November 1999 mysterydate by anthony kim |
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Tractor Pull
I am heading north on I-5 from PDX toward Olympia, capitol
city of Washington astride my trusty 1985 BMW K100RS steed. Ambient
temp 73ºF, the skies are bright blue with sunlight although
obscured here and there by thick banks of cloud. There is no wind to
speak of so the sailing is brisk for 60 odd miles until traffic just
stops, and goes, and stops, and goes, in a desultory manner
resembling molasses in January until eventually there is a trail of
creeping vehicles as far back and forward as the eye can see. In an
automobile this state of affairs isn't so bad if for no other reason
than that in the car, one has reasonably comfortable seating for this kind of
nonsense. Some kind soul in a mid-70's beater must have noticed me
squirming in the saddle after the first few miles of trickling along have
taken their toll upon my butt muscles leans out of his car yelling
"Take the Jackson Highway exit a mile up the road - take the back
way." I yell thanks, cutting over to the shoulder of the
road, making my illegal way to the exit. The driver of
only one vehicle who berates me, then proceeds to break the law and rides
the shoulder to the exit himself.
Jackson Highway has the feel of a road that once was an actual highway but
which has since languished in the shadow of its evil stepsister the
"Interstate Highway." As such it has two really great attributes:
well-paved, wide roads and a route that takes one through and by every
possible item of interest that lies between hypothetical points A and
B. This kind of road, according to Pirsig in 'Zen and the Art of
Motorcycle Maintenance,' is what makes motorcycling what it is all
about. He may have a point. All that time idling in the traffic jam
sucks fuel for adventure from the gas tank and makes finding fuel the
first priority after leaving I-5. Thus the town of (holy) Toledo,
is a welcome sight with its promise of a fueling center. Toledo
does not disappoint. The Shell station there whose bathroom is well
kept and obviously used more by personnel than by consumers has bold
magic marker admonishments written on college ruled notebook paper taped
up in strategic places about the john: "SMILE AND GREET THE CUSTOMER"
"CUSTOMERS ARE OUR BUSINESS, THANK THEM FOR IT." In retrospect, I
realize that I was smiled at, greeted and thanked for that measly $4.00
sale of premium unleaded.
Two miles up the road I run into my 70's beater friend and flash him a
peace sign as I continue north up Jackson Hwy, and he turns off to the
west. The topography up here in this part of Washington is difficult to
describe. One would like to describe it as rolling hills, however, the
hills tend to be more like a series of giant low slung moguls on an
uneven plain that tend to suddenly rise up into sharp-edged wooded
ridges and buttes. While a spread might have a fenced area of 5-15
acres, the land undulates and meanders in a series of soft round mounds
and trough-like depressions. In the distance is always the
knife-edged line of dark green mountains. As I tool along these
roads the big question that invariably pops into my mind is how do
the locals make their living? This is farm country, but
there seems to be as many parks as there are dairy
farms. While this is more like ranchtown than
dairyville, even herefords, angus, and longhorns seem underrepresented.
In Oregon one finds vast fields of grass, mint, wheat, or
clover, while here in Washington there seems to be endless empty pasture or
giant lawns, with a smattering of hayfields.
It comes as no surprise when, three miles out of (holy) Toledo, I spy a
handpainted sign advertising something I cannot
read but nevertheless pulls the handlebars of my bike to the right.
I pull into the Cowlitz County Fairgrounds to the Cowlitz County
Tractor Fair. One whole weekend dedicated to
tractors. This is no small event either, at least four hundred
non-tractor vehicles are here, and of those, more than fifty are RV's that
have come to park and camp. Arrayed on the fair grounds I find more
tractors in one place than I have ever seen in my life, parked in clumps.
In a roped off area, one clump is inhabited by Green and Yellow John
Deere products. Models A, RA, RS, and
probably every other permutation of the John Deere tractor ever made,
including the bulldozers. Some have been lovingly restored and sit as
precious and beautiful relics of a bygone farming era, others stove up,
rusty, and barely able to make the show, but proud because,
after all, they are here. The category that makes me feel
awe are vintage rides e.g. Model A, manufactory 1949, but still used
for everyday chores. They are kept up by zealots, for though the seven
foot tall rear tires may be worn from recent use, the frame and engine
sparkle as well as flat paint can from obsessive washing and the loving
care that these hardbitten farmers must lavish upon their working farm
implements to keep them in this 'showroom' condition.
