flyer. Hundreds of people have already been sledding; in places the snow is packed hard enough to use the Flexible Flyer.

“C’mon, Deb. While the kids are on the tubes, let’s you and me try the Flyer!”

She is wary, but she’s already repressed the pain of two childbirths; what are a couple broken ribs? She agrees to go down the hill but wants to steer. OK, so this time, I lie down on top.

It is a steep hill and we pick up speed quickly — a lot of speed. We are rapidly approaching the end of the packed snow, and I think to myself, “I wonder what’s going to happen when…”

What happens is this … the sled takes a precipitous nose dive into soft snow, sending me sliding across Deb’s head and forward about 15 feet. Then Deb also departs the sled.

Unfortunately, the sled does not depart her. She has wrapped the sled rope around her right wrist, so even though the Flyer wants to proceed on its own, it can’t. It cartwheels around and clips Deb in the side of the head.

The resulting concussion rules Deb’s life for more than a year, with all too regular bouts of dizziness and nausea. I blame the accident on an angry mountain spirit. Deb and the kids have other ideas.

Deb’s ready to give her version of the events and their causes now. Oh, alas. We seem to have run out of space. Maybe next time.

Sending My Son Up the Mountain - Cindy Towne

When my youngest son was 9, I was still an overprotective parent. A constant worry was whether my kids would be OK. Around that time, his friend invited him to celebrate his birthday with a sledding party on Marys Peak.

We lived on another mountain, “Trout Mountain,” in Eddyville, but we had never been up Marys Peak. As terrified as I was, I was determined to let my kid go. I compromised by meeting the family at the bottom of Marys Peak.

Although that was 20 years ago, I still remember handing my son over to them. I stood watching their car disappear up the mountain and I waved and waved forever. I kept thinking to myself, “This is it; I’ll never see him again.”

Gazing at Marys Peak as I drove away, the snow fell relentlessly around me; I worried. It was a long, long day. After dark, when my son was returned happy, tired, and full of birthday cake, I was thankful that he was back home and intact!

I’ve still never been up Marys Peak myself and yet it was my adventure too.

Sharing It With My Baby - Nikki Lancaster

When I was six months pregnant with my first child, we went to see the shooting stars on Marys Peak. We thought it was romantic, and a very clever idea that no one else would have thought of. When we got up there, we were amazed at how many people there were! I think we saw more people than stars. You could feel the thrill in the air. We did see a great meteor shower. When you think about nature, and the power of nature ... it was very powerful and symbolic, being with child for that. I felt I was sharing it with my baby.

Sledding, Interrupted - Beth Brown

Our 8-year-old daughter really wanted to go sledding, and her father really wanted to take her. I didn’t particularly like the idea of getting cold and wet, but OK, let’s all go up to Marys Peak.

I managed to linger near the car while the two of them first went off. Suddenly Emma was running back to me, shouting, "Mom, Dad broke his back!"

I didn’t know what to do - find a way to call 911? Go to him and check it out first? Was she exaggerating?

"Come on, Mom, hurry! He’s crying and yelling!"

I decided to follow her.

"Run faster Mom, run!"

I was starting to panic too. Still running, I was trying to figure out what to do. All of a sudden, there he was, walking towards us slowly.

What a relief? It had been a bad fall, and his back was hurting badly, but he managed to get to the car, and we got him back down to town. A local chiropractor did wonders. I’m not sure that he and I have been sledding since, but Emma has.

The Snake and the Elephant - Anne Gillies

To me, Marys Peak looks like the snake that swallowed the elephant n from the book “The Little Prince.” He made a drawing, and it was asymmetrical like this mountain, because the elephant’s head is higher than its butt. They show the drawing in the book. Adults always thought it was a drawing of a hat.

I’ve only been up there once, years ago when my daughter was a baby. But I love looking at it, with the reminder of the snake with the elephant in its belly!

That’s Snow Mountain - Jana Zvibleman

No snow. It was a Corvallis winter, and you couldn’t see one bit of Marys Peak through the gray fog. At least it wasn’t raining, we adults said, but all the kids on our block (there were plenty of them - eight or nine at the Sanders house alone) wanted that classic scene from movies and greeting cards, glistening with snowflakes, snowpeople, and sleds. They wished hard for snow.

It was a friendly neighborhood. For instance, all the children liked visiting Grant and Mia, a couple who lived on one corner, to glimpse their pet possum Opie, playing baseball in their backyard, watching the quail in their coop, and pick cherries from their tree.

Early one morning, when the Sanders kids looked out their window: Wow, snow! Not falling from the sky - just there on their front lawn! A huge white mound - high enough to clamber up and tumble down.

Instantly, the whole neighborhood appeared, with sleds and cardboard boxes, disks and buckets.

They became too busy throwing snowballs to notice the wet pickup truck. Before dawn, Grant had driven to the top of the mountain and worked hard shoveling to bring down a frozen gift - our very own neighborhood Tcha Tee Man Wi.

