Elmer the husky and I typically take our second walk in the morning on a designated trail through and around a wetlands area. I hardly ever see anyone else there.

We encounter all manner of avian life on this trail and I find I’m writing a lot in my head on this particular walk, particularly a book about the legendary runner Steve Prefontaine that lately has emerged the way Pre ran. I hope to have it out this fall.

What makes this walk especially marvelous is a treed riparian section of the trail near a small lake that beavers have chewed to bits down to the lake’s edge. And I’m not talking about mere willows; I am talking big hardwood trees. One tree in particular, (pictured here) is like an ongoing art installation by a master bucktoothed sculptor. A beaver keeps gnawing and gnawing it. I see fresh chips every morning and it’s been going on for weeks. At some point, the beaver will fell the tree and that will delight me to no end to come upon the completed of the art installation.

If a beaver fells a tree in the woods, and no one is there to hear it, does it make a sound?

Yes.

Elmer the husky and I have established a new morning routine: he gets me up at 4:45 or 4:47 and a few minutes later we make our way into the darkness to walk a loop around the park.

We have yet to miss morning walk. Ice, snow, rain. Nothing deters us.

Many writers have written of walking cities after midnight, when there is entertainment in the air, but not too many write of walking cities at 5:00 AM when there is nothing entertaining going on, at least conventional entertainment.

We’ve seen a beaver, skunk, family of nutrias, blue herons, ducks and a coyote who refused to bolt for a half mile and kept looking at us from 50 yards away.

And yes, we’ve also seen homeless people, almost every morning.

I have yet to have an interaction with one, but you know it’s coming. I’ve already got a set of questions to ask someone, but you know they’ll fly out the window when the conversation begins. I never interview homeless people when I encounter them. Something just takes over in the moment and I go where I go. It’s not like any other story gathering I’ve ever experienced. Maybe that’s why I keep writing about this subject.

Mostly, I see single individuals. Several were pushing or pulling improvised carts. Several were riding bicycles. One was sleeping in a battered sedan. A few were searching for returnable cans and bottles from recycling bins. A pack of three with flashlights was rummaging through a construction site. No one was accompanied by a dog.

Elmer and I passed one homeless person on a sidewalk, a young man in his early 20s, wearing a backpack crammed with possessions. I said “good morning” when we passed. He said nothing. He never made eye contact. His face was devoid of any expression. It might have been the blankest face I’ve ever seen.

All these homeless in one of the wealthiest neighborhoods in Portland. At 5:00 AM in the morning in winter. Imagine this as a microcosm. I do all the time.

Rain and sleet fell and whipped the parking lot of a big box pet supply store smack dab in the middle of a vast strip mall. I sat in my car with Elmer the husky in the back seat. It was just after nine in the morning.

I exited the car and walked toward the store. To my right, I saw an older woman coming my direction. She was wheeling/pushing a large propane tank in some kind of improvised contraption that originally had served to convey luggage or babies.

Leashed to the contraption was a small dog wearing a sweater. The woman wore a dirty bathrobe over a coat. She had somewhat of a smile on her face. She talked to the dog, although I didn’t catch any of it.

I stopped and watched them as they passed me from 20 yards away.

They were headed for an RV. How did I know? I’m an expert on these matters by now, perhaps the country’s number one self-appointed expert on RV survival in the New American Diaspora. I’m considering writing a book about it.

But, who would read such a book?

I scanned the parking lot for derelict RVs and saw several in the distance. She was probably headed toward one of them. Obviously the rig was mobile since it landed in the parking lot. I wondered about its model name, because I am fascinated by the names of RVs from the 70s, 80s and 90s. I am also fascinated by how people acquire these derelict RVS. No one seems interested in this subject but me. That would be part of the RV book.

I imagined the woman hooking up the tank in the rain and sleet and then going inside her domicile and firing up the heater. Maybe she would cook a hot meal. Did the rig have enough gasoline to leave? Where would should go if it did?

For a brief moment, I considered following the woman and the dog and learn more. But I had a new dog in the car and supplies to buy.

