--MANAGING EDITOR

Holly Homnick

ADVISER

Tim Coulter

VIDEOGRAPHER

And rew Maser

DESIGNERS

Andrew MacKenzieShaina Sullivan

. LEAD FLASH DESIGNER

Dan Beyer

ART DIRECTOR

Kaitlin Paul

EDITOR

Ally Burguieres

SPECIAL THAN KS

Carol Ann BassettBrett Campbell

Andr6 ChinnMichael Faris

JR GaddisTim GleasonPetra HagenGreg Kerber

Tom LundbergLibby Miskimins

QSLStephanie Risbrough

Ryan StaselAlan Stavitsky

Erik TalbertHideki Tomeoka

UO BookstoreSue Varani

Tom WheelerElizabeth Wick

ASSISTANT FLASH DESIGNER

Aaron Heirtzler

COpy EDITOR

Emma Zaratian

ASSOCIATE EDITORS

Meg KrugelKarla Schack

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF

Catherine Ryan

RESEARCH EDITOR

Justin Gast

ART DIRECTOR

Stacy Wanless

BUSI NESS INTERN

Katy Gagnon

PRODUCTION ASSISTANTS

Megan GilgenMalen Maher

PRODUCTION MANAGER

Ryan Johnson

MANAGING EDITOR

Josh Lintereur

ART ASSOCIATES

Ada MayerTom O'TooleBrianne ShoHanKirk WedekindCrispin Young

EDITORIAL INTERNS

Ursula Evans-HeritageAshley GriffinMargaret McGladrey

ART INTERNS

Jessica NelsonHannah ShanksPaul Weinert

PHOTO EDITOR

Sam Karp

PHOTOGRAPHERS

Lindsay AbbottBen AndersonRyan FalleyRebecca KennedyAlex PajunasLaBree ShideKai-Huei Yau

BUSI NESS MANAGER

Elizabeth Tveit

ADVISERS

Mark BlaineTom Penix

"heh...sweet."

895 E. 13th • UOBookstore.com

UNIVERSITY OF OREGON

BOOKSTORE

"Bobby couldn't payme enough to go outwith him."

"Maybe I could paySally Sue to go outwith me.""What are your

weekend plans?"

"Cash for books?!That's the coolest!"

At your University of Oregon Bookstore, we want to make it easier for you to save time and money.Go online to UOBookstore.com/coursebooks/CCRA and check current buyback prices for yourbooks. Use our online class.ifieds to sell or find textbooks that other students are offering and more.At the UO Bookstore, we give you more of what you want and less of what you don't.

Times change, but saving money never goes out of style.

http://UOBookstore.com/coursebooks/CCRA

It is my hope that these stories inspire you as much as they have spurredus to create aunique magazine.

This completely student-run magazine isdesigned to showcase the exceptional talentof the industry's next leaders. Creating aprofessional magazine in seven short weeksgives students the opportunity to build a

portfolio and gain experience in what it's really like to edit, design,photograph, and write for a premium publication.

The online version of Flux, inFlux, is availableat http://influx.uoregon.edu/2005.

Just as the subjects of this issue's stories refuse to settle for the statusquo, the Flux staff found unconventional alternatives to the challenges of

producing amagazine. Aphotographer shotthe stunning photos for the crabbing storydespite aviolent bout of seasickness duringhis eighteen-hour trip on the Delma Ann. Whenwe decided not to use photos for the Belizestory, adesigner created the mixed mediaillustrations that perfectly complement thepiece. An editorial intern who speaks Spanishas asecond language fact-checked the storyabout the Latino community. The author of"Waging Peace" managed to interview hersource multiple times despite the difficulties ofcontacting him in awar zone.

O I SCHOOL OF JOURNALrSMAND COMMUNICATIONUnl••rsltyofOregon

~~Catherine Ryan

Welcome to another issue of the School of Journalism andCommunication's Flux. This year's magazine focuses onnonconformists who brazenly challenge boundaries. Three

fishermen temper risk with humor in their search for the valuableDungeness crab. In the Belizean jungle, atour guide uses ecotourism andeducation to protect the country's precious biodiversity. By retaining herMexican heritage, ayoung woman fosters cultural pride in her rural Latinocommunity. And a peacekeeper in the Middle East exercises nonviolence tohelp improve the lives of Iraqis.

[ your campus news source]

08 The Upside of aDownloadDefying conventional thought about MP3s, some indiebands use free music to boost sales.

46 Falling Big for the Little WhiteAphoto essay reveals the spiritual connection and thrillsof adangerous yet alluring river.

52 Blood of Honey, Bones of SteelWhile working through his own pain, a rheumatologisttreats patients for their life-threatening disease.

58 The Kingdom Next DoorAdiverse group of people finds camaraderie in apre-seventeenth-centu ry world.

38 AHome without BordersAdedicated young woman encourages a burgeoning Latinocommunity to embrace its heritage.

32 Prospectors of the PacificThree fishermen on the Oregon Coast harvest Dungenesscrab from the volatile sea.

20 The Royal TreatmentWith boundless enthusiasm, acoach develops talent andsportsmanship in young basketball players.

16 Labor of LimbsPatience and passion guide an artist to create sculpturesand furniture from living trees.

06 An Itch to StitchYoung men break stereotypes by picking up knitting andcrochet needles.

12 The Dumpster DivideBridging the gap between waste and charity, a high schoolteacher salvages and donates goods found in the trash.

On the Cover:At the end of a long day,two fisherman pull crab

from the Pacific Ocean.

On the Back Cover:At sunset, fishermanTony Fultz returns to thedocks in Newport, Oregon.Photographs by Ryan Falley.

26 Waging PeacePledging to renounce violence, ayoung American pursuespeace in Iraq.

62 The Thin Green LineABelizean conservationist searches for a middle groundbetween tourism and environmentalism.

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"I hopeBill's stillknitting.He had

scarfpotential. "

BELOW_James Walker demonstrateshow to crochet abeanie.

OPPOSITE PAGE_Todd Guren knits during slowmoments at work in aPortland yam store.

Elshafei uses the same innovation to perfect patterns for hisother creations. When learning to crochet from his mother, heexperimented with designing hats and insulators for beer cans.After about ten attempts, he perfected the "can cozie" pattern. Hegave his mother a"Diet Cokeholder," as she calls it, ingratitude for her help.

The bong cozie, Elshafei's most prized accomplishment, certainly isunusual. After trying several techniques, he invented his own patternto cover and protect the pipe's irregular shape. The design evolvedas Elshafei later added the boxy lettering, astrap to hold the cozietight, and a lighter holder.

"Whoa. Why's the bong wearing asweater?"

Elshafei's friends stared at the strangely attired pipe.

Sami Elshafei has become accustomed to the confusion his yarncrafts inspire. One evening, Elshafei sat on the couch in his

living room with agroup of friends who had gathered to smoke fromhis bong. The twenty-year-old brought out his water pipe, coveredin a light- and dark-blue wool jacket he crocheted. The words "TheCozie" were embroidered on its base.

His ambitious projects stem more from his irreverent sense ofhumor than his love of yarn clothing, yet he says he is addicted tocrocheting. "I think it's the wave of the future," he says."It's fashion."

some knitting techniques. Ultimately, he dreams of making apair ofcrocheted trousers - or maybe apair of woolen underpants.

Although his friends teasehim about his unusual craft, itseems that they can accepthis hobby as long as hecrochets gifts for them. Theyoften wear his hats to partiesand carry chilled beers ingreen and yellow cozies,crocheted using the Universityof Oregon's colors, to schoolfootball games. Elshafei lovesto see people use his creationsbut has not yet consentedto the many requests formore bong sweaters. For now,the cozie remains aone-of-a­kind creation.•

Guren was glad that his student took the needles. "I hope Bill's stillknitting," he says. "He had scarf potential."

Asmile spread beneath Bill's strawberry-blond beard. "Oh, great.Thanks," he said. "I'm definitely gonna need these."

"Don't you want your needles?" Guren asked.

He also worked at asimilar program in New Jersey. One of hisfavorite students there, Bill, was expelled from the facility for sellinganti-anxiety medication. After he was asked to go, Bill stood in theentry way and said goodbye to his many friends. Guren spotted himleaving and met him in the parking lot.

In aChicago YMCA residential psychiatric program, Guren used theopportunity to share something he loved to help boost patients'confidence. He taught men and women to make scarves and changepurses in his newly formed knitting circle. Although only one studentat the facility finished ascarf, Guren believes that learning a newskill increased their confidence and helped them use their timeconstructively.

Guren started knitting eight years ago to pass the time duringfood cooperative meetings and fraternity gatherings. At thirty,

he now teaches in aPortland, Oregon, yarn store, but he first taughtmentally ill, homeless people to knit.

"Slowly but surely, we're getting over gender-specific crafts and jobs,"says Sara Asher Morris, the copresident of the University StudentFibers Guild at the University of Oregon. Roughly 20 percent of thegroup is male. "[Men say], 'If my sister can do it, if my girlfriend cando it, why can't I?'"Today, some young men are defying the genderroles assigned to knitting and crocheting, one stitch at atime.

J ames Walker isn't likely to grace the cover of Vogue Knittinganytime soon. He wears comfortable, wide shoes and baggy

jeans that enable movement when he learns new skateboardingtricks. Awry smile constantly plays at his mouth, suggesting aperpetual joke only he understands. And his right-hand pinkie is stillrecovering from a minor skateboarding accident. The cast was onlyatemporary setback to his hobby, though. He has been hooked eversince his girlfriend taught him to crochet in November 2004.

The twenty-year-old started so he could stitch hats as holiday giftsfor family members. He later crocheted beanies with ear flaps tokeep himself warm while skateboarding in the Eugene, Oregon,winter rain and wore his handmade headbands during tennis class.

Walker sets his aspirations much higher than hats and sweatbands,though. He plans to learn a new stitch, a pattern for mittens, and

"Luckily, I was bigger than them," he laughs.

Todd Guren, a rugby player, looked up from his half-finished sockand smiled. He continued to add stitches to his project as themeeting progressed. The fraternity passed amendments banninghis hobby every week, but Guren always ignpred their jokes andreJentless teasing.

The Craft Yarn Council of America has no statistics about men whopractice the craft, but yarn store employees and Internet blogscan attest to the rising popularity of the hobby. Despite a lack ofmale-targeted knitting groups or how-to books, men throughout thenation crochet and knit. Athree hundred-pound offensive tackleat Indiana's Ball State University knits washcloths. An air filterrepairman in Maine knits while waiting to finish ajob. Some maleknitters in California use tackle boxes and tool boxes to store theirneedles and yarn.

Men wielding needles may raise afew eyebrows today, but societiesdidn't always restrict yarn crafts to women. In seventeenth-centuryEurope, financially struggling men knitted and sold stockings tosupplement their meager incomes, and both genders knitted glovesfor soldiers during the two World Wars. For generations, men havedarned socks, mended nets, and sewn clothes~

Airy~ ath!etic ~an stood ~n front of the assembled BrownUniversity Phi Kappa PSI members. Following properparliamentary procedure, he solemnly began the

meeting. "We, the Social Chair, propose to havea party on Saturday. House funds of four hundred dollars arerequested to fund the party. And Todd will be forbidden to knit inany and all of the Sunday night fraternity meetings."

AN ITCH TO

Disregarding machismo, some men challenge conventionwith balls of woolstory_Catherine Ryanphotography_LaBree Shide

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" [People] want to be identified bymore than just what's in their iPod."

Nabil Ayers's band, Alien Crime Syndicate, is movingwith the times. Its Web site links to Amazon.comand Ayers's label's online store, where a listenercan buy a CD with the click of abutton. The same

site offers afree, downloadable track from each of the band'sfive albums for immediate aural gratification. It sounds like asavvy idea for a band to offer as many access options as possibleto would-be listeners, but there's more to Ayers than just hisdrums and his label: Ayers also co-owns Sonic Boom, asmall,independent music store chain in Seattle.

At atime when the Recording Industry Association of America(RIM) is complaining abou·t dwindling CD sales, Ayers's digitalizedgame plan sounds like aserious contradiction, not to mention arecipe for small-store sales disaster. But Ayers's record store hasexpanded three times in the past eight years, his Control Grouplabel has signed twelve bands in athird of that time, and hestill manages to tour with his band. And he's not the only one inthe independent music community tapping into the promotionalpossibilities of free MP3s. It may seem unconventional, but forsmaller, lesser-known bands, MP3s are an incorruptible demotape to the world, the counterculture's answer to the media­broadcasting giant Clear Channel.

"We really just want people to be able to hear the bands'music, pass it around, and tell people about it," explains NateKrenkel, cofounder of Omaha's Team Love, a maverick indie labelwhose iconoclastic marketing strategy includes complimentarydownloadable albums from the label's Web site. That's an entirealbum for nada, and although it might have worked for anexasperated, label-less Wilco some years back, it's still as far off therecording track as anyone can get these days. With all of the major­label hype about MP3 downloads hurting CD sales, most people arelikely to find the concept absurd. But Krenkel, who grew fed up withhis former job at Sony/ATV Music Publishing because of its hard-lineposture against file sharing, is willing to take the risk. He argues thatjust because Sony (or any major label) assumes that file sharing isthe equivalent to online stealing doesn't make it gospel.

Sir Howard Stringer, the chairman of the Sony Corporation ofAmerica, likened downloaders to shoplifter Winona Ryder in aninterview with the New Yorker in 2003. "That actress wanderingaround Hollywood helping herself," he said, "should have adoptedthe Internet defense - 'I was downloading music in the morning,downloading movies in the afternoon, and then I thought I'd rustle afew dresses out of the local department store. And it's been agoodday, and. all of asudden I'm arrested. How is that fair?'" Asimilarlyhostile sentiment against downloaders resonates throughout themajor labels, with more than nine thousand lawsuits filed againstunsuspecting individuals since September 2003. And this feeling

isn't simply contained to the four largest recording companiesthat control more than 80 percent of the U.S. recording business.Independently owned labels, which share the remainder of the

market, also worry about their copyright property being exploitedand undervalued - the fundamental reason why only the spunkiestare using the controversial MP3.

But there's more to this controversial distribution method thanjust risky-venture jitters, as the clashing of reputable economicanalyses reveals. Arecent report compiled by two University ofPennsylvania professors found that for every five albums (nottracks) college students downloaded, the U.S. music industry lostone CD sale. This conflicts with a2002 market study by HarvardBusiness School professor Felix Oberholzer-Gee, which indicatedthat downloading music has relatively no impact on CD sales.But the seeming incongruity of the two studies might have moreto do with methodology than anything else. While the Universityof Pennsylvania's study represents solely the behavior of 412college students, Oberholzer-Gee's represents total populardownloads against total album sales (in other words, overallconsumer behavior). His 2002 report concluded that the majorityof downloaders either sampled music before purchasing or wouldnever have bought the CD anyway because they couldn't afford to.

This makes perfect sense to Krenkel, who reasons that just becausesomeone has access to more music doesn't mean that they havemore purchasing power. "Before, you might have bought ten recordsayear and got afew copies from friends. Now you have access to

BELOW_Nabil Ayers plays at alive concertin Portland, Oregon.

OPPOSITE PAGE_Ayers stands next to theentrance of Sonic Boom's Vinyl Annex

in seattle's Fremont district.

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everything, but I don't knowwhy that would stop you fromgoing out and buying thoseten new records." Many peoplewith Internet access do buyCDs, and not just moral zealotsdissatisfied by iTunes' digitalrights management. In fact,according to the RIM's 2004year-end report, CD sales roseby 2.8 percent since 2003.

So what's keeping the CDpressers pressing? It'spossible that there's moreto music than just music.Kianna Alarid, avocalist andpercussionist for Tilly and theWall, Team Love's premierband, argues that it's about

people identifying with acommunity, especially for indie fans. "Indiekids in general really like to support their bands. If people have achance to listen to [our album] and they're into it, I have faith thatindie kids will be excited to go out and buy it afterward." Confidencein listeners seems prevalent among Team Love's members: "Peopleare still going to want to buy a record occasionally, or buy aT-shirt,"affirms Krenkel. "They want to be identified by more than just what'sin their iPod."