Wedding Above the Clouds - Faith Junghans

We got married on the Peak! We had about 12 people, and we walked along the path and had the ceremony under the Noble Firs. I was in a lace dress and a halo of flowers. The groom and best man were in a tux. The groom was blindfolded all the way up, so he wouldn’t see me ahead of time in my dress. We shared champagne and cheese up on the top. It was gorgeous - we were above the thick white gorgeous clouds, but we were in the sunshine.

Another experience was when my son was 3, and on the last day of our preschool about six of the Moms and kids went up camped on the Peak. It was in June, and it was freezing. Even with a hat on, my son cried all night from the cold. But we had fun - the kids played on logs in the area by the campground - they had a ball!

A different time I got a ride on the back of a motorcycle up the mountain - all of those curves, and seeing the wildflowers - it’s heaven. If you haven’t done that, you should - like if you’re having a bad day!

Where spirits Dwell - Jay W. Pscheidt

One childless Christmas long ago, my wife and I accompanied friends and their children to the top of Marys Peak. It was one of those rare crisp, crystal clear winter days where you can see everything. Ocean waves to the west, hills to the north, all the volcanic peaks to the east, Eugene and beyond to the south.

As we watched this family have fun that day, we yearned for children of our own. The spirit who dwells there must have heard our unspoken, heart-felt desire. We adopted two children shortly after.

We explored this place many times through the years. Who could forget relaxing on a blanket in the open meadow on top, the cool air, warming sun, our happy toddlers romping all around. We have hunted mushrooms in spring, hiked the trails in summer, camped near the top in fall and slid down snowy slopes in winter. Also, geocaching year round.

The climb to the top was the most favorite. Not long ago, my wife was too tired from chemo treatments to make that last

Woman in the Wind - Karen J. Zimmerman

A mountain only minutes from my door! How exciting to a woman and her motorcycle, especially to a woman from the Midwest, where rolling hills provide little riding excitement.

I moved to Corvallis in the summer of 2004 and couldn’t wait to ride the curves on Highway 34 west of Philomath. How delighted I was to see that not only could I ride through a mountain range, but I could also follow a road up to the top of Marys Peak!

Alone on the road, the wind in my face, I took in the spectacular sights and smells of this beautiful mountain. Parking near the top, the V-twin engine silenced, I also took in the beautiful quiet. The short hike to the summit was just the right length to stretch my legs before mounting up for a challenging ride back.

We’ve returned many times, my bike and I. I’ve taken some photos, but none can possibly include the feeling, the spirit, of riding in the wind. One photo of my motorcycle parked next to a Marys Peak mountain meadow was e-mailed to friends in Wisconsin. "This is Oregon! Come ride! Come ride the mountains!"

Michael and the Big Fish - Anchen Texter

Driving an RV all the way from Texas to Oregon, Granddaddy would spin stories to keep himself awake. Those same stories he would use to put us grandkids to sleep.

The one that sticks with me was called "Michael and the Big Fish." Michael was the "cool" cousin who lived in Texas and already knew everything, Granddaddy was always fishing, and this story was about catching "the big one."

Laying in bed, I would listen to the stops and starts of Granddaddy’s voice, his breathing loud between sentences as he devised the next plot twist to keep us awake. Except that it was never that exciting and I fell asleep more often than not.

Granddaddy saved his stories on yellow legal pads, but he’s gone now. Years later, I realize that the stories weren’t what impressed me, but the constant flow of ideas that applied to every aspect of his life, like when he mined for gold in Alaska.

The lesson I’ve learned is that you just have to try things, and even if you don’t succeed, you’ve still got a story. And I do recall that Michael never did catch that fish.

My Poem - Dianne Roth

Many times when I was a little girl, my mother would recite my poem. It described me to a T.

There was a little girl
Who had a little curl
Right in the middle of her forehead.
And, when she was good,
She was very, very good.
But, when she was bad she was horrid.

I heard my poem one other time when a friend’s mother recited it to her. I was so hurt that my mother had given my poem to someone else but I was also a bit proud that my mother had been the clever one to make it up in the first place.

Only when I was an adult, a teacher, did I find that my poem came out of a book and it hadn’t been mine at all.

Storytelling a Family Tradition - Wolfgang Dengler

Storytelling has always been the “happy glue” connecting our family.

Returning home in our van from a family camping trip, our two daughters got settled into their special spots, Chelsea lying down with our sweet dog Brandi, Bethany comfortably snuggled in with the sleeping bags.

“Tell us a Tarzan or Sinbad story, Daddy!”

Making up the story as I went along, I led their hero through many exciting adventures in exotic places. ( I enjoyed finding out what was going to happen in the story as much as the girls did!) As the girls grew up , the hero naturally morphed from Tarzan to even-braver Tarzana.

Our family grew interconnected with our 16-person extended family, “Shobedebop.” Summertime camping trips were special times, happy hours filled with jump-roping, playing in the lakes, and treasure hunts.

After dark, everyone gathered around the campfire, making smores . Sue spun Baba Yagah tales, then Jeanne told scary ghost stories and led us in singing. Now, 20 years later, these grown-up children share their stories at the campfire with their own original songs and guitar playing.

I can’t wait to be a grandpa and tell my daughters’ children their first Tarzan(a) stories!