Another section
of the fairgrounds is dedicated to 'Oliver' brand tractors, one that I
am unfamiliar with. They are handsome beasts, and I'm sorry that they
did not, or seem not to have lasted the course. Oliver's colors are Red
(Indian red if you are a classic crayola color nut) and cream. They
seem to have been built in the 40's. Another section is given over to
some incredibly crude elephantine, kerosene powered monsters that weigh
in at over 4 tons yet generate something like a mere 8 HP. The brand
name escapes me but their city of manufacture is La Pointe, Indiana. I
don't remember seeing anything by International Harvester or Case,
perhaps this is a regional thing, or perhaps willful blindness.
By now, if your eyes are not glazed over, I wonder what all
the fuss is about. Well, it's not just tractors -- there seems to be
a well developed subculture of tractor hangers-on that is dedicated to a
species of single piston engine that was used to do such things as
winnow, pump water, crush ore-bearing rock, grind grain, and whatever
else could be thought up by man's ingenuity. Another exhibit is given
over to vintage chain saws, McCullough , mostly, but also
Ingersoll-Rand. Some exhibitors, show various old hand-tools and
finally, there is an alleyway lined with trailers and RV's that make up
a bazaar that sells everything from modern day Made in China
Harley-Davidson/Rebel flag kerchief's to ancient and modern axe-heads,
to vintage magazines, to rusty old relic handguns to goo-gaws, to framed
prints, to quilts, to shellacked photographs of John Wayne; you get the
picture.
Lest you think that this sort of thing is an isolated incident, note
that the fellow ahead of me in line for a 'Canadian' Hotdog (pork and
beef as opposed to all beef, I wanted to ask if I was buying a style:
'Canadian Hotdog' or a hotdog made in Canada, but did not), was wearing
a cap adorned with pins announcing various other tractor shows that had
occurred within the state and also within the year.
The sort of person who attends tractor
shows in the state of Washington: 1999. Lots of farmers, for one. I
say this with confidence, although I don't know it as fact. Quite
simply, there were lots of men in their late 40's early 50's, with
misshapen faces, bodies, limbs, etc. who in addition wore such things as
coveralls, funny (not intentionally so) hats, and unstylish facial hair,
who also seemed to know one another. This was the hillbilly contingent
of farmers. The other kind, the one that I am familiar with was there
also. These men come with their wives. The menfolk are invariably
spare and lanky or compact but wiry, with lined or weathered faces.
What differentiates them most from the hillbilly farmer, apart from the
absence of belly and other anatomical oddities is their dress. Trousers
are usually gray, forest green or blue, nowadays they are made by
Dickies. Shirts are of paper thin material
with plaid print. Often the black leather belt is pulled in tight so
that a few inches at the end flops off into space. They wear twistflex
spiedel band watches. These people also seem to be in their 60's and
beyond.
There were also lots of farmer wannabes. These are the couples, yes
couples in their 30's to early 40's, who have obviously got the bug but
perhaps not the lifestyle. For instance the men wear suspenders
with their jeans but not full blown overalls, or might have facial hair
but not of biblical proportions, and might be working on a gut but not
the kind that actually changes the way one moves. It could be that
these are the third generation of farmer which is qualitatively no
different than the two subgroups described above, just representative of
a different era. What unites them is their shared love of the tractor.
While I was taking all this in, a very cool thing was going on right next
door, which happens to be the Toledo airport. This airstrip is populated
by, with one
exception, vintage single prop planes. We fair goers were treated to
the spectacle of restored, bi-planes (and more modern ones)
taking off, buzzing about over our heads and finally landing, as well as
Piper Cubs, and Cessna's, and a single Dauntless, a World War II era
fighter bomber that flew around our heads for a while and finally
"dive-bombed" the airport before circling again and landing. Finally, a
great roar went up from the airstrip and the single dual-engined
aircraft hangared there lumbered into the air. A DC-3. That
craft flew upwards, seemingly forever,and I
fantasize about being a flak gunner and the logistics of bringing
something like that thing down. After what seemed like an hour
of twisting straight up into the heavens without actually moving anywhere
in space, something happened, and somebody looks up and points and
then I do too and way, way, way up there some tiny dots appeared and
then grew larger and larger still, until it became clear that a whole
passel of people had leapt from the plane and were hurtling towards us,
hands held in communion, then POOF, chutes begin opening all over the
place, and 20 or so gaily coloured flying wings came sailing down amongst
us.
I walked back to my ride, zipped my jacket, pulled on my helmet my
gloves, mounted up and was gone.
in the junk drawer
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