Krenkel's label, which he cofounded in 2003 with Bright Eyes'sfrontman, Conor Oberst, currently carries two pop-rock albumsand a hip-hop album. So far, everyone on the label feels positiveabout what they're doing, stressing that they're not in the musicbusiness to make akilling. "I wouldn't want someone who didn'tlike [our] album to buy it," insists Nick White, Tilly's keyboardist."For most indie bands, if you're going to make a living [in music],

"CDs are too expensive now, and you can'tjust run out because you've heard of

something and say, 'Great. I'm going tospend fifteen to twenty dollarson this disc I've never heard. '"

it's all about playing at shows and selling T-shirts." Tilly has beentouring relentlessly since the release of its full-length debut album,Wild Like Children, and Krenkel attributes a lot of the record sales

to the band's van mileage. Since the album's launch in June 2004,Tilly has sold more than ten thousand copies and momentarilyoutranked Scotland's new-wave sweetheart Franz Ferdinand insales on Amazon.com last August. As any small label will attest, thepublicity garnered from touring is paramount to cash flow. Even ifpeople haven't heard a band's album, they might go to ashow onthe tip-off of adownload, and if the band's live performance knockssome socks off, the merchandise table always offers aquick fix.Jason Kulbel, manager of Saddle Creek Records, firmly believes inthis theory: "Our bands have to tour. If you're in any band and nottouring and not selling T-shirts, then there's no way. Don't even try,'cause bands that don't tour don't sell records."

Obviously, Team Love represents an extreme (and tiny) end of therecording industry spectrum. With its lean single-track helpings,Ayers's band practices a more tempered approach to free MP3s, asdo afair number of other indie bands, such as Franz Ferdinand andSaddle Creek's the Faint. Saddle Creek has been posting sampleMP3s from each album it's released since its Web site's inceptionin 1998, and Kulbel believes the gains have outweighed the losses."It's certainly been apart of our success," claims Kulbel. "That'show a lot of people have heard of our bands." After all, hearing,even possessing, one or two songs from an album is nothing new.Kids have been taping hit singles off the radio since the advent ofcassette recording. And although an MP3 might sound clearer thanastatic-laden cassette, the marketing effects remain the same: asword spreads, so do sales.

F or most musicians, getting their music onto public airwavesis half the battle, but there's little promotional funding or

airtime support available to the working-class recording bracket.Except for college and listener-funded radio stations, which generallyattract niche audiences, the airwaves are predominately reserved formajor-label artists. Ayers, who thinks more than ten dollars a CD isasking too much, is convinced that MP3s are the marketing wave ofthe future, at least for smaller labels. He can recall countless timeswhen customers have come into Sonic Boom looking for aspecificalbum after hearing an MP3, and he welcomes this new trend ineducated music consumption. "CDs are too expensive now, andyou can't just run out because you've heard of something and say,'Great. I'm going to spend fifteen to twenty dollars on this disc I'venever heard.' You have to be able to hear it. You have to feel safebecause there [are] also a lot of bad records out there."

David Bazan's band, Pedro the Lion, experimented with anotherMP3 ploy in 2004: daily snippets from its summer tour. All afanhad to do was buy the latest album for ausername and passwordto access the sonic freebies. Whether it boosted album sales isconjectural, but this type of reward system undoubtedly fostersfavorable fan relations. "I think attracting people to our site was

the main idea, but also just creating a homegrown sense ofanticipation or excitement," Bazan explains. "People can listen to[the live tracks] and make adecision whether they want to comesee the show." But Bazan isn't sure he'll keep comping live tracks.With more than 150,000 downloads the summer of 2004, it'splausible that heavy traffic like that could yield him another smallrevenue stream. "People are going to share music, and I don'thave aspecific problem with that, but [how] that affects the waypeople value music can be detrimental. So I think we'd like toencourage people to buy music." As everyone in the music industrypresumably would.

But while some indie labels' are willing to explore the possibilitiesof MP3s, the majors condemn the perennial, ever-obliging digitalformat as acancer eating away at the muscle of their collectiveempire. The music industry columnist for the Village Voice, DouglasWolk, believes the steadily merging major labels are using filesharing as ascapegoat for market stagnation. "They're focused onfile sharing in part because it's something that's new, that affectsthe way music is experienced, and that they can seize on as areason why their business is in trouble," Wolk explains (even as hedisputes the notion that they're actually in trouble). "But it alsomeans that they can't really embrace the particular technologythey're demonizing." Sony, which was unavailable for comment,doesn't support the MP3 format at all, but does sell protectedmedia files through its online store, Sony Connect.

Although the recording association claims on its Web site that"expanding the portability and use options of music is an excitingpart of future growth," it's clear that the RIM is adamantly opposedto any insecure file sharing technology that might hinder copyrightroyalties - or shareholder relations. If anything, the majors wouldlike to harness digital technology purely for measurable revenue. Forthem, promotion is Clear Channel's job.

Back in Seattle, Ayers's Fremont store is bustling on asunny Aprilafternoon. Two twenty-somethings stand at two listening stations,headsets on, sampling the latest from the Decemberists and Yo LaTengo. Awoman sifts through the used-CD racks nearby, and anotherfour searching souls are scattered about the small poster-ladenspace. The shop isn't exactly hopping like an Alabama Wal-Mart, butit's far from dead. Although it's easy to chalk up success to Seattle'smusic-committed community (Ayers definitely does), Sonic Boomhas worked ardently to get this far. "There has to be away for peopleto find out about what they want to buy and be excited enough togo get it - and we can do that," says Ayers. "I think the reason wehaven't had as many sales problems is because [our clientele] grewup buying records. The thing I worry about is in five or ten years whenthe generation that is spending money has grown up not knowinghow to do so on records." After all, ageneration of iTunes and iPodscould drastically alter the way we relate to musicians, relegatingmusic to apurely ethereal function. But, at least for now, it seemsnot everyone is ready to give up the tangible.•

BELOW_Alien Crime Syndicate pertonnsat aPortland concert.

OPPOSITE PAGE_Even with the rising popularityof MP3s, some customers still prefer

to purchase tangible albums.

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story_Brian Burkephotography_Kai-Huei Yau

Trash can alchemistMichael Horowitz turns wasteinto something that matters

On Monday morning, cardboard boxes begin to pile up on the livingroom floor. By week's end, there are enough of them to block theentry way to the one-bedroom ranch house. Inside lie neatly foldedjackets, jeans, sweaters, socks, T-shirts, and towels. For one week ofscavenging, the amount of reclaimed goods is staggering.

Aside from the constant sound of awasher and dryer humming inunison, the house is painfully quiet. Christmas poinsettias and other

Without fail, Horowitz scours more than two hundred dumpstersevery week in hopes of giving reusable items asecond chance. Inthe nine years since Horowitz began his crusade against waste, hehas yet to miss asingle weekend. Not for rain, not for holidays, notfor a broken toe or the temporary loss of vision in his left eye. Once,when his truck broke down, Horowitz went so far as to spendseventy-five dollars on a rental car to complete the ritual. "Aworthwhile investment, considering it was a better-than-averageweekend," he says. And these weekends add up. In asingle year, thesoft-spoken high school teacher finds, washes, and donates morethan eleven thousand dollars in household items to local charitableorganizations. Because of Horowitz, these throwaways end up in thearms of people in need, instead of the local landfill.

"Even people with nomoney throwaway

quality stuff."slinging the find over his shoulder. So far, the morning's catch ispiled into the back of his truck. The bounty includes afleece jacket,afull-length mirror, five cans of sardines in hot sauce, atwo-discDVD set of World War II movies, T-shirts, aplastic bowling pin, and,yes, afishing rod. Not bad for abrief search before the start of aschool day.

Horowitz unloads the salvaged items onto the bed of his truck andreturns with the grabber, atwo-pronged mechanical gripping stick.Reaching into the back of the bin, he snags an abandoned bathtowel with surgical precision. "It's kind of like fishing," he notes,

In one swift motion, Horowitz props his stomach on the dumpster'sedge and tips his body inward. Arobed woman walking an over­weight terrier appears puzzled by the sight of an inverted torsoprotruding from her trash but says nothing and continues on herway. Horowitz returns to the surface clutching a powder-blue pillowstreaked with tapioca. Undeterred by the mess, he simply discardsthe soiled pillowcase and tucks the pillow under his arm. "There'sstill something good down there. I think I'll try the grabber," he says,walking back to his aging Toyota pickup.

During the creep of dawn, while the residents ofEugene, Oregon, remain burrowed in their blankets,Michael Horowitz peers over the edge of adumpsterand examines its contents. During the week, someone

has managed to jam acouch into the receptacle by breaking itinto three pieces, creating an obstruction for the fifty-three-year-oldphysics teacher. Horowitz reaches between splintered shards ofwood and retrieves six unblemished coffee mugs from agarbagebag, carefully lining them up on the lip of the dumpster like asetof ceramic teeth. Something in the far corner of the bin draws hisattention. "I'm going in," he says.

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ABOVE_Michael Horowitz requested alatestart to his teaching day in order to facilitatehis mid-week dawn dumpster runs.

PREVIOUS PAGE_Horowitz spends thirty hourseach week searching dumpsters for discardedtreasure, including clothing, furniture, schoolsupplies, and other salvageable goods.

abandoned plants crowd theliving room window, deprivingthe area of its natural light.Horowitz found most of thehouse's furniture and manyof its appliances in the trash.Broken items are relegated toa backyard shed, where theyawait the discovery of theirmissing parts.

Although many of his dumpsterdiscoveries are functional,Horowitz also relies on theedible. The freezer is consis­tently packed with steaks,ground beef, and chickenbreasts, all in their originalpackaging, found frozen in thegarbage. Slightly bruised fruitsand vegetables fill the refrig­erator, as does a large Masonjar full of applesauce, madefrom reclaimed apples. Horow­itz stands in the center of thesmall kitchen, showing off hiswell-stocked shelves with allthe pride of a hunter and hisquarry. "I haven't bought aloaf of bread in five years, and

I don't eat white bread," he says. As a homeowner with no family tosupport, Horowitz lives off thirty-five hundred dollars each year, amere fraction of his salary. In fact, the physics teacher spends moremoney on snacks for his students than he does feeding himself.

For a man who devotes thirty hours each week to picking throughgarbage, Horowitz has a penchant for cleanliness. In preparation fora day of dumpster diving, he puts on no fewer than four shirts andtwo pairs of gloves. The soles of his black sneakers are smooth fromwalking hundreds of miles along the city's streets. On his way out ofthe door, Horowitz brandishes apair of plastic safety goggles, whichremain affixed to his face until the end of the day. With his lankyframe and just atouch of gray in his dark, wavy hair, Horowitz looksyounger than most men his age. "All this climbing in and out ofdumpsters gives the abs agood workout," he quips.

With an hour to spare before school and still plenty of room in theback of the pickup truck, Horowitz steps out of his vehicle and ontothe streets of Eugene's University neighborhood. Nearby, adumpsteroverflows with bags of refuse, but before approaching, the teacher

instinctively reaches down to scoop up aflattened beer can from thepavement. During aday of dumpster diving, Horowitz picks up litterwithin his line of sight and then deposits it in the proper receptacle.Continuing past his dentist's office en route to the trash, Horowitzexchanges brief pleasantries with awoman entering the building."That's my dental hygienist," he says. "She doesn't know what tomake of me."

Horowitz fine-tuned his environmental ethic while studying nutritionat Colorado State University in the early 1980s. "I had one of thoseroommates who was into natural foods and sustainability," Horowitzsays. "He ended up having more of an influence than I realized."After graduation, Horowitz chose to pursue ateaching career, adeci­sion that would lead him to Eugene. There, Horowitz thought he'ddiscovered "Ecotopia."The progressive college town was nothing likethe concrete-coated neighborhood in the Bronx where he grew up,and the mix of open space and intellectualism was exactly what hewas looking for. However, as the years pressed on, Horowitz

"When people ask me ifI'm having a good day,

I say 'yeah, I'm notfinding anything.'"

discovered that although Eugene was full of ideals, action was inshort supply. "Here they talk the talk, but it's all too superficial," hesays. "Even people with no money throwaway quality stuff."

The dumpster revelation came to Horowitz while attending a physicsteachers' conference in Minneapolis, Minnesota. "I had just readan article called 'My Twenty Foot Swath,' which said that if you keepyour little path clean, the people coming behind you can enjoy it.I was appreciating this city [Minneapolis] and started picking uptrash." The simple premise of the article appealed to Horowitz'ssensibilities, and when he returned to Eugene, he stuck with thephilosophy. One day, while walking downtown to meet friends forcoffee, Horowitz began to collect litter along the sidewalk. Beforelong his hands were full, and he took the trash to a nearby trash bin.To his surprise, inside was apair of discarded T-shirts. "I said, 'If it'sin this dumpster, it must be all over town,'" Horowitz recalls.

Soon enough, the respected physics teacher was snaking throughback alleys and apartment complexes every Saturday and Sunday aspart of an intricate and ever-evolving collection route. To avoid missingreliable recoveries, Horowitz soon incorporated midweek collectionsinto the routine. "It's become kind of an obsession," says Whitey Lueck,a landscape architecture professor at the University of Oregon who has

known Horowitz for more than twenty years. "People want to know howhe can do what he does and still have a life. Well, it is his life."

T he cardboard boxes that fill Horowitz's living room have alsoaccumulated in the corners of his classroom at Winston

Churchill High School. Astack of seven boxes, each one filled withbinders and backpacks, stands taller than any of his students.Across the room, an ethically emblematic quote on the chalkboardreads, "No snowflake in an avalanche feels responsible." Thestudents, however, appear more interested in the chocolate milk andapple juice from one of the room's three mini-refrigerators. Despitesuspicions, the snacks Horowitz provides to his students come fromthe supermarket, not agarbage can. "It costs me athousand dollarsayear, but they have something good to drink instead of MountainDew and the stuff in the machine," he says with satisfaction.

Around the holidays, Horowitz decorates his classroom and sendsthe rest of the supplies to the Assistance League of Eugene. He isdelighted that the organization relieves him of the hundreds of feetof Christmas lights that he saves, but even more so, he's happy tohelp someone. When the lunch bell rings, asurprising number ofstudents remain in the classroom, either to feast on the availablesnacks or to peruse the "free table" for a book or CD their teacherpicked up over the weekend. While the kids get comfortable,Horowitz walks the halls of Ch.urchill High, pulling recyclable bottlesout of the garbage cans. "The only problem is [that] kids think I'm acustodian," he says. Though some students laugh at the sight of theirteacher digging through the trash, Horowitz believes others quietlyacknowledge his commitment to waste reduction. "I believe the bestthing ateacher can be is a role model."

For Horowitz, the week of dumpster diving all leads up to Saturdaymorning. The routine begins when Horowitz transfers box after box ofgoods from his living room floor to the back of his trUCk. This week,

four boxes of men's shoes and clothing are destined for the EugeneMission; the rest is divided among nearby family shelters. Horowitz isa regular at the Assistance League where he donates aconsiderableamount of clothing every week. "Mike is methodical and serious,"says shop Chairman Shannon Allen. "He folds everything neatly,labels the boxes, and even brings in the plastic hangers." The ten tofifteen loads of laundry Horowitz washes each week are unloadedin amatter of fifteen minutes. Next Saturday he'lldo it all over again. Those who benefit from hisactions will never meet the man, and the revolvingcast of charity workers seldom recognizes thishumble donor. But Lueck has witnessed the steadyprogress of Horowitz's charitable actions throughthe years. "The effect one person makes is just adrop in the bucket," he says. "But with Mike, it's abig drop."

Although Horowitz's salvaged items have broughtrelief to many lives, the modest physics teacherhas bolder ambitions for the future. "I'm just sittingon all this money right now. Sooner or later I'llfind the right way to use it." For Horowitz, the "rightway" won't be anew convertible or avacation inthe islands. Two years ago, Horowitz began helpingaformer student pay his way through college as amore direct way of reaching out to those in need.Although Horowitz is occasionally tempted tobreak the nine-year streak of dumpster diving, theknowledge that he's bringing abit of comfort intothe lives of others is enough to keep him returningto the trash bins week after week. "When people ask me if I'm havingagood day, I say, 'Yeah, I'm not finding anything.'" And as long as thedumpsters continue to bear fruit, Horowitz will be out there peekingunder their lids.•

BElOW_Horowitz donates his weeklycollection of towels, pillows, and blankets to

Eugene's First Place Family Center.

