End of this blog

Well, as you may know, my time in Montana is ending soon. I will be moving to Kenai, Alaska to work as a local government reporter for a daily paper there. I will be blogging my time in Alaska just like I have blogged my time here. Here's the link to the Alaska blog. Thanks for reading. Any thoughts on how to make the Alaska blog even better than this one?

Comments welcome,
Andrew

Criticism

I received my first dose of real criticism last night.

I was listening to the Jets vs. Dolphins game when I heard that unmistakable sound coming from my police scanner. The fire units were being paged.

Crap. There’s never a fire when I’m slightly bored and in need of something to do. It’s always when my one true love is playing football. (I actually missed the second half of the Patriots game due to a different fire.)

Luckily, it was close to halftime and the fire wasn’t too far away, so I figured I wouldn’t have to miss much of the game.

When I got to the scene, I found a very small fire that had already been contained. It likely resulted from a burn pile that got away from the owner. I was snapping photos of the firefighters when I saw two women come out to observe the scene. Figuring they might be able to add color to the story, I approached them to find out what they knew or had seen.

“Hi, I’m from the Mineral Independent. I tend to follow these guys (referring to the firefighters) around. I was just wondering, would you be willing to talk about what you’ve seen?” I asked one of the women.

“Are you Andrew?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m not talking to you. You screw up every story you write!”

I was a bit taken aback. First of all, that claim is entirely false. Maybe I've screwed 90 percent or even 99 percent of my stories, but every single one of them? Even the open letter to the county? Even the story about me shooting the gun?

I’ve actually received many calls, in-person compliments and have been told by my publisher that people have come up to him saying they are very pleased with the accurate and engaging coverage I have brought to the county.

I’m not saying I’ve been flawless. I made a pretty big gaff a while back when I said that Superior’s state legislator had retired. He is retiring but has not yet retired. To my knowledge, that’s the biggest mistake I have made. I’ve seen the legislator since, apologized, and we continue to be on good terms. He’s even fed me story ideas since the error.

“Who are you?” I asked the woman.

The only other person I have had accost me in any sort of way was a bar owner in the West End of the county. I have never met her, but she was pretty pissed that I published a story about bars failing compliance checks that tested their ability to stop minors from buying alcohol. When I called her for comment about Montana’s bars going smoke free, she let me know how she felt about the previous story.

I can’t be sure, but the woman’s voice and tone last night was strangely reminiscent of the bar owner on the phone. If it wasn’t her, I think it was a family member or friend. Then again, I screw up every story I write, so what do I know?

When I asked her who she was, she said: “I’m not telling you. You’d probably screw that up, too.”

Fair enough. I thanked her for her “honesty” and continued to stand next to her while I snapped more photos.

The funny thing about the incident was that the fire didn’t even merit a full story – just a photo and an extended caption, and that’s only because I took the time to go out there.

Oh well. And to put a damper on the night of frustration, the Jets lost in a heartbreaker.

(These photos are from my reporting.)

Comments welcome,
Andrew

De-plated

I lost part of my identity today.

I’ve been putting it off ever since I arrived in Montana. Blamed my delay on not having the proper documents. But, really, that was just a welcome excuse.

“When you going to get those plates changed?” The highway patrolman that I see when reporting car accidents on I-90 would always ask.

“I’m waiting for my dad,” I would say.

“What do you mean you’re waiting for your dad? No you’re not. You have to take care of this yourself.”

“No, you don’t understand. He has the title. I can’t do anything without it.”

Once the title to the car arrived in the mail, I knew I could no longer put it off. I had to get Montana plates.

When I first arrived here, one of the local bigwigs (who reminds me a lot of Michael Burns for those of you who know him) told me I should get rid of my New York plates immediately. He said people don’t like to see out-of-state plates. He said they wouldn’t be as apt to trust me. Essentially, he was saying I wouldn’t fit in.

Part of me likes not fitting in, especially here. This town is filled with gun-toting conservatives who swear on the Bible while they curse at their children. That’s obviously a gross hyperbole, but it accurately describes enough of the people I encounter.

I liked to be able to drive away from an event that I was covering and through my rearview mirror watch the person I had just interviewed stare in awe at my New York plate.

