Grant High School - Memoirs Yearbook (Portland, OR)

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THE O IK E Ip O X A T I O X A L E O IK E S T WWave you ever stood on a mountain early in the morning, looking down at the top of the clouds, or heard the tinkle of the sheep bells echoing from canyon to canyon? If you have, then you’ll know how I felt on my last trip into the most secluded parts of the Oregon National forest. I can never explain to anyone how I feel when I am in some exceptionally beautiful place. I can only say that I am closer to real religion than I am in Church. The last trip that I made was late this summer. Two other boys and I rented some good trail horses on the spur of the moment and decided to go to the Plaza Ranger Station, one of the Government stations in Oregon, twenty miles from the nearest civilization. We started about three o’clock one crisp morning as the moon was hanging low in the sky and stars were twinkling brightly. Every once in a while a star would flash red against the sky and make me think of an old Indian legend that an Indian sheep herder told me when I was a young “sprout” — as he used to call me. He said that every time a star shot across the heavens it meant that some soul had gone to the “Happy Hunting Grounds.” I shall never forget the strange thrill that went up my back as he told me, and to this day when I see the red flash of a falling star I still have the same feeling. After getting started on our trip, we climbed four miles to reach the top of Huckleberry Mountain. By that time it was almost light, so we decided to rest the horses for a while and cook our breakfast. After eating a hearty meal of scrambled eggs, bacon, black coffee, and rolls, we watched the sun come slowly over Hunchback Mountain and smile grandly down on the billowing clouds in the valley between Hunchback and Huckleberry. None of us talked much, and when we did it was with hushed voices, for I think the inspiration of the scene made us feel very small. We finally rounded up the horses once again and started on our way. We went up one peak and down another for miles along the ridge of Wildcat, a mountain devoid of timber, and covered only with purple huckleberry bushes, scarlet Indian paint brush, lavender lupin, white and green squaw grass, and goldenrod. All of us were in the best of spirits as we laughed, talked, and sang our way over the trail. After leaving Wildcat, we entered into thickly timbered country where the sun shone down in patches on a carpet of pine needles. We stopped for lunch by the side of a crystal clear, ice cold spring that had been dug out of shale rock by deer, elk, and other wild animals. I don’t believe that anything has ever tasted quite so good to me as that spring water and those thick ham sandwiches. We almost hated to leave that spot, but we knew that we shouldn’t loiter too long, as we still had a long way to go. Wandering from one trail to another, we saw many signs of wild life. We stopped several times to water our horses and stretch our legs. Several times we stopped to look over the cliffs into the virgin forest far below. I think that we all felt as if we were in a world all our own. I know that I felt unimportant as I looked at vast valleys, high ridges, and towering cliffs. As dusk came with a lavender glow, the air grew nippy again. Off over a distant ridge we saw the flames of a sheep-herder’s camp-fires and heard the sheep bells echoing from one mountain wall to the other. We knew then that we were not far from our destination, and the horses sensed it, too, for they pricked up their ears as they broke into a gallop.

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W II o ? V II E It E ? W II Y ? lUy knees were knocking; my teeth were chattering; my hair was stand- ing on end. I was harassed with every known affliction that attends would-be actors before they enter upon the stage. No, this is not an actor’s autobiography; it is just those little remembrances of trying out for the senior class play. I wonder what this all avails us? Can it be that we are minute playthings for some great unseen who juggles us in and out of life? (Burr! These are cold thoughts, but they at least take my mind off this tryout.) What will become of these seniors? Will they be swept out into humanity, the dazzling world, and be lost in its whirlpool, or will they ascend the heights to fame and glory? It is said that “Life is just a bowl of cherries,” and possibly our seniors take this attitude, kissing goodby to Grant without any feeling other than that of leaving any building, forgetting it almost instantly. But can we forget Grant so soon? Do we consider it a real stepping stone to enlightenment and a place where enlargement and expansion of the mind takes place? I hope we do have this view somewhere in our mind. Some of us will step out and set our aims and ambitions for high attainments, such as science, medicine, banking, history, law, education, and many other fields of expression. Will we go through life riding Fords, learning contract, playing with “yo-yos” and other general nuisances? Gaining experience from these various activities may enlighten our minds to such an extent that we shall wake up and realize that all in all our high school studies are attainments towards true education. To most of us Grant and its teachers have been a perceptible influence that will attend us through our lives and will be a real milepost. This class has acquired a background that at least will better the world to some extent. Whether we shall be doctor or lawyer, our goals will be the same: to better mankind whether for our own benefit or for someone else’s. Tish, it is now my turn to be the tryout goes on. the fool. I feel that sinking feeling again, but —Warren Burton Walker O Y V I i: W I U M T. II O O II The majestic peak, Golden in the rays of the setting sun, Seemed to symbolize the awfulness Of Divine power. The city, With its noise and bustle and triviality, Was lightly covered o’er With a veil of white nothingness. So are our petty cares, When considered with the eternity of nature, Extinguished. At that moment I understood Why men are content to spend their lives In meditation. —Byron Kitching

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After rounding a curve, we saw the station silhouetted black against the darkening sky. We heard the “Hullo” of the ranger as he came to greet us. And did I say that the ham sandwiches had tasted better than anything I had eaten before? I was wrong. I know that they were not as delicious as the beef stew and “dough-gob” (biscuits) that the ranger had ready for our evening meal. That night as I was almost ready to drop asleep, I opened my eyes for one more contented look around. The fire threw a rosy glow on the walls and our faces, and from the smoldering wood came the pungent odor of burning pine and hemlock. As I closed my eyes I heard far away the weird call of a coyote, and I knew then that never again would I be so blissful, comfortable, contented. —Alan Davis III III III III MUNDANE MUTATIONS Ak fter seeing the manipulation of a Yo-Yo, no one, no matter how fair minded he may be, can help realizing that of all the things which the modern youth’s susceptibility to fads has inflicted upon the world, the Yo-Yo is the most useless and ridiculous. The Yo-Yo, unlike most fads, is of value neither from an educational nor a physical standpoint, nor from the standpoint of personal adornment. It is inconceivable that a person of high mentality could derive pleasure from such an inane procedure as running a little wooden disc up and down a string; yet, considering the vast numbers who are to be seen on every hand blithely Yo-Yoing, there is room for fear that we shall become a race of virtual Neroes, Yo-Yoing while our civilization crumbles. Not only individuals, but governments, have their Yo-Yo’s. Excessive arm- aments, imperialism, dreams of world conquest, are all foolish baubles just as surely as the ten-cent playthings to be seen on the grounds of Grant High School. It is Yo-Yo’s such as these that must be done away with before the world is safe from recurrent periods of economic distress, such as the one through which we are now passing. Being able to do the most tricks with a Yo-Yo will not make a man a success in life, nor will an abundance of diplo- matic wiles make a nation a lasting power. Rome had its Nero, who fiddled at the burning of his city, and now all that remains of Rome is ruins, ghosts of a dead glory. Let us be careful, lest our statesmen, Yo-Yoing, in effect, bring us to the same state. —Whitney Hastings