While Reames enjoys the simple life, he is dedicated to expandingthe practical possibilities of his art. After experimenting with grafting

In every direction, arborsculpture projects stand in varying stages ofgrowth. Two birch trees weave together to form a hole resembling theportal into Alice's Wonderland. On the opposite end of Reames's gal­lery, an alder twists into acrooked, three-dimensional cube beforemerging into asingle leafy treetop. Scattered throughout the yard,thin, young "experiment trees" shoot up from the rich soil, weaving,winding, and connecting. In another corner, living benches andchairs grow strong enough to support afull-grown man. To prove itcan be done, Reames sits on achair made from an Oregon ash, andwith the proud look of a king atop his throne, he tells his favoritejoke: "See? After all these years, I can finally just sit onmy ash."

OPPOSITE PAGE_This tree, one of RichardReames's earlier experiments, is astudy ofhow to create aliving staircase.

RIGHT_Trees of the same species can shareresources when they are grafted together.

With the steady and careful hands of asculptor, Reames starts hisday's work. As his strong, calloused fingers coax the supple wood ofaseven-foot alder sapling, one of fourteen young trees that form asemicircle around the peace sign tree, the sun breaks through theclouds and shines brightly on the plant's dewy leaves.

His dogs nip at the heels of his sturdy brown work boots as Reames,forty-seven, strides from his self-built log cabin to the adjacentArborsmith Studios, his workshop and gallery. Agraying beardframes his leathery face, and his coarse, unkempt hair is tied inastubby ponytail at the nape of his neck. His army-green clothesalmost blend in with the trees around him. The clear, silver-blueeyes of this quiet, unpretentious man display afierce belief in thepotential of his unique art to change how humans relate tothe landscape.

rom the winding roads of Williams Highway, trees line the hilltops in ablanket ofgreen as far as the eye can see. Among the lush background of Richard Reames's

tree farm, one tree, vastly different from the others, stands out from the rest. Instead ofgrowing straight and tall, its midsection curves into a peace sign. The cherry tree is one of hisintricate sculptures that zig, zag, and swirl in ways that defy logic. While nature has inspiredartists for centuries, Reames takes this one step further: he turns living trees into art.

Richard Reames bends living trees into works of artstory_Carey Connellphotography_Rebecca Kennedy

------........-ABOR OF

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trees into simple shapes like hearts, peace signs, and curlicues, heis working on a living house made of pear, peach, and apple trees.Located in the center of Arborsmith Studios, his project reaches ten

feet high and is in full springtime blossom. It's just in the beginningstages of growth, but in about fifty years, the trees' bark will grow to­gether into asingle treetop roof. Reames hopes that once the houseis full grown, he will be able to pluck the fruit right off the walls.

"You can extrapolate on this idea," Reames says, gesturing to aliving staircase growing five feet from the fruit house. "You could

"The first year, they sleep.The second year, they

creep, and the third year,they leap."

grow living furniture out of the house's walls and floors. You couldhave an entire house that forms one connected tree." He grins. "Andmaybe in fifty years, when the fruit house is done, it'll be time togrow the nut house."

After years of wandering the Wes~Coast, Reames found his life'swork in his unconventional art. He knew he would never be happy

working anormal nine-to-five job, so as aUvolunteer homelessperson," he spent ten years thumbing rides and hiking throughforests. Along the way, he met his future wife, Maya. But settling

down was far from his mind - until he foundout his wife was pregnant. Shaken by this news,Reames went into the woods near WilliamsHighway to contemplate the direction his lifeshould take. As he watched the trees swaying inthe midsummer breeze, he prayed for answers. ulasked the universe for guidance," Reames recalls."And I flashed back to Axel Erlandson's TreeCircus I had visited as achild. I knew I wantedto discover the secrets to his trees and spread[them] to the world."

Although Reames grew up ten miles away fromthe Tree Circus in Santa Cruz, California, henever considered the impact it would have onhis life. Axel Erlandson, the enigmatic creator ofthe exhibition, developed an amazing display ofliving trees on his property that he turned intoa roadside attraction. When asked how he gothis trees to grow so impossibly, Erlandson wouldwhimsically reply, Ult's simple - I talk to them."Erlandson later regretted that he hadn't found anapprentice and that his art was doomed to witherand die trapped inside his neglected giants. He

never witnessed the work of Richard Reames.

"With his trees, Erlandson opened up the door to afield of pos­sibilities," Reames says. "I understand why Erlandson kept his art asecret, but if we try to keep our art to ourselves, it only leads to ourown constriction. Sharing attracts open people, and that's when asynergy of ideas can happen."

The philosophical roots of Reames's arborsculpture are synergy andgrowth. Instead of emulating nature, his sculptures become nature.His trees counteract the ideas behind modern artificial and wastefulculture and prove that humans don't have to destroy the environ­ment to use it for comfort, shelter, and enjoyment. While art bydefinition implies human workmanship rather than natural creation,Reames's sculptures demonstrate that humans and nature don'thave to exist in opposition.

Reames's philosophy formulates the motto of Arborsmith Studios:"Growing trees into forests of ideas." Through arborsculpture,Reames seeks to foster a love and deeper understanding of theenvironment by working with the trees to create his vision. Yet it isn'talways easy to work with nature. Curious, hungry deer often nibble atthe delicate bark of his sculptures, and insects feast on the wood,

causing them to rot. His trees also sunburn easily under the fiercesummer sun because he strips the trees of their protective lowerbranches to form his designs. When one tree dies, Reames weavesin a new sapling and it eventually merges with the older trees. "Alltrees of the same species have the same root systems," Reamesexplains. Ult's evolutionary altruism. Different species compete forthe best soil and nutrients, but trees of the same species merge sothat they can spread their type of seed."

Despite the difficulties, Reames earns asuccessful living craftingarborsculptures for clients. When customers contact him, he makestravel arrangements and starts his projects using apair of malleablefive-year-old trees he transports in wine barrels. He plants the sap-

"If we try to keep our art toourselves, it only leads to our

own constriction."

lings on location, puts frames into the ground to control the trees'growth, and grafts the branches so that they grow together into theshape of achair, atable, or an abstract design. Once the initialgrafting is finished, he returns once ayear - all clients pay his traveland lodging fees - and prunes as needed. After three years, theliving furniture is strong enough to sit on. Prices vary depending onthe size and intricacy of the project; clients pay $700 for chairs,$1,000 for athree-person bench, and $5,000 for agazebo. Ineight years, Reames has created more than twenty-fivearborsculptures for clients: gazebos, tables, benches, houses,nightstands, and sculptures. Individuals can even order pre-shapedtrees from his catalog.

"When you have children, you can start planting their houses,"Reames says of the possibilities available to his clients. UBy the timethey are full grown, their new house will be, too."

When he isn't serving his clientele, Reames contributes to theGroWing Village in Japan, aproject with even greater artisticscope than Erlandson's original Tree Circus. This project, avillagecomposed entirely of living trees, contains play structures forchildren, chairs and benches upon which elders can tranquillyrepose, and beautiful arborsculptures for everyone to enjoy. Reamesalso worked with John Gathright, creator and chief producer of theGrowing Village, to grow asimilar park called Mokshow-en, whichmeans "Laughing Happy Tree Park." It is home to hundreds of treesand won the Ecological Design Award from the Japanese Ministryof Industrial Design in 2002. "In general, arborsculpture has hugepotential," Reames says. "We've just begun scratching the surface."

RIGHT_Reames standsnext to his sculpted peace sign tree.

OPPOSITE PAGE_The three-dimensionalcube crafted from an alder shows a

lighthearted side to Reames's art.

Reames explains that trees grow in three stages. "The first year,they sleep," he says. "The second year, they creep, and the thirdyear, they leap." Reames is in his own leaping stage. He hasfinished planning his exhibit for the World Expo Fair, which is openuntil November, and the ambitious Reames doesn't show anysigns of slowing down. Next year, he will publish his second book,ArborsGulpture: Solutions for aSmall Planet, the sequel to How toGrow a Chair, which he published in 1995. Reames will also teachhis first class on arborscultpure at the John C. Campbell Folk Schoolin North Carolina and hopes to begin a lecture tour of universitiesaround the country. Reames's devotion to spreading his art hasbeen fruitful, and the possibilities for his ecological vision seem asvast as the forest surrounding Arborsmith Studios. •

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ABOVE_Joe Coelho reads abook to theplayers between Saturday afternoon sessions.

PREVIOUS PAGE_Coelho leans against themural at his home in Eugene.

C oelho was born on Terceira Island, aPortuguese island in theAzores Archipelago, located in the middle of the North Atlantic

Ocean. His family lived in asmall home without indoor plumbingwhere he remembers digging holes in the living room floor to playmarbles with his siblings. When he was ten years old, the familymoved to Harrisburg, Oregon, and they didn't speak aword ofEnglish. The rural community, in which fewer than athousand peoplelived, didn't offer a language program for immigrants, but Coelho'sfourth-grade teacher selflessly taught the entire family English onher own.

While the family slowly adjusted to American culture, Coelho'sparents grappled with his decision to try out for the local highschool basketball team. "We all came from the old country, as

everybody calls it. We were raised to work and not to play," Coelhosays. His mother still often puts in afull day of work. "This is the wayall of the kids were brought up."

Without any support from his parents, Coelho arrived at the tryout.Despite his embarrassing display, the coach kept him on the teambecause of his height and athleticism. Determined to improve,Coelho regularly rose at dawn to practice alone in the high schoolgym. His motivation stemmed from spending each game on thebench. One minute and forty-six seconds was the longest he playedin asingle game his first season.

The early morning practice sessions and dribbling marathons paidoff. By Coelho's senior year, he had transformed himself from theworst player on the team to one of the best. Despite his accomplish­ments, his parents never attended asingle practice or game duringhis four years on the team. After the birth of his own children, hevowed not to do the same.

With plenty of encouragement and support, each of his five childrenbecame involved in youth sports, such as soccer and basketball,and Coelho often volunteered as coach. The majority of youthleagues they participated in emphasized the games, with little timefor practice and lots of pressure on the kids to win. The competitivenature favored the more talented players, which Coelho found tooreminiscent of his experience as ayoung athlete.

By his mid-forties, after accumulating more thantwenty years of experience as ayouth sportscoach, he began exploring the idea of startinghis own basketball academy - where kids wouldbe given the opportunity to constantly practicerather than watch from the bench. He researchedother local programs and realized that most kidsin his neighborhood would never be able to payfor them. His idea was to launch an affordablebasketball academy, that emphasized fundamen­tals and sportsmanship. He set the price at onedollar per session.

In June 2001, Coelho began setting aside timefrom his handyman business and opened hisacademy with asingle group of eight kids, two ofwhom were his own boys. Feeling guilty that hisdaughter was too young to participate, he quicklyopened aseparate session for younger boys andgirls. The kids couldn't always make it, and oftenattendance was thin. He still keeps apicture ofan early practice session that shows him with hisdaughter and one other girl posed in front of aset of empty folding chairs intended for parents

to watch from. The photo serves as a reminder of how far he's come.In three-and-a-half years, the initial group of eight kids hasballooned to more than three hundred.

Some parents drive their children more than an hour just to attendCoelho's practices, while other players depend on volunteer coachesor friends to drive them. "I can spot those kids a mile away. I love tohelp all kids, but those that are less fortunate bring back memoriesof when I was young," Coelho says. "They don't have the fancy shoes,the cool basketballs, or hoops in the front yard. They don't get toattend several summer basketball camps each year."

Sitting down for aquick break during a recent Saturday practice,Coelho smiles and says he's tired. Within fifteen seconds he excitedlysprings to his feet and sets up avideo of a recent middle schoolbasketball game he plans to screen for the kids. The video shows anRBA player offering a hand to afallen opponent. Coelho, beamingbecause it was caught on tape, brought atrophy for the player- just one of many acknowledgments presented at eachsession for players exemplifying good sportsmanship.

The message rubs off. During an intense scrimmage, agirl throws abad pass to an open teammate and immediately says, "I'm sorry."The teammate smiles and says, "That's okay."

Part of the reason Coelho's athletes behave so well is because he'sselective. They come by invitation or recommendation but aren'taccepted into the RBA until Coelho feels assured that the playerstreat others politely, listen to coaches, and work hard. He oftenrelies on the advice of other coaches and players but values thebehavior of an athlete's parents most. "Considerate parents haveconsiderate kids," he explains.

While attending a recent middle school basketball game, he satnext to an "unruly" parent who incessantly complained about theofficiating. When the parent later approached Coelho about enroll­ing her daughter in the academy, he sensed trouble and talked herout of it. According to Coelho, he can discerningly choose playersbecause he isn't trying to make money. Without the burden ofincreasing the RBA's profits, Coelho feels comfortable turning awaykids who may not heed his instruction.

Once he assembles agroup of kids, Coelho's work begins. "Whatmakes his program so unique is his ability to teach children to bedisciplined, highly skilled, and aggressive competitors, while simulta­neously maintaining asoft-spoken gentleness in his coaching style,"says Mary Holo, whose eight-year-old son, Ty, is an RBA member."He'll never say you did that wrong but instead says, 'Thank you forreminding me that I need to teach that better.'"

Coelho adjusts his coaching style to each individual, Holo says. Heknows every athlete's name, home situation, personality, and skilllevel. "It is as though he personally remembers each stage of hisown development and recalls what it felt like to be an eight-year-oldand is able to relate to them like few adults I have ever met."

Under Coelho's guidance, the RBA goes a long way toward reversingthe pampering culture of modern sports, in which young athletes areexploited for their talent but grow up woefully unprepared for thereal world. "He's got adream," Stacy Lee says, whose two daughtersattend the academy. "Yes, he wants them to become greatbasketball players, but he also wants to see them go on to be great

RIGHT_RBA members practice dribbling skills.Coelho bases practices on all-inclusive drills so

that no player sits on the bench.

~~I love to help all kids, but those that areless fortunate bring back memories ofwhen I was young."people." Lee recalls when Coelho decided to have the kids pick uptrash on the bike path. The idea, Lee explains, was to teach kids totake care of their community.

Coelho's success in developing talented athletes with valuable lifeskills has several major college athletic coaches taking notice.Ernie Kent, head coach of the University of Oregon men's basketballteam, recently wrote Coelho a letter praising the RBA, as did UOhead football coach Mike Bellotti. During the past year, Bev Smith,head coach of the UO women's basketball team, and Jay John, head

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~~What hooked me was failure and notgetting to participate. I want to leave my

community better than what it was."

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BElOW_ Joey Peterson, four, concentrates onhis dribbling.

ABOVE_Jordan Alexander, nine, was Oregon'schampion in the national free-throw competi­tion and continues to participate in the RBA.

had just been diagnosed with cancer and was given afew weeks tolive. "/'11 give him the royal treatment," Coelho told her. Immediatelyafter the boy arrived at the camp, Coelho put his arm around himand introduced him to all of the players. At the end, Coelho took apicture of all the children in attendance and placed the boy frontand center. Afterward, he insisted on meeting the boy's mother toshow her the photo and reassure her that her son would always haveafamily of friends waiting for him.

That group of friends means a lot to Coelho and has become hisextended family. Coelho's own family remains supportive of his work,despite the time he puts into it. His children regularly attend RBApractices each Saturday, along with his wife, who is heavily involvedwith running the program. But not everyone approves.

"My mom today is seventy-five, and says, 'Joe, you're foolish andyou're wasting your time,'" Coelho says. But rejection is something heovercame long ago, and he would like to pass the lesson on. "Whathooked me was failure and not getting to participate," he says. "Iwant to leave my community better than what it was. It is my pas­sion. If I die today, I die happy." •

shake their hands, or look them in the eye. After eight months in theacademy, Ty now raises his hand in class, volunteers to sing asolo inthe choir, and speaks with confidence to adults.

"I wouldn't need my handyman business if I charged more," he says."I just don't want anyone to ever think this is about making money."Knowing he can't operate in the red forever, he explains that his goalis to raise more money through donations and sponsors rather thanincrease prices.

Though he recently found several local sponsors to offset thefinancial burden, Coe1ho brings two donation jars to each session.The first, no larger than aspaghetti sauce jar, is for the RBA, andthe larger one, a replica of a real-size basketball, will be donated toWomenspace, a local shelter for battered women. "I want to teachour kids to give back," he says.

Parents are increasingly grateful for Coelho's impact on thecommunity, and they continually ask him why he doesn't chargemore money, but Coelho remains ambivalent about turning theRBA into asolvent endeavor. He currently charges each player tendollars per month, and those who can't afford that get scholarships.Most of the fee goes toward covering the one thousand dollarsper month rental cost for the gym and the prizes he gives away ateach practice. Yet, Coelho says, the academy still costs him moneyout of his own pocket, not to mention the hours it takes away fromhis handyman business. Coelho realizes that many of the familiescould easily afford more, and his closest competitors often chargeanywhere from $35 to $175 per month.

