Tales from Banti Creek
There is a special place tucked in along the banks of the
Yakima River below a steep slope that overlooks a small valley carved out by
the river as it passes by what became the town of Cle Elum, Washington in
recent years. The gravel road that winds
down the hill has a sign at the entrance announcing the neighborhood of Banti
Creek. I’m sure the creek is down there
somewhere, if only evidenced by the wetland marsh on either side of the road as
you approach the homestead.
There are some special people who have built a cabin on a
few acres of forest land in that valley, and what makes it a special place is
that for many years they have hosted an annual party over a weekend in the
summer that has become a thing of legend among those fortunate to receive an
invitation.
At the center of the celebration is a whole hog, the
roasting of which over an open bed of charcoal below a spit captured by
temporary sheet metal walls is the featured activity of most of the
Saturday. The pigmeister oversees this
process through the heat of the Eastern Washington summer as people show up on
site and set up their camps where they may.
Dinner that evening is a giant potluck to which nobody arrives
empty-handed. The minimum donation is a
bag of charcoal briquets for the pig and a roll of toilet paper for the outhouse
in the woods.
There is a trail that starts by one of the neighboring
permanent houses, marked by carved bears on either side, and wanders through
the woods to the bank of the river. Part
of the magic of the site is that every year the river is in a different place,
motivated by log jams that form spontaneously during the winter months and
force the river into different channels every time. Upstream a little way is a fisherman’s dream
of shallows and pools and a rocky beach that allows for sunbathing and wading,
for those who can stand the icy cold waters coming down from the mountains to
the west.
At dinner time, when the bell is rung, we find out how many
people showed up this year, and it’s always more than you’d think, given that
everyone is out doing fun stuff all day.
Coolers open to disgorge a veritable feast of side dishes of all types
and cultures as the diverse crowd brings out their specialties to share with
everyone else. Over the years, we have
witnessed the growth of children into adults as the adults turn into
elders. We have seen 60 foot high Doug
Firs become exposed on the opposite bank of the river as the timeless dance of
slowly falling water eats away the soil around their roots until they become
part of the log jam or float downstream on their way to the Columbia.
After dinner, the crowd gathers around the picnic tables as
the evening’s entertainment spontaneously begins. There is tradition to follow here, as
well. Anyone who wishes to tell a joke
or a story must straddle a log on a teeter-totter plank while wearing a
mariachi hat on their head. This applies
to everyone from young to old, and what follows is just one of the stories that
has come out of the gathering. There may
be others as time goes by.
Sven and Oly
Sven and Oly were the best of friends who grew up in Ballard
(pronounce Bollor by those of the Scandihoovian tradition). Oly was the idea man, quick and short, who
always had a plan, while Sven was tall and taciturn, happy to go along with
anything Oly thought up, even over his own misgivings about the chances of
success of a given idea.
One day Oly caught up with Sven as he was leaving Hattie’s
Hat after breakfast. “There you are,
Sven,” he said. “I got us a quick job to
do today! I was talking to the Parson at
the Lutheran church and he hired us to paint the steeple! He even gave me the money for the paint, so let’s
go to Limback’s and get the paint, then we can get started!”
That sounded good to Sven, so off they went. Of course, any good job needs planning and
forethought to be sure it comes out all right, and a planning session needs a
few beers to stimulate the mental activity to get the right ideas in order, so
they started at the Sloop tavern on Market Street. That went well, if a bit long, and they
discovered after they finally got to Limback’s that they may have spent a bit
more on beer than they should have. Oly allowed
as how they could just buy water based paint so they could thin it from the hose at the church to be sure
it covered, and off they went.
The steeple was higher than they thought, and, after a while
Sven looked at the remaining paint in the buckets, then up at the remaining
shingles on the steeple and said, “I don’t think we have enough paint, Oly.” Oly climbed back down the latter and topped
off both buckets from the hose, and back to work they went.
The same thing happened again a while later, so Oly topped
off the buckets again from the hose and mixed it up with a stick. As you could imagine, by that time the paint
was getting pretty close to translucent, but, since the money was all used up
they had no choice but to keep going.
As they got close to the very top, a strange and wondrous
thing occurred. The sky, which in typical
Seattle spring behavior was dotted with billowy cumulus clouds broken by
sunshine, suddenly turned dark and threatening, but just over the church
steeple, nowhere else! As they hurried
to reach the top before the rains came, there was a sudden rumble of thunder
and a flash of lightning that shocked both of them out of their wits! That was followed by a giant voice that came
down from above.
It bellowed to them, “Re-paint! And Thin No More!” :-{)}