The words “entitlement” and “privilege” have absolutely no value whatsoever in the American vernacular. But they get tossed around a lot, usually in the service of the Left and the gobbledygook that sometimes comes out of the mouths of activists, pundits and academics.

I prefer the term “arrogance” and it is on display in my nation everywhere I look. Such as:

The arrogance of cops and firefighters who place the lives of their fallen comrades over nurses and teachers, among many others, and believe they can tie up a Metro area’s traffic with a funeral procession for three hours to transport a casket to a church for a service. What about someone trying to get to hospital to have a baby? What about the dude trying to get to his job and if he’s late one more time, he’s fired, and then can’t pay rent. Why is a cop or firefighter’s life rate more than, say, my mother’s, who was a master elementary teacher of 34 years and never missed a day of class?

Or the two men killed on Max train a few years ago standing up to crazed man hurling racial insults at two Black girls? They didn’t get a miles-long procession that tied up an Interstate Highway.

Or the young woman of color driving a long distance to help care for my father in assisted living and getting paid minimum wage?

Why are cops and firefighters treated like heroes and not nurses and teachers and the guy who manages the Plaid Pantry down the block from me who has never failed to open that store in the worst weather in modern Portland history? And what about the security guard at a Portland hospital who was stabbed to death by a psychotic homeless man a while back?

Not too long ago, I witnessed a spectacular act of collective arrogance that’s still pissing me off: I was waiting at a stop light at a busy intersection of a four-lane expressway. Several dozen Canadian geese were waddling across the expressway. Traffic was stopped during a morning commute. I marveled at these birds; they made me laugh as they crossed and they even used the crosswalk!

Then drivers tarted honking at the geese and advancing on the group. I was shocked at this unseemly human arrogance. I looked at the honkers. People of all ages and colors. They disgusted me.

I still think back to the last couple 4^th of July’s when TV news broadcast drivers pulled over on the top deck of the I-405 bridge, GOT OUT OF THEIR VEHICLES, many with their children in tow, to take pictures of the fireworks exploding over the river. This was on an Interstate Highway at night and there is no shoulder on this bridge. These people easily could have caused a massive traffic accident that killed dozens. They could have been killed themselves and their children creamed on the road. (Post that to social media.) They could have blocked emergency vehicles transporting critical patients or fire trucks racing to fight a fire.

Who are Americans anymore?

Fancy coffee shop. Seven dollar drinks and five dollar pastries.

A mom plays on her phone with her kid.

A lot of people work remotely from here. I often see their screens and eavesdrop on their calls and wonder what in the world they really do for a living. At the moment, one guy is talking on his phone to someone far away and I catch, “We need more voices for the program about the daily lives of billionaires.” I’m not making that up. I hear it while I am writing about the homeless and seeing a homeless man outside the coffee shop doing something inexplicable in a hedge.

I’ve lost seven pounds since adopting Elmer, the crazy husky. My metabolism is changing.

I recently read in the Oregonian, an editorial from a Beaverton elected official asking the Oregon Legislature to allocate $15 million during the current special session to fund part of $115 million ballpark for the Hillsboro Hops single A baseball team. He quoted the usual bogus statistics about how that allocation would be a boon to taxpayers, yeah even the ones in Burns and Brookings. No. No. No. A thousand economic studies have disproved the myth of economic befits to the public for taxpayer support of professional sports teams. If Hillsboro wants a ballpark, tax the people of Washington County and better yet, let them vote on it.

Oregon State University also wants the Oregon Legislature to bail them out for construction costs to the absurd and lavish remodeling of Reser’s Stadium. Their expected television revenue from a PAC 12 media deal vanished with the collapse of the PAC 12 and now the athletic department can’t service the debt. Hell no. Fuck no. Cut the athletic budget’s bloated budget by 90 percent and pay it off yourself.

A homeless man rides by on bicycle. He looks deranged.

I sure miss my construction job sometimes. It changed my life. It made me look at buildings differently, especially ones under constriction, like the ones I saw on my way over to the coffee shop.

I’m taking Elmer to the beach soon. I’ve got to see my husky run beside the ocean.