Chris Nystrom of the Eugene Area Chamber of Commerce foundout how much Coelho is giving back when several RBA parentsnominated the coach for one of the organization's Emerald Awards.Nystrom says the chamber received letters from parents empha­sizing how Coelho is "changing kids' lives with selflessness andpersistent dedication to the community." Nystrom also pointed outthat the dedication many parents described surpassed Coelho'sduties with the RBA.

"We always say he's like an angel," Holo says. This past summer,she approached Coelho about bringing Ty's best friend, a non-RBAmember, to the academy's summer camp for aday. The boy's mother

"A lot of us forget it's a process to become agood player. We are sofocused on the outcome rather than the process," Smith says. "It isreally about the journey," she says. "Joe understands that."

basketball in their hands throughout the practice session.

Coelho feels proud of the recognition, but his focus always remainson doing more for the RBA, which takes up an increasing amountof his time. In addition to accompanying kids while they dribble abasketball down the bike path during the summer, he runs atwo­week camp for all of the players every August. Coelho's year-roundnine-hour practice marathons each Saturday make many parentsworry he'll grow tired. When they find out he spends ten to twelvehours aday, seven days aweek on RBA matters, they assume he'sexhausted. He dismisses the idea, saying, "When you're passionate,it energizes you."

Alot of that passion comes from the letters he gets from players andthe teary-eyed parents thanking him for all he's done for their kids.Holo sees the RBA's effects firsthand through the transformationof her son, who before joining the academy couldn't talk to adults,

coach of the Oregon State University men's basketball team, bothvisited RBA practices.

"We talk a lot as coaches about how you should be agood person alot longer than you should be agood basketball player," says Smith.

Smith also values Coelho's emphasis on fundamental skills andparticipation. During RBA practices, rather than holding scrimmagesinvolving only ten players at once, Coelho focuses on all-inclusivedrills emphasizing passing, defense, and footwork. Only parentswatch from the bench, and Coelho insists that all players hold a

What is so special about the RBA, she explains, is that by reinforcing"caring about others and ateam attitude," Coelho does more thanjust talk about it.

BELOW_Micah Robinson, fourteen, practicesball control.

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Matt Chandler adopts anonviolentapproach to eradicate injustice in Iraqstory_Meg Krugelphotography courtesy of Christian Peacemaker Teams

The remnants of war - of fear and loss - melted into the parchedMiddle-Eastern landscape. Weeks ago, an improvised explosive devicetargeting the Iraqi police detonated in front of asmall video shop inBaghdad. Businesses surrounding the shop were brutally damaged by

the force of the explosion. Like bone-deep scars, severe cracks were permanentlyscribed into the stone walls and storefronts that lined this once busy street. Slowly andsteadily, the foundation of the video shop crumbled into the pale brown silt of the Iraqiearth.

Ablackening sky began to fall on the war-torn country of Iraq, signaling the end ofanother day of conflict. For thousands of Iraqi and American families, the closing ofthe day brought another sleepless night without a loved one and another morning ofuncertainty, danger, and heartache. Beneath the night sky, aman in a red baseball capwalked along the wounded street. He approached the video store with caution untilhe saw afriend inside. The Iraqi video shop owner embraced his American friend withone arm. His right arm, which was injured by gunfire near his home in Sadr City, wasbound in amakeshift sling. It had been an important day for the twenty-three-year-oldAmerican, Matt Chandler, and the two men had much to discuss.

LEFT_Matt Chandler photographs ademonstration by followers of MoqtadaAI-Sadr, aShiite cleric who has led uprisingsagainst the U.S.-led coalition. The protestcame after the coalition banned AI-Sadr'snewspaper and arrested several of his aides.

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ABOVE_Chandler participates in ahumanrights demonstration for detainees. CPTworkers held regular demonstrations withfamily members of detainees before the AbuGhraib prison scandal first surfaced.

OPPOSITE PAGE_Chandler gives blood at aBaghdad hospital aday after witnessing thebombing of the Kadhum shrine in the city'sAI-Kadhamiya district.

T hat was Thursday, September 30, 2004. After hundreds of inter­views with Iraqi victims and their families, Chandler had spent

the day finalizing reports detailing the abuse of Iraqi detainees.According to these documents, military actions designed to ensurethe short-term security of the American guard, such as strict controlof detention camps like the Abu Ghraib prison, actually compro­mised the long-term security interests of Iraqis. The reports ofextended abuse and the work of Chandler's human rights advocacywould soon spread to media outlets around the world. It would

ignite the emotions of both pro- and anti-war proponents. TheSeptember Report on Detainees, published in 2004, would becomeone of the milestone achievements for Chandler and his ongoingwork with Christian Peacemaker Teams (CPT).

Four months after his college graduation, Chandler made hisfirst trip to Iraq as afull-time member of CPT's Iraq Project team.Inspired by the idea that peacemakers must be willing, just assoldiers, to die for their cause, Chandler has completed four roundtrips to Iraq since September 2003 as avolunteer with the non­profit human rights organization. The group strives to serve as awatchdog of military actions in conflict zones throughout the world.CPT workers hold peace activist training groups for Iraqis

and conduct face-to-face interviews with detainees to under­stand their perspective. On May 11, 2005, Chandler returned tohis Springfield, Oregon, home following his fourth, but not final,peacekeeping mission.

The walls and ceiling of Chandler's street-side apartment werecracking. The effects of the war had shaken this building too manytimes to count. But Chandler called this rundown apartment home.On September 23, 2004, he stood in front of the apartment's

window overlooking a row ofbusinesses. At 10:30 P.M.,

there was little to observe onthis darkened street.

But, suddenly, gunfire rippedthrough the still air. The loudand rapid shooting lasted forthree long minutes. Press-ing his hands to the glass,Chandler watched civilians fleeas several armed men bargedout of abuilding directlyacross the street from wherehe stood. Impulsively, Chandlerthought to race out and helpawounded man lying facedown on the ground. Beforehe turned, the armed mencarried the wounded man toanearby van and drove away.Then, as it was before, the airbecame still, marred only bythe memory of this short,violent episode.

The next day, Chandler'slandlord arrived and explained

that the previous night's shooting was unrelated to insurgentactivity; it was only street crime. He urged Chandler and his five CPTcoworkers not to worry - the apartment's security guard had plentyof "machine guns to keep us safe." Somehow, Chandler and theteam found little solace in the idea of more firearms at the ready. Inaconversation with aneighbor and friend, Chandler explained thatthe current level of danger might not subside until after the January2005 Iraqi elections - still four months away.

Chandler couldn't seem to shake the memory of the shooting. Therecent violence and its emotional after-effects seemed too familiarto the Thurston High School graduate. When gunshots rang out onthe Thurston campus on May 21, 1998, Chandler was eating

breakfast off school grounds with friends from his church youthgroup. During his absence, piercing screams ricocheted across thecampus as fellow classmate Kip Kinkel opened fire on the studentbody. Just as Chandler witnessed unarmed Iraqis fleeing the build­ing across the street, he remembers arriving at school and seeinghundreds of terrified students flooding from the cafeteria.

During the weeks and months that followed the Thurston shooting,Chandler and his community grieved the death of two Thurstonclassmates. He saw the city of Springfield unite in support of the.twenty-two students who were injured, and he sensed the underlyingdismay of his own friends and the general public because of thisunjust act of violence. As awitness to the effects of the shooting onboth the individual and the community at large, Chandler began todevelop adeep personal ethic to resist violence at all costs.

In the fall of 1999, Chandler enrolled in George Fox University, asmall Quaker-run college near Portland, Oregon, to study Christianministries and philosophy. His classes led him through deepreligious, political, and philosophical discussions that helpedshape his emerging views on the nonviolent approach. "Violencedidn't seem to square with Jesus' teachings about mercy, grace,forgiveness, and love for friends and foes alike," Chandler says. Thisspiritual conviction became the foundation for Chandler's ongoingwork in Iraqi war zones.

On the morning of Friday, April 4, 2004, Chandler tied the laces ofhis worn brown shoes but left his signature red cap, embroideredwith "CPT" in black thread, at home. He and his teammates onlywear their hats to signal the organization's presence while conduct­ing human rights work, but not for personal business. On this day, hehad been invited to the house of Musa, agood friend of the team.When he arrived, Musa welcomed Chandler through the front doorand into the sitting room. Acurious four-year-old girl peeked atChandler from around the corner. Fatima, Musa's daughter, walkedcautiously toward him as she attempted to tame her thick, blackhair with asmall comb. Because of the language barrier, the two didnot share any words.

Musa walked into the sitting room carrying apot of hot liquid andushered Fatima away. The stories he was about to tell Chandler werenot suitable for the innocent ears of his young daughter. He beganto talk about his work as astationery and map printer, but soon thediscussion delved into Musa's experiences under Saddam Hussein."He told me that he spent thirteen months in prison between 1999and 2000 for reasons of which he is still unsure," Chandler remem­bers. "Then he demonstrated how he was forced to hang from theceiling by his hands tied behind his back for long hours."

Even five years later, Musa felt the effects of Hussein's dictatorship

- he still suffers from intestinal problems from the poor prisonconditions. "I give thanks [to] my God I am alive," Musa says with asmall smile.

"When they saw the retaliationand abuse of American soldierstoward detainees, they asked us

'Th· · d '? '". . . IS IS emocracy.According to Doug Pritchard, codirector of CPT, Musa's story is alltoo common among the Iraqis whom team members interview. "Thepeople in Iraq had horrible experiences under Saddam Hussein,"Pritchard says. But there is another side to the story, which CPTmembers learned through their interactions with the locals. "Whenthey saw the retaliation and abuse of American soldiers towarddetainees, they asked us ... 'This is democracy? We knew this kind oftreatment under Saddam, but we didn't expect it from you [the U.S.troops] ,'" Pritchard explains.

Pritchard says that CPT members travel only into regions' whereIraqis will welcome their human rights work. On January 27, 2005,volunteers conducted atraining session for Iraqi peace activists inthe city of Karbala. The day began as nine Iraqis and four CPTworkers stood in asmall circle discussing their traumatic experi­ences. Ared piece of construction paper, neatly trimmed into the

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"The heart isn't big enough to showall the pain we have experienced."

Sunday. The audience attentively listened as Chandler, the evening'sguest speaker, shared his experiences as aChristian peacemaker inIraq. His hands gestured easily as he described his interactions withthe Iraqi men, women, and children he had met.

As Chandler read quotations from his interviews with detainees,photos of him in Iraq circulated the room. In one, he stands besidethe Sunni imam Sheik Moayed - often said to be the most influen­tial Sunni imam in Iraq. In other photos, the effects of war are morevivid. One depicted CPT workers lining a busy but dilapidated streetcorner holding poster-sized images of missing detainees. The photosaroused asense of urgency concerning the Iraqi detainee situation,but Chandler's stories also spread hope to pacifists seeking to endthe war.

Chandler doesn't know where he'll go after CPT. Shortly before he leftfor his fourth trip to Iraq, Brenda Chandler overheard her son tellinghis younger brother that he'd like to write abook about his work asapeacekeeper. That might be years away - there is still much workto be done in order to bring peace to the Middle-Eastern country.For now, Chandler continues to make his footprint in the war-tornIraqi soil for four months at atime, inspired and comforted by theexperiences of his brave, spiritual journey.•

Three weeks before Chandler was scheduled to return to his Spring­field home in October 2004 for ashort leave of absence, insurgentsintensified retaliatory strikes against the U.S. presence. Kidnappingsof both soldiers and foreign aid workers increased. The country wasdistraught with the ongoing violence by both the U.S. troops and theanti-Western insurgents. Chandler knew that it was too dangerousfor the entire CPT team to be in the country at this time.

Chandler remembers adiscussion he had with aShia cleric and anaccompanying translator during the somberperiod. The cleric told Chandler that Iraqi terror­ists wouldn't know the difference between theintentions of armed and unarmed Americans."Don't be victims," the cleric told Chandler andFox. The simple words stuck with the two men dur­ing their quiet three-week stay in Baghdad.

As Iraq Project Coordinator, Chandler advised Pritchard and theother CPT directors to reduce the team size to two individuals.Soon after this decision, several volunteers packed their meagerbelongings into small suitcases and boarded planes to return home.Chandler and coworker Tom Fox locked themselves inside theirapartment for several days as kidnappings became more frequent.

Because of this family tension, Chandler and his parents rarelydiscuss the detainee abuse situation. Since he's been serving

in Iraq, however, both Chandler and his parents have learned to setaside their differences. The safety of her son is, above all, Brenda'smain concern. "I spend each day wondering what he's doing andworrying about him." Her warm voice shakes as she speaks.

When the time came for Chandler to leave Iraqand return to Oregon on November 6, 2004,his flight was delayed at Baghdad InternationalAirport. Abomb had exploded nearby, and allflights were postponed. He escaped the incidentwithout injury but was emotionally traumatizedand exhausted. He had seen similar violence oninnocent victims before - both at home and inIraq. And, though anxious to return to his familyand friends, the terrified expressions of those atthe airport and the shards of broken glass thatlittered the front entrance sent aclear message:Chandler's work in Iraq was not complete.

Shortly before Chandler left for Iraq in January2005, he gathered with agroup of Oregonianpeace activists in the small sanctuary of theEugene Friends' meeting house, where the localQuakers gather to hold silent worship every

the military's perspective. In January 2004, CPT suggested that theU.S. military demarcate unexploded ordinance zones with brightlycolored tape to warn civilians of possible danger. Army CaptainMatthew Wheeler's rejection of the idea angered several of thevolunteer workers and spurred asmall conflict between U.S. troopsand the CPT unit. In a letter, however, Wheeler proposed that thegroup use its resources as anon-governmental organization to trainand assist Iraqis with cleaning up the bombs.

Understanding the military comes somewhat naturally to Chandler,who hasn't always been surrounded by pacifists. Chandler's fatherwas raised in amilitary family and his grandfather served in Vietnam.His parents, Bill and Brenda Chandler, say that there are just someconflicts that require military action. When Chandler announcedhis decision to join CPT, dissent bubbled in the family's home. Hisparents, particularly his father, had difficulty showing support fortheir son in light of the U.S. military's invasion of Iraq. "It's been hardbecause we all love him," Brenda Chandler says of her son, "but weare just different."

In his letter to CPT, Wheeler explained that he understood theteam's anger and frustration over his unwillingness to compromise,but drawing attention to the peacemaking cause did not includeattacking "low-level officers {and fellow Christians)." He wrote,"We do not set national policy, and often we are torn between atrichotomy of what are orders, what is best, and what is ethical."Wheeler recognized that CPT could have significant influence onthe peacemaking cause by simply employing "a warm smile withdemonstrated action."

At the conclusion of the day, Assad reflected, "I am an angry person,easily agitated." As he looked at the training team, he said, "I am

adifferent person because of you. I want to participate in aCPTaction." The volunteers smiled. Assad's comment was the highestform of praise.

shape of aheart, passed from hand to hand around the circle. Eachindividual was to tell amemory about trauma and then tear asmallpiece from the heart. Looking at the red paper, one Iraqi said, "Theheart isn't big enough to show all the pain we have experienced."

The team often works with the U.S. military in its peace-buildingefforts, enabling workers to balance their anti-war conscience with

Slowly, the stories unfolded. Tears flowed freely as Iraqis sharedmemories of life under Hussein and of the U.S. invasion of Iraq. Ayoung man named Assad shared this: "In the Iraq/Iran War, peopledied all around me. I slept with dead bodies until they were carriedaway. I helped bury the bodies after the 1991 resistance [against]Saddam Hussein. In this war [the 2003 U.S. invasion of Iraq], Iwatched afriend explode before my eyes as he defused U.S. clusterbombs." As his words slowed, his fingers ripped acorner from theheart and pushed the small piece of paper into his pants pocket.

ABOVE_Chandler stands with the family ofadetainee in Abu Sifa, avillage just northof Baghdad.

OPPOSITE PAGE_Chandler listens as amanidentifies the family members of an Iraqidetainee in aphotograph.

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ABOVE_From the top house, Pazar lookswest into what he calls areverse sunrise - a

bad omen for fishermen, signaling astormon the horizon.

LEFT_A quiet laborer, Fultz carries 125-poundcrab pots to the boat's stem.

One thinghas become

routinein Badet'slife - he

alwayscomes backto the samelittle coastal

town tocrab with

Pazar.

Badet looks no older than thirty - which he attributes to the seaair - despite a penchant for chain-smoking. He is friendly, yet hesmiles rarely and unconvincingly. Badet amuses me with storiesof his recent five-week transatlantic adveoture as he pulls on hiscigarette between sentences. After spending the summer travelingEurope, he hitched aride on a French charter boat to make it backto the United States before the Dungeness season began. He landedin Annapolis, Maryland, and made his way to Newport in time to helpPazar ready Delma Ann for the start of the crabbing season.

In preparation for the season, the men baited six hundred buoyedcrab pots, each weighing up to 125 pounds when empty. Theypositioned the traps on the ocean floor by attaching them alongstrings. Each buoy has anumber, identifying the fisherman whoowns the trap. The boat moves along astring, and each successivetrap is emptied. Some strings have as few as adozen pots, othersmore than one hundred. When fishermen find agood spot to placeastring, they hold onto it for seasons to come. "Crabs are like theswallows at [San Juan] Capistrano or the butterflies at Monterey,"Pazar explains. "They come back to the same place at the sametime every year."

The same could be said for Badet. After acouple months ofeighteen-hour days, he has the money, hence the freedom, to dothings he enjoys: traveling, playing guitar, silk-screening T-shirts with

Shortly after the Boldt decision passed in 1974, which allotted halfof harvestable salmon to Native American tribes, they moved toFlorence, Oregon, and continued fishing together until they had kids.In 1986, they bought the Krab Kettle, aseafood market in Florence,which Pazar's wife runs during the labor-intensive Dungenesscrabbing season.

Bythe time we're safely through the jaws, I feel a little queasy.Pazar recommends I get some fresh air. I climb down into the

cabin where ayoung crewman is sleeping and head to the backdeck. There, Badet, thirty-nine, is leaning against the railing. He pullsacigarette from ablue box of American Spirits, offering one to me.

Pazar confidently maneuvers Delma Ann under the Yaquina BayBridge and "between the jaws," or the jetties, as he tells me hislife story. "You know, there are old fishermen and there are dumbfishermen. But there are no old, dumb fishermen," he says with awrysmile. Pazar's father was aschoolteacher in Tacoma, Washington,who ran acharter boat in the summers, so Pazarhas been fishing since he was eight. He bought his first boat atsixteen and fixed it up in his high school shop class. Pazar enrolledin the fishery science program at Oregon State University butdropped out after running out of money. There, he met his wife, abusiness major, and they began fishing for salmon togetherin Washington.

boats and unloa"d their catch at the end of their run. As agift tothe fishermen, Hallmark commissioned a mural of awell-endowed,topless mermaid on one of its large facades facing the bay. On theside visible to tourists is abreaching gray whale.

Pazar leans against an upholstered swivel chair bolted to the floor,and I sit down next to him on a matching blue vinyl bench, its colorcorroded by the briny ocean air. Aschool portrait of his sixteen-year­old daughter is mounted to the front windshield. He engages thethrottle, flips afew rusty switches, and we're off to sea.

We enter the top house, acontrol room and an office rolled intoone - with the spaciousness of a handicapped bathroom stall. Itcontains aGlobal Positioning System, asonar Downsounder thatdoubles as aTV, a laptop, a CD player, a FISH 12 MK-11 (a devicethat records Delma's path, or "slug trail"), and about adozen othergadgets either tacked to the ceiling or balanced on the dash. This iswhere Pazar spends most of his time on the boat, shouting ordersthrough an open window to his two-man crew, joking with otherfishermen over aCB radio, tracking weather conditions, keeping aneye on currents, and navigating Delma Ann over swells as smoothlyas possible.

As we make our way out to sea, we pass Hallmark Fisheries, a largeseafood distributor where fishermen can load bait directly onto their

Pazar explains through his coarse gray mustache that the first leg- crossing the bar - is the most dangerous part of the journey. "I'vehad some experiences on this bar that have made my knees weak,"he says. The blood drains from my face. To cross the bar, Pazar mustnavigate through two jetties that redirect the Yaquina River into thePacific Ocean. The competing currents of the two bodies of watercan cause thirty-foot swells. Noticing my white hands death-grippingthe vinyl bench, Pazar assures me that things are pretty calm today.

Claude Badet, a Frenchman who fell into fishinghalf a lifetime ago, says life on the boat is likethe Wild West. Trade buffalo for migrating graywhales clipping along at twenty-six knots perhour and dusty leather chaps for orange rubbersuits slick with rain and fish guts, and the imageis apt. These men are governed by few rules, andthey work in awild and dangerous place. Thetime the men spend beyond the jetties at themouth of Oregon's Yaquina Bay may be the onlything that holds them together in their boom­and-bust lifestyles. But one day, they will returnfrom a run, look into the hold at too few crabs,and realize that the season is almost over.

nthe coastal waters of Oregon, men- some barely out of high school - workaround the clock to earn the kinds ofpaychecks that doctors see. For afewmonths amid the unforgiving winter

swells of the North Pacific, they pick their wayalong the rocky Oregon coast, hauling crab pots.

I meet Pazar in Yaquina Bay at 7A.M. (an atypical late start) nearhis boat on Dock 5. Delma Ann, afifty-one-foot crabbing boat,can be retrofitted with equipment for fishing Chinook salmon andalbacore tuna during Dungeness off-seasons. He leads me throughthe cramped cabin of the forty-two-year-old boat, up a ladderprecariously mounted to the cabin wall, and through atrap door.

Perhaps danger, and its payoff, is the draw. Dungeness crab isthe most valuable single-species fishery in the state of Oregon.Last year, fishermen caught an unprecedented thirty-one milliondollars-worth of Dungeness. AI Pazar, aforty-nine-year-old lifetimefisherman, holds one of the 350 coveted permits that allow Oregonfishermen to catch the crustaceans commercially. He inspiresmy confidence with his paternal mien and akind, knowledgeablebearing when he agrees to let me come along on an eighteen-hourrun.

The work is dangerous: According to the Bureau of Labor Statisticsand depending on the year, fishing and logging vie for the title ofmost perilous profession in the United States. In the beginning ofthe crabbing season, which opens December 1, crews spend weekson the ocean derby fishing - working night and day with no respite.To add to the danger of difficult work on zero sleep, the Dungenesscrabbing season can be the most volatile fishing time of theyear, with sudden swells periodically capsizing boats led by wearyskippers. Most fishing fatalities occur in December and January- the two most profitable months of the season.

ABOVE_Functioning on little to no sleep,blockman Claude Badet spendseighteen-hour days aboard AI Pazar's boat.

PREVIOUS PAGE_Guiding the line throughDelma Ann's hydraulic pulley, Badet andcrewman Tony Fultz prepare to pull acrab potfrom the Pacific's waters.

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ABOVE_Exhausted, Fultz and Badet take abrief break while Pazar pilots the boat to his"secret spot" to drop off one last string beforeheading home.

OPPOSITE PAGE_An orange glow emanatesfrom overhead lights, illuminating the boatand surrounding waters. Weather permitting,Delma Ann and her crew sail through the nightand into the next day.

~~I had aboat sink

on me once.So I went

for aswim fora while. jj

ahomemade printing machine, and picking up new hobbies on awhim. But one thing has become routine in Badet's life - he alwayscomes back to the same little coastal town to crab with Pazar.

Badet is a renegade among renegades. "I'm aminimalist," he says."That's the thing about fishermen - they're not very smart," hecomments, referring to the many who blow all their money early inthe season on big trucks and alcohol.

Badet started fishing as a"freak accident" in Alaska. He was livingin San Francisco and bought atwenty-dollar book entitled How toMake a Lot of Money that directed him to travel to Seattle andjoin an Alaskan fishing crew. After three months at sea workingeighteen-hour days fishing for black cod, he received the biggestpaycheck he'd ever seen. "I brought it to the bank and was like, 'Isthis ajoke?'" Badet says. When they cashed it, he succumbed to theimpulse common in other fishermen - he threw aparty and boughta motorcycle, riding it home to San Francisco.

With Dungeness crab meat selling for up to fifty dollars perpound, the money is good - paychecks for crewmen in the firsttwo weeks average ten thousand dollars. Pazar cuts his crew 25percent of the boat's revenue. But about 75 percent of the season'sDungeness crop is caught in the first two months, so profits quicklydwindle. Although Dungeness fishing season is long - running fromDecember 1 until August 14 - few fishermen find it profitable to fishthe "scratch," the meager harvest left after the first few months.

Like gold, the Dungeness is apotentially exhaustible resourcedespite strict industry-imposed regulations that attempt to maintainthe crab's population. Furthermore, the West has amonopoly onthe crustacean; the Dungeness can only be found along atwenty­three hundred-mile swath of coast from central California to theAleutian Islands of Alaska, the most dangerous North Americanregion for fishing.

Even after two decades in the profession, Badet claims he's never

had a near-death experience at sea. "I had a boat sink on me once."He shrugs. "So I went for aswim for awhile."

We enter the cabin, and I lie down in ashoebox of a bottom bunk,still feeling nauseous. Badet steps into his rubber suit - brightorange overalls that rise midway up the chest - seeming tointuitively anticipate that the first pots will soon be unloaded.He sits down at atiny galley table littered with heavy mugs, theirbottoms crusted with hot chocolate dregs, and flips through anissue of the Smithsonian. After afew minutes, Pazar disengages thethrottle, turning off the soothing hum of the John Deere engine in thehull. The silence stirs Tony Fultz, twenty-two, who has been sleepingsoundly for the two hours since we left port.

Ascruffy goatee sprouts from Fultz's chin and thick metal hoopspierce two earlobes and one eyebrow. He is initially a little

reticent around me, probably because women rarely board crabbingboats. He hops off the top bunk and suits up in orange rubber,concealing the flame and skull tattoos adorning his lean arms. Fultzand Badet slide on shiny, brown rubber boots and wrap themselvesin hooded jackets, readying themselves for the first pots of the day.They slip on cotton gloves, then blue rubber ones, and take theirplaces on deck.

I ascend the ladder to the top house, and Pazar yells explanatorynotes as I watch the crewmen's maneuvers. Badet, the blockman,dips ahooked ten-foot stick called abuoy stick into the oceanand fishes out a rope attached to a buoy. He winds the ropearound the block, ahydraulic pulley on an adjustable metal arm.As the contraption whirls, sputtering saltwater, it pulls up the firstcrab pot. There is aone-way trap door, called atrigger, and twoescape rings the precise size to allow small, unharvestable crabs toflee the pot.

Badet and Fultz hoist the pot onto the ledge of the boat and chuckthe usable crabs into the dump box, an open-topped wooden boxon four legs. They toss the females and small males - which areillegal to harvest - back to sea and pitch the large males into thefish hole, a280-cubic-foot pit filled with circulating seawater forstoring live crabs. Fultz, the "baiter" (generally prefixed with anobvious joke indicating his proficiency of skill), slaps avile handfulof chopped sardines, razor clams, and squid into the bait jars atopthe crab pots.

Even though they're working with the most repugnant materials- fish guts, acrid base detergents, and all kinds of sea scumdredged up by the pots - the men move together in agraceful pasde deux, each of their quick gestures silently interpreted by theother and reciprocated by an appropriate response.

Between strings, Badet shoots pictures of the shoreline with a

35mm camera. "Every day you see things that no one else sees," hesays. The Oregon shoreline is exquisite: misty coves with waterfallsspouting from jagged cliffs, green, wooded mountains, and fog­eclipsed bluffs. Then Fultz approaches me: "So, you're from Eugene?There's some good reefer there, eh?"

Fultz grew up near Newport in Siletz, population 1,133, and hasnever been more than a hundred miles from home. When hegraduated from high school, he went into logging. Shaken afterwitnessing agruesome accident involving his father's best friend, hetook acouple of weeks off and never went back. He then decided totry his hand at another dangerous profession - crabbing.

But, for Fultz, greater dangers may lie on solid ground. In the last sixmonths, he has attended two funerals of friends who died in drunk­driving accidents and has blown up or totaled three automobilesof his own. "I fuckin' like to party real hard, and I fuckin' hate beingtied down," he declares. Apicture of the most recent incendiaryvehicle - aglossy, raised red truck - is taped to the ceiling of hisbunk as a memento.

I head into the cabin to chug some water, dehydrated from thesalt and sun so ubiquitous on deck. Pazar descends the ladder. "Iguess I haven't explained the bathroom situation," he says. "We havea bucket."

The men continue to work the strings until dark, repeating thesame graceful motions with precision and complete concentration.Between pots, Fultz rips up razor clams with bare hands, sawsthrough partially frozen sardines, and slices up afour-footsquid - its vivid red, green, and orange viscera oozing from itsrubbery body.

Onthe muted watery plain, streaks of purple clouds obscurethe setting sun, suffusing their edges with afiery orange glow

- the same colors as the Dungeness.

Delma Ann covered about a hundred miles that day, zig-zaggingdeeper out to sea, from Newport to Neskowin. We sail back to porton an obsidian landscape - chipped black water heaving beneathour feet. The men's boots dry on electric boot warmers, Fultz's with"Fultzy" scrawled in black marker.

It is 1A.M. when we reach harbor and unload the day's catch underthe mermaid at Hallmark. Badet descends into the fish hole andcrates up crabs, as Fultz hoists them onto Hallmark's platform. Fultzshouts to Badet in amock French accent, "Claude-eel Claude-eel"Badet ignores him and continues to work earnestly with Pazar. "Youcan see the bottom," Badet says disappointedly, pointing to thebright aqua floor of the fish hole peeking through atangle of legsand claws. Scratch season has already begun.

Badet offers his couch for me to crash on. His place is meticulouslyclean and uncluttered - avast contrast to the cramped, chaoticcabin on the boat. He brews peppermint tea and I quickly pass outto the sound of the ocean winds.

I awake early, the foggy sky outside aglow with awarm sun. Badetemerges from his bedroom. He smiles at me and walks to a largewindow facing west. There, a pair of binoculars sits near the window.He raises them to his eyes and stares out to sea.•

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AHOMEWITHOUTBORDERSIn achanging land, aLatina immigrant keeps her heritage alivestory_Sara Wachter-Boettcherphotography_Lindsay Abbott

Editor's note: This story takes place in November 2004. For anupdate, please visit influx.uoregon.eduj2005.

amilies spill through the door, rushingto escape the icy fog that chokes

the air outside and turns the duskyautumn evening into athick November night.

Young mothers herd ruddy-cheeked children through the heavydoors and seat themselves in wooden pews, unwinding their scarvesand removing their coats. Some whisper to one another, sayinghello. Others stare ahead, eyes fixed upon the warmly lit altar. Theycross themselves reverently in Jesus' presence, droplets of holywater still glistening on their foreheads.

Ahush falls over the crowd of thirty or so worshippers - not nearlyenough to fill the large, wood-paneled church - as Liliana Ortizstands at the edge of the altar, her round face partially obscuredby amusic stand. Her voice is quiet, almost timid, as she begins tospeak, welcoming the crowd with asmile and an offer of song. Sheflicks on atape player behind her, and the hollow sound of recordeddrums and horns fills the near-empty room.

"Creo en Jesus, creo en Jesus. £1 es mi amigo, £1 es mi alegria, £1es mi amor," the congregation begins to sing. I believe in Jesus, Ibelieve in Jesus. He is my friend, He is my joy, He is my love.

Ortiz stops the tape as the song begins to fade, taking her seatfor the start of Mass, and Father Charles Zach begins to recite theLord's Prayer. "Padre nuestro, que estas en los cielos, santificadosea tu nombre," he says, his voice tinged with aLatin accent fromyears of teaching the dead language. No one seems to mind, though- least of all Ortiz, who sits calmly, her face radiating joy.

OPPOSITE PAGE_Liliana Ortiz works in herchurch to unite her Latino community.

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H ere, at Saint Helen's Catholic Church, Ortiz leads aflockof Latinos - first-generation immigrants still reeling from

flights across the border and former migrant workers who havesettled in the towns where they have harvested crops for years.Every Saturday these families come here, to Junction City - one ofthe many Oregonian farming and mill towns that have transformedinto bedroom communities - to attend Mass and receiveCommunion in their native language.

As Father Charles's assistant, twenty-eight-year-old Ortiz serves asa liaison between the Latino community and the church, giving thesolace of Spanish services to those who feel isolated or homesick.Perched near the altar, hymnbook in hand, she leads acommunitypulled in two different directions in an attempt to find a middle roadbetween the assimilation of American ideals and the preservation ofMexican customs.

The first time Saint Helen's offered services in Spanish, in thespring of 2003, four people came. The next week, another familyshowed up. As time wore on, more and more Latinos attended- often at Ortiz's direct invitation. Now, ayear and a half later,

she notices a new family from neighboring Monroe, asix hundred­person hamlet one-tenth the size of Junction City. She smiles atthem, making sure to say hello before the family bundles up toface the suffocating fog outside.

LA FAMILIA

During the work week, Ortiz leads adifferent life. She wakes upbefore dawn and works the six-to-six shift at Country Coach, a

recreational vehicle manufacturer, putting the finishing touches oncounter tops and cabinets for one hundred-thousand-dollar motorhomes. It's agood job - one she worked long and hard to get, andafter just acouple of months, her boss has already mentioned thatsomeday she'll be the one training people. After four years as asupervisor at the Junction City Arby's, the job - with its higher wagesand four-day workweek - is astep up.

Back at home at the end of atwelve-hour day, she starts herhousehold duties: cooking dinner for her husband, Martfn, and theirthree children; making sure the kids do their homework; keeping thecompact house clean and tidy.

Ortiz and her husband bought the house, acozy, unassuming placein aquiet neighborhood, six years ago. Filled with plush sofas andoak furniture, family photos and accent lamps, it looks like theperfect home for ayoung middle-class family. Only the few Mexican­made Catholic icons settled on curio shelves distinguish it from atypical suburban home.

After dinner, Ortiz's husband settles himself on the couch with thecouple's eleven-year-old son, Martfn Jr., nestled at his side. Jylene,who's five, horses around on the floor with Abraham, achubby-facedeighteen-month-old who smiles and squeals as they play. The fatherspeaks to his children in Spanish, settling them down to watchShrek 2 on DVD.

Martfn Jr. responds in an English-Spanish hybrid, throwing inAmerican slang whenever he sees fit. "Sometimes I get confusedbetween English and Spanish," he says. "It's real hard for me."

But Ortiz won't take that for an answer. "I don't want my kids toforget my language," she says. So when Martfn Jr. starts addingEnglish words to Spanish sentences, saying things like "Mami,yo necesito clothes," Ortiz shakes her head. "I say, 'Tell me enEspano/,'" she says, adding that holding onto his language isessential for him to retain his Mexican heritage.

"Es diferente aquf," Ortiz says - it's different here. Americanchildren leave their families as soon as they grow up. They stopgoing to church. They stop calling home. They stop making friends

with their neighbors and taking care of their elders. They forgetwhere they're from.

She doesn't want that to happen with Martfn Jr., but she does wanthim to take advantage of the opportunities she sees in Oregon. Shedreams that one day her eldest son will go to college and become

"If you speak Spanish,you can help more people.

I crossed the border. Iwork so hard - I workso hard so you can go to

school. jj

adoctor or a lawyer - something important, with lots of education,where he can use his heritage to help other Latinos.

So far, Ortiz's dream seems to be coming true. Her son does well inschool; he brings home honor certificates and talks about college.

Ortiz knows this could change in afew years, when Martfn Jr. entershigh school, but she tries not to think about that. "I don't worry toomuch because I know him," she says - she knows he won't showup with a lackluster report card or adetention slip in hand. Instead,Martfn Jr. comes home boasting that his teacher asked for helptranslating words into Spanish.

This clearly makes her proud. After twelve years of working with noisymachinery and sizzling oil vats, Ortiz's face lights up when thinkingabout the doors that are open to her son. "If you speak Spanish, youcan help more people," she tells him. "I crossed the border. I workso hard - I work so hard so you can go to schooL"

LA FRONTERA

O na late night in 1992, after the desert sun had set and acrisp, dry coldness had set in the Nogales air, Ortiz crossed /a

frontera, the Mexico-Arizona border. Not quite sixteen years old, shehad married Martfn some months before. While he waited for herin Monroe, she traveled from her parents' home near Guadalajara,in the state of Jalisco, to cross the Rfo Grande alone, sinking chestdeep into murky brown water that froze her small frame to thecore. For fifteen minutes, she waded through the cloudy, dirty river,terrified of what - or who - might be waiting for her in the night.

ABOVE_Outside their Junction City housesit (from left): Jylene, Martfn Sr., Abraham,

Liliana, and Martfn Jr.

OPPOSITE PAGE_Ortiz and afellow churchmember converse over tamales at aSunday

church gathering.

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ABOVE_Ortiz kisses her youngestson, Abraham.

She rose from the water on the other bank, touching Americansoil for the first time. Her body shook with cold and fear asshe looked around for the coyote, the helper who would takeher away from the danger of the border. He wasn't there. Withnowhere else to go, Ortiz sat at the river's edge, shivering andwet, and waited.

The coyote eventually showed up, taking her to her brother-in-law,who brought her to Monroe. Although her husband had his workvisa before the couple got married, it took the United States twoyears to process Ortiz's papers. In the meantime, she had to livein the shadows.

Isolated in anew land and unable to speak English, Ortiz foundherself terrified of interacting with strangers. Her first trip to thegrocery store, asimple errand to pick up aluminum foil, turneddisastrous when she couldn't read the packaging. She felt as if thewhole world was staring at her as she muddled her way throughthe market; she felt unwelcome, strange, and out of place. It wasthen that she went to work with her husband, finding seasonal jobsharvesting Christmas trees in the fertile valley around Monroe.

"There's a big Mexicanpopulation here ­

nobody's serving them. "

When she first arrived in the tiny farming town, Ortiz remembersjust two or three immigrant families living there, all of themfrom the same area of Jalisco as herself. Most of them wereseasonal laborers or temporary workers - like Ortiz, people whohad crossed the border for a better future - and many of themstruggled with English.

Determined to learn the language of her new land, Ortiz begantaking lessons from awoman she worked with. Her English still isn'tperfect, but it has improved greatly in the months since she startedworking at Country Coach. Once she gets warmed up, the sentencesfly out. This is not awoman who likes to stay silent.

Ortiz got pregnant during that first year, and about two years afterarriving, when Martin Jr. was ababy, the family moved to JunctionCity to settle down. But the Monroe they left - apoor town, itsformerly picturesque buildings beginning to sag under the weight ofadeclining farming economy - is not the same as the Monroe of adecade later, the place that agrowing Latino population calls home.

LA COMUNIDAD

T he drive from Junction City's car dealerships andmanufacturing facilities to downtown Monroe takes less than

ten minutes on U.S. 99, the winding north-south route now largelyabandoned for the interstate to the east. Nestled between lushfarmland and tree farms, asmall pocket of businesses - adrive­through coffee stand, a Dari-Mart - adorns aone-mile stretch ofthe highway. Tucked into the edge of asmall strip mall at the northend of town is La Poderosa, astore catering to this burgeoningcommunity. Meaning "the powerful" in Spanish, La Poderosasells Mexican foods, videos, and calling cards good for phoning the

country. Inside, cheap displays piled with everything from masa(corn flour used for tortillas) to Mexican shampoos and lotions linethe tiled floor. Arefrigerated case carries Coca-Cola and Jarritos, aMexican soda.

Rosa Munoz relaxes at the front of the store, her eighteen-month-olddaughter, Itzel, running around the shelves and racks by her side.She opened La Poderosa in August 2004 with her husband, RafaelAyala, after seeing how large the Latino population in Monroe hadbecome. They don't live in Monroe - their home is in Corvallis, sometwenty miles to the north - but Munoz was interested in reachingout to this somewhat isolated town.

"There's abig Mexican population here - nobody's serving them," shesays, pointing across the highway toward the residential part of town."Even though it's just a little Mexican store, it's apolitical action."In contrast to the hostile-feeling grocery store Ortiz encounteredtwelve years before, La Poderosa aims to be awelcoming, safe placefor Latinos to get ataste of home. In addition to selling householdgoods, Munoz also volunteers her services as anotary and translatorto those who need help with things such as immigration paperwork

- skills she learned at Oregon State University, where she earned abachelor's degree in health and human services in 2004.

Unlike Ortiz, Munoz was born aU.S. citizen. Her mother crossedthe border as a pregnant teen turned out of her parents' home andeventually settled in Eastern Oregon when Munoz was seven. Sheremembers her mother working long factory shifts back then, toilingfor hours to make ends meet. Her mother never had time to teachher kids about tradition, Munoz says, and so it slipped away.

At seventeen, Munoz was a mother herself. By twenty, she hadtwo children. Now, at twenty-six, she is the mother of three, eachwith adifferent father. "I had aproblem as far as not really beingcommitted to one individual because in this society you're raisedto say, 'If we can't communicate, let's just split up,'" she says. Butwhen she met Ayala six years ago, shortly after her second child wasborn, things changed.

"There have probably been, like, amillion times that I wanted toleave her dad," she says, nodding toward Itzel. But she hasn't. "WhenI met him, I realized how important the family is."

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ABOVE_latino and Anglo youth peer into aduckling-filled font at aSaint Helen's FirstCommunion ceremony.

OPPOSITE PAGE_ Ortiz serves tamales whilevolunteering at aSunday church gathering.

Unlike Munoz and the men she used to date, Ayala grew upin Mexico, where family ties and marriage bonds are nearlyunbreakable. He crossed the border illegally to settle in Corvallis,where many of his family members live. At one point, he was caughtcrossing and was deported. Now, even though he and Munoz arelegally married, he's still undocumented. Because of the offense, theUnited States will not grant him immigration rights unless he candocument himself living in Mexico for afull decade.

Although Ayala lives here without papers, the couple has builta life here - a life where, like Ortiz's, keeping the Spanishlanguage alive is essential. When her eldest child was young,Munoz spoke English at home. Even now, at nine years old, herson sometimes refuses to speak Spanish. When he does speakEnglish, Munoz just looks at him with mock confusion and says"No entiendo" - I don't understand.

She and Ayala only speak Spanish at home now, and the family iseven considering moving back to Mexico to immerse the kids in theculture of their families. She worries that if they stay here, the samethings will happen to Itzel that happened to her: bad relationshipsand misplaced priorities.

"People from Mexico come here with adream," she says. "But theydon't understand that the price they're going to pay is a big one.Family values begin to change." She purses her darkly lined lips,rolling her eyes as she brushes wisps of hair away from her lashes.She knows she's living proof of the high price of changing values- proof that without daily struggle, her Mexican heritage could onceagain disappear.

"It's acontradiction - we're Mexican and we're supposed to be kindof American at the same time," she sighs. But Munoz still attemptsto bridge that gap, giving her children the tradition she lacked.This struggle is exactly what Ortiz is trying to avoid for her children.She doesn't want to see her kids forget her language, only to havethem realize decades later how much more they really lost. Instead,she adheres to tradition - and encourages the Latino community todo the same.

LA TRADICION

Back at Saint Helen's, Spanish Mass has ended and FatherCharles is preparing for the next morning's English services.

As the families put on their coats and scarves and collect their

children, Ortiz gets achance to talk with the priest about her plansfor the feast for the Virgin of Guadalupe on December 12.

The celebration commemorates an apparition of Mary in front of anindigenous man in 1531, shortly after the fall of the Aztec empire,

"People from Mexicocome here with a dream.

But they don't understandthat the price they're

going to pay is a big one."

near present-day Mexico City. The legend holds that a heavenlybeing appeared before the man, telling him that she was the Motherof God and instructing him to build achurch on the site. EachDecember, Latin American Catholics celebrate her appearance withearly morning feasts, flowers, and aserenade tothe Virgin Mother.

Last year, the church celebrated the holidaywith asmall fiesta. But this year, December 12falls on aSunday, and Ortiz is more excited thanever. Her cheeks glow and her eyes shine whenshe talks about her preparations for the event,which is seldom celebrated in American Catholicchurches. At Father Charles's suggestion, thechurch will invite the English-speak~ng membersto participate in the celebration, which willinclude afeast, music, and aSunday morningMass held in Spanish only.

For Ortiz, this is the crux of her work: to get theLatinos involved - to bring Mexican traditions alivein anew place - without creating awall betweenthe two cultures. Her American Dream isn't justwall-to-wall carpeting in asuburban home. Nor isit just financial security and abetter tomorrow forher kids. It's all of those things - and everythingshe took with her from Mexico. It's recognizing thatMexican heritage and the American way don't haveto be mutually exclusive.

The celebration for the Virgin of Guadalupe isOrtiz's hallmark achievement in the marriagebetween the two cultures - acrossroads of

tradition and assimilation - and she's facing the challenge, asusual, with asmile. "I want to help the people," she explainssimply, before noticing two families still waiting by the door of thechurch. She excuses herself from the preparations with FatherCharles and turns to help them, quickly ascertaining in aseries ofSpanish queries that there are two boys who need to be enrolled inthe church's First Communion classes. In the past year, the churchhas performed sixteen such communions for Latino youth, and thisspring, Ortiz plans to be involved with at least five more, instructingSpanish-speaking parents in their responsibilities and incorporatingLatino traditions into the ceremony.

While Ortiz informs the parents of what to expect, Fat~er Charlesbegins to talk about the Spanish-speaking community. "Hispanicsfeel like outsiders looking in," he says. He stops mid-sentence, and,turning to Ortiz, asks, "Which is correct, Latino or Hispanic?"

"It doesn't matter. It's the same," she replies with a laugh - as ifsemantics meant much to her. But Martin Jr. looks up, sticks outhis chest, and proclaims his preference: "I'm a Latino," he says witha proud swagger. The look on Ortiz's face shows that it makes herproud, too.•

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ike any living thing, the riverchanges. During the winter, onemay find it swollen and pushingto escape its borders. In summer

months, it may dry up to astream. It dancesto its own rhythm through the forests that lineits banks. But the secrets that lie beneath theriver's surface truly arouse its spirit.

The Little White Salmon River is breathtaking;its icy blue waters roar over boulders andfalls. But the river is legendary for more thanits looks. Frigid temperatures, swift currents,sudden drops, and hidden caves make this riverajoy ride for some and adeathtrap for others.

The Little White, which flows into the ColumbiaRiver Gorge about an hour east of Portland,Oregon, is only for true Class Vkayakers.

Spirit Falls, the run's highlight, is a dangerousthirty-three-foot plunge near the end of thetrip. In the last three years, at least fivepaddlers have broken their backs from landingtoo flat in the pool beneath the falls. Lastsummer, avisitor from Norway smashed hisface on the rock wall, resulting in a crushedjaw and the need for reconstru live facialsurgery. Despite these dang e Lit~fe

White attracts world-ctass paddlers to itswinding, raging current.

RIGHT_Andrew Maser leaves Spirit's lip.

ABOVE_Jesse Bierman and friends carry theirgear to the river to put in.

OPPOSITE PAGE_Ben Rieff adjusts for thelanding halfway down Spirit Falls.

PREVIOUS PAGE_Paul Heffernan dives off theLittle White's thirty-three-foot-high Spirit Falls.

Paul Heffernan, thirty-one, says he has noparticular ritual before running the falls. "I justhave to want to do it. I listen to whatever mybody and head are telling me." Heffernan alsosays if it weren't for the "comfortable anxiety" heexperiences when kayaking, he probably wouldn'tdo it. "I might just hike instead," he says.

Before attempting an especially difficultrun such as Spirit Falls, it is common for

kayakers to scout the drop for any potentialhazards and mentally fortify themselves for theexperience. Billy Jones, twenty-nine, says heprepares himself by visualizing what he wants todo. "I just close my eyes and imagine," he says.

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Jones says he loves kayaking primarily becauseof the rivers. He believes there is apsychic

connection between the human body, which ismostly made up of water, and the river. "How youthink affects how you kayak," says Jones. "Water isreceptive to subtle energies. It's the only mediumwhere you can get that kind of action, you dig?"

H effernan loves everything about kayaking,from the friends to the forest. "It's been

in my blood for awhile. I don't know how muchI need it for my personality, or if my personalityneeds kayaking. I just love to do it," he says.Heffernan began kayaking at age fifteen withhis father in the waters of the AppalachianMountains, near his hometown of Bristol, Virginia.Last fall, his father died in a kayaking accident.Yet he can't imagine not kayaking because theriver forms his only connection to his father,he says.

Many kayakers seem to feel aspecial bond withthe Little White. "It's easy to get to, and it hasunparalleled action," Jones says. "It's so goodyou could do it for years and not be bored." He

says he believes that there is only one other riverin the country that compares to the Little White:the Green River near Asheville, North Carolina."So many kayakers wish they had this kind ofquality in their backyards," says Jones. Heffernanagrees. He says that although the Little White isnot his personal favorite, "it's the best bang foryour buck."

To safely navigate the Little White, kayakers musttake the time to learn its secrets. They mustunderstand the power of the river and its abilityto evolve. Most of all, kayakers must respect theriver, which holds their lives in its hands.•

RIGHT_Travis Winn treats acut with iodineafter he smacked his nose with his paddle

when he landed the falls too flat.

ABOVE_Back on land, Billy Jones reflects onhis earlier run.

OPPOSITE PAGE_Spirit Falls is the heart of theLittle White for thrill-seekers.

story_Aleta Cadwalladerphotography_Ben Anderson

of Honey;

of SteelDr. Muhammad Asim Khan defies his debilitatingdisease to treat the illness of others

ive them to old men who look like me. Don't give them to thehealthy, young guys," Dr. Muhammad Asim Khan said through aclearPakistani accent across the crowded Newmark Theatre lobby to theconference director as she hurried to give away extra tickets to hislecture. He smiled through athick black mustache tinseled with a

few gray hairs, and his shrinking frame hardly filled out his heavy winter coat. Hunchedover, he limped toward the theater doors, looking up through his giant cinnamon­colored eyes to direct his short steps.

Khan traveled two thousand miles from Cleveland to a Portland, Oregon, medicalconvention to present clinical research on atreatment that can halt the progression ofand reverse deformities caused by afatal disease. But the treatment has come too latefor Khan. His disease has progressed so far that it would do little to improve his health.

lEFT_Having spent his youth in Pakistan,Dr. Muhammad Asim Khan now practicesmedicine in the United States, treating thedisease he knows so intimately.

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BELOW_A condition informally known as"bamboo spine" fuses the hips, spine, ribs,and skull of some AS patients and limits thedistance Khan can walk.

OPPOSITE PAGE_Khan advises an AS patienton how to prevent deformities like his own.

K han has Ankylosing Spondylitis (AS, pronounced ang-ki­LO-sing spon-dl-I-tis), an immobilizing disease that has

completely fused his spine and skull, causing him to stoopdrastically forward. Achronic inflammatory disease prevalent inmales, AS usually develops in the teenage or early adult years ofgenetically predisposed people. Inflammation in the joints betweenbones, such as the vertebrae, causes the ligaments and discs tocalcify and harden. AS has fused Khan's pelvis and rib cage to hisspine, up through each vertebra to his skull. His spine is lockedinto one long bamboo-like rod so that he cannot turn his head ornod - or even stand up on his own after kneeling down to pick up apiece of paper from the floor.

Khan knows that carrying thisdisease means decreasedmobility for the rest of his life.It also can and probably willkill him one day. AS causesmany complications, includingabnormal and failing heartvalves. Like those of manyother AS patients, Khan's ribscan no longer hinge open onhis spine. If he were to haveaheart attack, paramedicswould be unable to compresshis chest enough to resuscitatehim. Asimple fender-bendercould crack the brittle, hollowstraw that is his spine, andthe resulting serrated edgescould sever the spinal cordinside, leaving him paralyzed.Or it could stop his alreadycompromised heart.

The condition's complicationsare nothing new to Khan. Hehas suffered the pain andproblems of AS for almost fiftyof his sixty-one years.

BLOOD OF HONEY

When the British grantedIndia's independence

in 1946, Calcutta erupted inviolence. Muslims and Hindusdemanded independent states.Northern India partitioned

into a Muslim Pakistan, and millions of refugees, left homelessfrom the violence, migrated across the nation. At three years of age,Khan fled with his family from India to Pakistan, carried across thedesert in the back of a moving van. During the next decade, thePakistani government established small clinics in rural areas of thenew country, but it inherited the only hospital in the border city ofLahore, Pakistan, where Khan's family settled. The country that tookin Khan's family and provided him free education and medical carebattled its neighbor over the disputed Kashmir region during the firstdecades of his life.

Neither his age nor hisillness would hold himback. He never failed a

class and never took timeoff for the pain.

At twelve, Khan started to notice pain and stiffness in his back butthought little of it. The symptoms hardly inconvenienced him then- they were just tiny obstacles in his everyday life. The pain limitedhis flexibility and affected his skill at sports, but Khan found waysto manage. Children all around him played cricket, running andthrowing the ball. Khan chose afielding position close to the wicketthat required him to run less. He soon learned that by practicinghonest umpiring, his peers would choose him to fill the stationaryposition. Being brutally honest was already in his nature. "I couldnever be apolitician. I am as straight as an arrow, even though Ihave ahumped back," Khan says, chuckling.

As achild, Khan couldn't twist his back to chase and slip throughwindows like the other boys. Instead, the twelve-year-old jumpedoff three-story-high walls when others would not. In retrospect, hisbravery probably worsened the condition of his hips, Khan says.

As the young boy grew into adolescence, his symptoms worsened.He finally admitted to the other boys that his back hurt most of thetime. To recompense his pride, he began to excel academically. Histeachers skipped him ahead twice.

When the back pain sharpened and spread from his tailboneupward, Khan's parents searched out the chief of orthopedics at thelocal hospital, the highest-held medical opinion available to them.Rheumatologists (arthritis specialists) were unheard of in Pakistan.Similar symptoms shared by tuberculosis (TB) patients, including hipand chest pain, led the doctor to prescribe anti-TB drugs and order

frequent bed rests and hospitalizations. Because exercise is crucialto keeping the joints mobile, Khan's pain only worsened.

Along year passed. The anti-TB medication did nothing to help therestless child. His doctor ran out of solutions and never reached aproper diagnosis.

By the time Khan was sixteen years old, his doctor sought anythingthat might help relieve the pain. He intravenously injected Khanwith honey imported from West Germany; many Muslims believe, asit is written in the Qur'an, that honey has aspecial ability to healailments and cure diseases. Risk always accompanies the injectionof foreign substances into the blood stream, though. Howeverharmless it turned out to be, this treatment also proved worthless.

"All the honey I got - that's why I'm so sweet," Khan teases.

While still sixteen, Khan attended the King Edward Medical Collegein Lahore as the youngest in his class. For the first two years he heldthe highest placement in his class, despite the chronic pain. Neitherhis age nor his illness would hold him back. When Khan lost theability to lift his leg high enough to ride his bike to medical school,

he purchased aVespa - a motorized scooter designed for girls inskirts. During hospitalizations, he would climb out of his hospitalbed onto the Vespa, parked next to him, ride through the hospitalhalls to class, and then return directly to the hospital bed. He neverfailed aclass and never took time off for the pain.

Khan was in his third year of medical school and attending roundswith clinicians when his life changed dramatically. He met aprofessor who examined him, listened to the student tell his medicalhistory, and diagnosed him with AS. The professor immediatelyprescribed phenylbutazine, a non-steroidal anti-inflammatory thatdramatically affected his symptoms. The next day, Khan began toride his bicycle again, and within weeks he was even able to run.

BONES OF STEEL

A fter graduating medical school at the age of twenty-one, Khanmade plans to continue his education by studying amedical

specialty overseas. That year, though, Pakistan entered asecond warwith India over Kashmir. Khan felt spurred to serve the country thathad accepted his family as refugees eighteen years prior and hadprovided him with afree medical education.

(.(.1 won't

mindcomIngback to

this worldsufferingfrom this

diseaseagain. "

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Ankylosing SpondylitisExplained

Healthy vertebra

Once the disease is properlydiagnosed, a rheumatologistcan prescribe treatmentssuch as medication, exercise,physical therapy, good posturepractices to help preventthe forward-stooping effect,and, in some cases, surgeryto heal fractures and replacedamaged joints. Treatmentby medication can causeharmful side effects, such asdamage to the gastrointestinaltract, so rheumatologists onlyprescribe these medicationswhen the benefits (reducedinflammation and increasedmobility) outweigh the risks.

triggering environmental factor(such as abacterial infection)are needed to activate AS insusceptible people.

Diseased vertebra

Ankylosing Spondylitisaffects at least one in

two hundred adults, mostlymen. At least ahalf amillionpeople in the United Statesare diagnosed with AS, butbecause it is difficult toidentify, its prevalence is surelygreater than the numbersreveal. The condition afflictsmore people than multiplesclerosis, cystic fibrosis,and lou Gherig's diseasecombined. It can damagejoints, such as hips andshoulders, as well as otherareas of the body includingthe eyes, heart, and lungs.Some patients' spines hardeninto one brittle pole when theligaments and discs betweenthe vertebrae fuse together(illustration). Most patientsendure symptoms for yearsbefore receiving acorrectdiagnosis.

The exact cause of AS isunknown but scientists havediscovered that genetics playamajor role. Ninety-five percentof patients have agene thatproduces a"genetic marker"called HLA-B27, but a persondoesn't have to harbor thismarker to have AS. In fact,the majority of people withHLA-B27 do not develop thecondition. Other genes and a

For Khan as apatient, this revelation comes too late. Hisdisease has advanced so far that his spine is already fused. Theinflammation has nothing left to destroy, and the drugs can't returnwhat AS has taken away.

Last year, Khan celebrated thirty years in the United Statesand nearly athird of acentury working with AS. At the medicalconference in Portland, Khan couldn't walk the ten city blocks fromthe Multnomah Hotel to the Newmark Theatre. He took the shuttle.But every day, Khan shuffles tiny steps toward eradicating his owndeforming disease, knowing that although the cure he pursued formore than athird of acentury has passed him by, it remains, thanksin part to his efforts, within reach of many of his patients.•

"I won't mind coming back to this world suffering from this diseaseagain," he says.

As apatient and adoctor, Khan never expected to see acure in hislifetime. Although the new biologic treatments are not atrue cure,they are still overwhelmingly effective, Khan emphasizes.

For Khan's colleagues, his diligence is as impressive as hisaccomplishments. "Not everyone can handle their illness and keepgoing like he can. You have to be especially tough and especiallysmart," says friend and rheumatologist Cody Wasner, M.D., who hasseen many patients become unemployed due to depressionand immobility.

Today, Khan works continuously so that his patients' immobilitywill no longer mean death. Because the new AS drugs work againstinflammation and the immune system, they are risky and expensive.Some patients have rare, immediate allergic reactions to themedication. Some patients' hearts stop. The most common dangerof these life-altering drugs is severe, potentially fatal infections thatcan't be staved off by aweakened immune system. Khan travels theworld teaching other rheumatologists the parameters in which toadminister these drugs so that the medications improve the lives ofAS patients, not threaten them.

receptors (structures in cell walls) for cytokines (small moleculesthat communicate between cells) and later investigated their rolein the inflammatory response. In the last seven years, researchershave discovered that by blocking one of these communicators,the inflammatory response that causes the destruction andcalcification in the joints of rheumatic disease patients can slowdown or even stop. By pinpointing the mechanisms of rheumaticdisease on a microcellular level, scientists could finally design adrug to block that receptor, halt disease progression, and reversedeformities. In 2003, the Food and Drug Administration announcedthe approval of abiologic drug for treatment in AnkylosingSpondylitis - avirtual cure.

FACING THE ANSWER

For five months, Khan slept sitting up. Despite his efforts, thefracture did not fuse on its own and Khan underwent surgeryto manually fuse it. The determined doctor continued to seehis patients. One frustrated and pain-ridden patient waited sixmonths to see Khan for his own rheumatic disease. As the disabledrheumatologist carefully pushed the door open and entered theexamination room, the patient told him that by seeing his owndoctor struggling in the medical halo, suddenly he didn't feel asbad. Following his spinal surgery, Khan wore the halo for three moremonths.

The inflammation hasnothing left to destroy,

and the drugs can't returnwhat AS has taken away.

T h~ landscape ~f rheumato~ogy has i~proved Sig~ificantly. Withbiotechnology In gene coding advanCing dramatically during

the late 80s and throughout the next decade, researchers found the

Meanwhile, Khan endured atotal hip-joint replacement, giving himbones of steel. His surgeons replaced his brittle bones with metalprostheses. Today, years after this major surgery, the rheumatologistshuffles with aside-step gait.

Soon after his hip surgery, his doctors found afracture in his cervicalspine, near the skull. They ordered him to wear amedical halo andvest, aseven-pound metal ring that doctors screwed into his skullto immobilize his neck so that the fracture could fuse and wouldn'tsever his spinal cord. Khan felt that the vest was too loose. He couldtwist and lean his neck too far, and he worried that the fracturewould not heal. His doctor assured him that it was fine.

position, but Khan landed in Cleveland on his own terms. There hechose to study rheumatology - the subspecialty he was so intimatelyfamiliar with as apatient - and began research on AS.

That decade, medical advancements in the human genome projectlinked agenetic marker, HLA-B27, to AS. Researchers like Khan andhis team were busy discovering why some people were predisposedto the illness and how that translated from DNA to disease.

By the 1970s, Khan decided to move to the United States toadvance his academic career. Some of his classmates had alreadyestablished themselves there and would be able to offer him a

The summer after the new physician finished his service in 1967, hearrived in London for his postgraduate medical studies. Cardiologywas his first choice, but he knew that with his limited ability to bend,twist, and even walk smoothly, he would eventually be unable to leanover to administer CPR to resuscitate his patients. Instead, he choseorthopedics, knowing that one day he, too, would be under the knifefor atotal hip arthroplasty - asurgical procedure that reconstructsjoints using metal implants.

Khan served on the front line, stitching up army casualties. Atnight, when the soldiers advanced the line through the desert,Khan marched with them, opting not to ride in the air-conditionedambulance. The ambulance was for patients, he insisted. Whensoldiers asked how they could get a ride, he sarcastically suggestedthey break their own legs.

"Come on, you want me to do all that again?" Khan askeddiscouragingly. The doctor dismissed the task, and Khan slipped intothe corps.

Adiagnosis of AS would surely keep the former refugee from servingin the Pakistan Army Medical Corps. But, during a routine physicalto check soldiers for common physical ailments such as an irregularheartbeat or flat feet, the attending army physician forgot to checkthe mobility of his spine. The doctor remembered as Khan wasfastening his last shirt button and asked him to undress again.

BElOW_Despite his limited mobility, Khanoften dedicates more than nine hours aday topracticing medicine.

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THE

Fantasy meets reality in the Society for Creative Anachronismstory_Ally Burguieresphotography_Sam Karp_Crispin Young

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Iba's pre-society life in the Los Angeles suburbs was one ofquiet desperation. "I had nowhere I was going in my life,

nothing that was going on," he says. The organization has beenhis vehicle of escape from loneliness and awkwardness. "When Icreated that character [Captain Ramirez], I gave him astory thatwould lead to the existence of all the traits I felt were lacking in mylife," Alba says. "He would be charming, gregarious, clever, dashing,dependable, trusting - and social."

strays, the unsuspecting friends of afriend who have no idea thatthey're surrounded by people with lavish pseudonyms and sharpfencing skills. Nor do they know the humble home they have crasheddoubles as a merchant ship named "The Devil's Whore."

Alba recalls having a miserable time at the first events he attended.Later, when he discovered that he could create an alter ego withinthe society, Alba began to see the benefits of the SCA. Eventually,

THE EARLY YEARS

Two-and-a-half years since the creation of Captain Ramirez, Albasays he can now claim those traits as his own. The loud and heavilyattended parties he often throws in his modest two-bedroom housesupport this declaration. The dependable members of his "crew,"the core group of friends that participates with Alba in officialevents, also attend his informal fetes. Alba maintains that hismain goal, within the SCA and as an informal host, is to help othersfind the confidence and social contentment he struggled so longto obtain.

he Kingdom of An Tir stretches across thickevergreen forests and boasts wild rivers that cutthrough mountain gorges with reckless abandon.In this land of fantasy and intrigue, chivalry isprized and positions of power are seized with the

tip of asword (and likely aflair of lace). Here, feasts, games, andgreat drunken parties reign supreme. Welcome to An Tir - otherwiseknown as Oregon, Washington, the northern tip of Idaho, and partsof Canada.

Outside of the society, members are students, waiters, historians,doctors - jobs more fitting for this century than the positions mostmembers hold within the society. Although there are some who buildsocial worlds and maintain lucrative businesses entirely within theSCA, there are also those who participate in societal activities onlyonce ayear. Even the most casual member can register an SCAname, afictional history, and acoat of arms.

Rob Alba, athirty-three-year-old resident of Eugene, Oregon, embod­ies the alter ego of Captain Juan Ramirez and has participated inSCA events for nearly adecade. In his own history, Alba was not verysocial. But now, he considers bringing people together his greatesttalent. His smile broadens as he gazes across his living room,packed with fellow society members. Among the crowd are afew

OPPOSITE PAGE_Beneath aheavy coat ofarmor, Sir Ambrose engages in heavy-fighting.Armor is often built by hand, and the mostmeticulously crafted pieces can take morethan forty hours to construct.

The year is Anno Societatis XXXIX. The thirty thousand members ofthe Society for Creative Anachronism (SCA) spend their weekdays inthe present and much of their weekends and nights recreating thelifestyle of pre-seventeenth-century Europe.

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When themast is up,"there isn't

a singleperson

aboard whodoesn't

stop, lookup at the

rigging, and'~VT fsay, wow.

Look whatI belong

t '"o.

RIGHT_Two society members cross swordsbeneath abridge in Eugene. The winner isdecided when afighter concedes that ablowlanded by an opponent was of sufficient forceto have caused death.

his newfound congeniality allowed him to give back to the society byhelping those who also needed ashepherd in the social sphere.

Luke Langstraat is one crew member who appreciates Alba's efforts.After the workday, he transforms from a Federal Credit Union teller inhis mid-twenties (with a degree in exercise and movement science)to Andrew Crowe, an Englishman aboard asixteenth-century Dutchgalleon with the manual dexterity necessary to tie amean knot (anessential talent if the ship is to be seaworthy). "Luke used to beso quiet," says Kori Beyer, another crew member who shares Alba'sgoals of bringing out the extrovert in everyone.

"We're not very good at letting people stay in their shell," says Alba.He states his goals are to "bring people in and not have them feellike I did those first three or so years." To build community, officialSCA events usually involve camping, feasting, and drinking - alldone with apre-seventeenth-century panache. For Alba's crew,they also involve raising afifty-foot wooden mast on the crew'scampsite. When the mast is up, "there isn't asingle person aboardwho doesn't stop, look up at the rigging, and say, 'Wow! Look what Ibelong to,'" Alba says.

THE MIDDLE AGES

B eau Gardiepy was recently elected for athree-year term asBaron of Adiantum, a province that includes Eugene and the

surrounding area. The thirty-three-year-old spent fifteen years asa bodyguard but is now afull-time student training to becoming aphysical therapist. Akind, courteous man who speaks with confi­dence, Gardiepy takes his job as baron seriously. "Here in Adiantum,

we're aworking barony," he says, his leather jacket wrapped aroundhis thick frame. "For the people, by the people. My job is to getbehind the people, to encourage them."

After becoming involved in the SCA when afriend held awedding atan SCA event about six years ago, Gardiepy gradually came to seethe society as an organization that offers unlimited enrichment andenjoyment for adiverse group of people. "There is literally anythingto catch your fancy," Gardiepy says, noting that people who jointhe group can explore skills and develop talents such as carpentry,metalwork, alchemy, nobility, and myriad other trades and positionsof authority.

Viscountess Magistra Marian Staarveld, who in the "real world"answers to the name Marian Harris, has served as baroness in thepast and recognizes the challenges Gardiepy faces. The king ownsthe land, but the baron and baroness manage it and serve as aresource for the people. "It's the job of the baron and baroness tomake sure that the populace is happy, well-fed, productive, and hassomeone they can go to when they have problems within the SCA,"Harris says. Her boyfriend, Sir Ambrose, who once served alongsideher as the baron, adds that the perks, while strong within the SCA,rarely extend beyond its borders. "My comparison is that it's like be­ing president of the local Moose lodge," he says. "You're a big manin the Moose lodge and your own town, and you get a lot of respect,or at least minimal respect, from Meese [sic] the world over - butit doesn't matter to anybody else. [In you get stopped by the police,they're not going to care that you're Baron of Adiantum."

Although Gardiepy finds the task fulfilling, he concedes it's notalways awalk in the park. "Sometimes thecoronet can be very heavy," he says with aslightlyweathered smile. The pressures are easier to bearthan those of his previous job, however, where hehad been stabbed and shot at.

THELATER YEARS

S ir Ambrose peeks with stony brown eyesfrom beneath long silver eyebrows. His slight

shoulders and small stature are hidden beneath abulky coat of armor. With a pipe or a pointed hat,he could be Gandalf or Merlin. Tonight, with hismetal helmet equivalent in weight to a medium­sized dog, he is a heavy-fighter.

Wednesday nights, under aconcrete bridge inEugene, silhouettes brandish swords and sticksin intricate fights that centuries ago might havedecided the fates of countries. Within the SCA,

fencing tournaments determine positions of power in the society'seighteen kingdoms. But unofficial meetings such as these are merelychances for fencers and fighters to flaunt their skills and engagein sport.

While the fencing is relatively tame (an honor-based sport morefocused on flair than brute strength), heavy-fighting, the darker,more dangerous brother of fencing, evokes combat styles from theMiddle Ages. Langstraat describes heavy-fighting as "guys in heavyarmor beating the crap out of each other with pieces of wood andstuff."

Ambrose has nearly twenty-four years of fighting under his belt(which is white, incidentally - to signify his stature as a knight). Hesparkles with an energy that could be a result of the intense physicalconditioning demanded of him as afighter. But his glow may alsobe the result of something much simpler - heavy-fighting makeshim happy.

Late in 1982, Ambrose (also known as Karl Kokensparger) oftenpassed the heavy-fighters under the Eugene bridge. One day, whilewalking to a meeting (he won't say where - "That's in the past"), hedecided to change his life. "I just thought to myself, 'They look likethey're having more fun than I am!'"

Although entertaining, heavy-fighting poses significant risks. "I stickwith fencing," says the younger but more reserved Langstraat,"because heavy-fighting leads to broken bones." He pauses, thenadds, "And we're prettier," referring to the lacey garb of fencers.

"We stay true to the way it was [in the Middle Ages] ," says Gardiepy

of heavy-fighting, "right down tothe helmets made of metaL" Thehelmets can weigh from fifteento twenty pounds, and althoughthey're worn in addition toother armor, the risk of injuryis still high. After one intensefight, Gardiepy needed shoulderreconstruction. "I was fightingtwo other guys, and, basically,he took acheap shot," Gardiepysays of the opponent who brokehis shoulder. "He came from theblind spot. The chivalrous thingto do would have been to an­nounce himself."This cheap shotresulted in aslew of surgeries.'There've been people who havehad their necks broken, knees

blown out, backs severely injured - it's adangerous sport."

Ambrose explains through his wispy storm cloud of abeard thatheavy-fighting schools used to be prevalent in big cities like London,until the crown started fearing for its head. That civilians would havethe skills to defeat a king in combat was understandably worri­some to any monarch, so schools were shut down and fighting wasforbidden. Perhaps another secret to Ambrose's mischievous smirk isthe knowledge that he's defying a royal decree, no matter how manycenturies the order has been moot. Without further ado, he dons hishelmet, grabs his sword, andprepares to fight.

Asthe you nger crowdparties in historical garb

and the unconventional athletesharpens his sword skills, akey element of the SCA isilluminated: the organizationappeals to all types of people."It's awhole little world," saysLangstraat. And, although thisfantastical world seems tohave little in common with themodern world occupied bymost, the social need remainsthe same: people seek hap­piness, be it by mastering asport, finding acore groupof friends, or sailing into thesunset on a Dutch galleon.•

BELOW_ Society member Amy Carpenterprepares dessert while adhering to

centuries-old cooking methods - andplastic wrap.

ABOVE_Dancing concludes aday dedicatedto learning the roles and traditions of

heralds in pre-seventeenth-century societies.

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"They don't replant the broadleaf forest they log with broadleafforest," he says, unconsciously slapping amosquito from his arm.Faster-growing pine trees, which are native in parts of Belize,generally replace the logged jungle, says Cucul. The sight of diversejungle adjacent to groves of pine trees is not only counterintuitiveand unsettling, but the replanting also leaves the jungle morehomogeneous. If left unchecked, these intrusive species canoverwhelm native plants.

One by one, each hiker grabs the rope and descendsinto the cave. Cucul, Leemhuis, and de Gouwbegin down anarrow passage, carefully.lowering their heads to dodge the glitteringstalactites that hang from the ceiling.

After ashort break, Cuculleads ascramble down aseries oflimestone boulders. As he descends into the chamber, the stale airmuffles sound like athick layer of snow. White limestone formationsthat could adorn the walls of agrand cathedral glow softly inthe daylight, which still illuminates the chamber. At whatappears to be adead end, Cucul stops, flickson his headlamp, and removes climbing gear fromhis backpack.

he discusses the faults of Belize's conservation policies.

, welcome to Xilbalba," Cucul says, as the trail plateaus atthe entrance of Mountain Cow. The Mayan word means "a

place of fright" and refers to all entrances to the underworld, suchas acave.

Soon, Cucul pauses near acalcified humanskull that most likely dates back to the Lateto Terminal Classic period of the MayanEmpire - approximately 1,200 years ago. ,It is the only known skull in the park, and itspresence is an anomaly.

Allan Moore, the director of the Tourism andDevelopment Project for Belize's NationalInstitute of Culture and History, estimates

"The more visitors that come to a site,generall the less looting occurs - butthere is greater impact on the cave'secosystem."

But money is not the only reason harvesters illegally enter thepark. Many of the unsanctioned trails cut by plant poachers passby groves of pacaya trees and cohune palms. Locals harvest thepacaya's tender flowers for traditional meals and use the palm'ssmall, acorn-like nuts to make cooking oil.

Roos Leemhuis and Vincent de Gouw, a Dutch couple traveling bybicycle through Central America, hired Cucul to guide them throughthe cave. To reach the entrance, the group spends an arduous forty­five minutes climbing atrail that the jungle constantly threatensto reclaim.

estimates that fewer than two hundred people visitthe cave each year, which is part of the reason it retains a regionalreputation as one of the most unspoiled caves in the area.

On the hike, Cucul pauses and points to apatch of small, spindlyferns clumped together on the limestone hillside. The fronds blendin with the greens and browns of the thick jungle undergrowth, butCucul effortlessly identifies them as Maidenhair Ferns. When Cuculpoints at them, Leemhuis recognizes the plants immediately. "Wehave those in Holland," she says.

The plant, which is exclusive to Belize but can grow almost anywherewith moist soil, has become apopular houseplant in Europe andthe United States. Leemhuis's seemingly benign recognition of thefern exemplifies achallenge faced by Belizean conservationists:thieves routinely remove valuable rainforest vegetation and sell it tonurseries. Once there, either the plant or its seedlings are shippedto collectors abroad. Maidenhair Ferns sell for as little as twodollars; rare Belizean orchids can sell for hundreds.

"They don't harvest sustainedly [sic]," Cucul said. Poachers typicallyremove all of the target species in aparticular area, and it may takeyears for the plants to return to their original numbers.

After pausing to look at the ferns, the group returns to the hike. Thethin jungle path begins to climb steeply and soon the screechesof Aztec parakeets mix with the tired tourists' heavy breathing. Thetrail passes the buttressed roots of ceiba trees, over establishedhighways blazed by leafcutter ants, and under the brilliance of thequamwood tree's yellow flowers. As Cucul plods up the steep path,

One of Cucul's favorite trips is through Mountain Cow Cave, one ofseveral geological and cultural masterpiece of the Blue Hole. He

The 575-acre preserve harbors a range of species surprisinglydiverse for the park's petite size. Orchids, bananas, and mahoganiesthrive in the volcanic landscape that surrounds the park'snamesake, the Blue Hole, awater-filled limestone sinkhole. Speciesas furtive as the jaguar and as unassuming as the opossum findrefuge near the sapphire waters.

Belize, the only country in Central America with English as its officiallanguage, attracted 220,500 foreign visitors in 2003. It's roughlythe size of Massachusetts and has apopulation less than half thesize of Boston. With 48 percent of the country's territory dedicatedto conservation, the government has preserved nearly three times asmuch wilderness as eco-conscious Costa Rica has. The combinationof Belize's blossoming tourism industry, asmall population, andpristine tropical environments enables the country to carry outprogressive policies. But, as conservationists such as Cucul havecome to understand, preserving land in developing nations is ataskriddled with challenges.

Cucul's love for the diverse Belizean landscape began when he wasachild and later grew during his three-year stint as ajungle survivalguide for the British Army. Today, he is amember of the Belize Caveand Wilderness Rescue Team, acertified first responder, and avolunteer firefighter.

Dew still clings to grass as Marcos Cucul, athirty-seven­year-old Qeqchi Mayan guide from Belize, gets out ofhis weathered Land Cruiser. With aworn backpackslung over his shoulder, he holds amassive flashlight

in his left hand and the smoking remnant of acigarette in his right.The melodies of dozens of bird species float through the air as thestocky man makes his way to the park's visitor center. Vibrant redhibiscus flowers offset the lush green of the jungle and the crispblue of the Belizean sky. The day is already warm as Cucul's heavytrekking boots stomp up the cracked wooden steps of the SaintHerman's Blue Hole National Park Visitor Center in the Cayo Districtof Belize. Cucul is one of many Belizeans who work to protect parkssuch as the Blue Hole.

62

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64

-;

~~If we act as responsible stewards to theland, then this beauty can be preservedfor generations to come. If not, it couldbe gone tomorrow. "

that 10 percent of the artifacts in the area have been looted. Thosethat remain either lack financial value or are undiscovered, he says.

"It's adouble-edged sword," Moore says. "The more visitors thatcome to asite, generally, the less looting occurs - but thereis greater impact on the cave's ecosystem. That's why propermanagement is so important."

The Belize Audubon Society, the non-governmental organizationthat manages the park, employs only five full-time wardens to limitthe incidences of looting, to control the impact of tourism on theenvironment, and to handle the day-to-day needs of the park.

Alex Escalante, the park director of the Blue Hole, says that the parkneeds more wardens but understands the unlikelihood of actuallygetting more staff. The annual budget for the entire preserve isonly seventy-five hundred dollars (the similarly sized Oregon Caves

National Monument in southwest Oregon has a budget more thanfifteen times that). The Blue Hole's budget finances everything fromthe sawdust used in the composting toilets to the bimonthly, armednight patrols that scour the park for illegal intruders. "Armed guardspatrol the park's interior and boundaries, but it is difficult to find aguard willing to shoot or be shot at by poachers," Escalante says.

Despite the presence of special law enforcement officers armed withM-16s, an arrest has yet to be made. The depleted populations ofpacaya shoots exemplify the continuing violations of park laws. Tocombat this problem, the Belize Audubon Society now employs adifferent tactic: education.

"We hope that by working closer with local communities we canconvey the importance of preserving the sensitive ecosystems insidethe park," Escalante says. To demonstrate their commitment, onApril 22, Earth Day, the park staff offered awork exchange to localschool children. The staff provided food, free admittance into thepark, and instruction on the importance of preserving biodiversitywhile the students helped remove litter within the park.

The park employees are making progress in changing the mindsetsof the youth, but the children do not make decisions aboutthe environment. When the next generation comes into power,conservationists will finally see the substantial changes they haveeffected in the youth, Escalante says.

After nearly an hour of plodding through the darkness of the cave,the hikers reach the geological highlight of the cave: Wonderland.The rock formations inside Wonderland look more like icicles thanstone. They grow in every direction. The sight is dauntingly beautiful,and it feels as if the jagged jaws of the cave are closing. Waterdroplets sporadically fall from the stalactites into puddles of water.The sound, one of the park's many symphonies, echoes off the wallsof the confined space.

On the return hike, Cucul stops at the base of agive-and-take tree.Dangerous spines line the tree, and a medicinal sap flows justbeneath the treacherous bark. Instead of visiting amodern hospitalfor everyday injuries, many indigenous people seek out the pink sapto stem bleeding and heal wounds. This reliance upon the naturalworld is asymbol of a larger ecological ethos held by the Belizeanpeople. Just as seekers of the sap must fight through an armadaof barbs to acquire their remedy, Belizean conservationists muststruggle through modern-day challenges to protect the country'secological treasures.

"If we act as responsible stewards to the land, then this beautycan be preserved for generations to come - if not, it could be gonetomorrow," Cucul says.•

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