“I knew he was different,” I imagine them saying. I feel like it gave me a certain sense of legitimacy. It also excused me when I ran into things that I didn’t know. It gave me pardon when someone had to explain how to find Dry Creek, for instance.

“Oh, you’re not an idiot. You’re just not from here.”

Now my strongest sense of identity comes from my New Yorker magazine. I get a real kick out of picturing Liz, who works in the post office, saying something like “oh, the New Yorker is here.”

She’s not saying that the magazine is here, she’s simply reaffirming my presence in the town.

Now whenever I pull into a lot, my car will blend in. I might even have trouble finding it when I go to leave.

Eventually I’ll become one of those people who meets an easterner and says “I used to live in the East.”

Now I live in Montana. I’m here indefinitely and definitely here.

Comments welcome,
Andrew

Loss of Ignorance

Before this weekend, I had never shot a gun. If this weekend had gone as scheduled, I probably still would never have shot a gun. I’d still be “ignorant,” as Jay Bailey likes to say of people who don’t know about firearms. I’d still be like the 12-year-old version of myself – the boy who couldn’t bring himself to pull the trigger all those years ago.

I first met Jay Bailey a couple of weeks ago after his wife’s antique store was broken into. When I walked into the store, Jay stared me down, giving me a steady, angry look like I didn’t belong. But I realized later that he gives everyone that look. He needs to stare people down as they enter the store in order to identify them. Bailey is legally blind.

We got to talking after I had done some reporting on the break in, and he somehow found out that I had never shot a gun. Being a well-trained expert, Jay offered to take me shooting. I was less willing to go shooting and more interested in watching a blind hunter. He said he is a seasoned bow and rifle marksman. I couldn’t help but think I had a great story on my hands, so I asked if he would ever allow me to accompany him on a hunt. To my surprise, he obliged. I always assumed hunters were more secretive and unwilling to let near-strangers tag along.

Unfortunately, my instincts were correct. When it came time to set up a day to go hunting, things kept being pushed back. Then Jay told me I wouldn’t actually be able to go hunting, but I could come up and hang around the hunters’ camp for a night. Still thinking that could be a decent way to fill the outdoors page, I accepted the half-hearted offer.

When I showed up to his store Saturday afternoon to head to the camp, Jay told me I was no longer invited. Some of the other hunters did not want me tagging along. I protested a little, but there was really nothing I could do. That’s when Jay re-extended his offer to take me target shooting. In need of a story, I agreed.

A few days earlier when we were trying to plan the hunting trip, Jay pulled out a couple of the guns that he thought would be good for me to fire my first shots with. He had me sling a small silver one over my shoulder. It felt foreign and unnatural, so I took it off immediately. My face must have given away my nervousness, because Jay told me it was scary seeing how frightened I seemed to be while holding an unloaded weapon.

“Did something happen when you were little?” he asked.

I was in the Boy Scouts when I was 12 and attended a week-long summer camp. At that time, a week was probably the longest period I had spent without a family member near by. The camp had several stations that you could visit to begin working on merit badges. One of the stations was a rifle range. My friends and I decided to try it out.

After some of my friends did their best to hit the plastic discs that flew across the range, my turn came. I picked up the rifle, which I remember being much too big for me, and attempted to aim it down the range. I didn’t feel prepared to fire it. It was bulky and long, and I couldn’t see clearly through the scope. So I turned to ask the instructor for some assistance.

“You can’t turn and point that at me,” the instructor yelled. “These are loaded weapons.”
A lot went through my mind then. Most instinctually, I was upset at being yelled at. I had turned to him innocently asking for help. But at the same time, the instructor was obviously right. I was holding a loaded weapon – pointing it, be it ever so briefly, at him. It had the power to kill, and I didn’t feel qualified to be in control of such device.

Overwhelmed with the realization of what supreme power the gun gave me, I dropped the rifle on the ground and ran out of the range.

“Where are you going?” asked the instructor.

“I’m not going to shoot,” I mumbled through sobs

I avoided the rifle station for the rest of the week. Looking back at that incident that happened more than 10 years ago, I’ve been able to assign somewhat of a higher purpose to it.

I equate shooting a gun to a person losing his virginity. Before it happens, one can imagine what it will feel like. One can imagine gripping the gun’s barrel for dear life. One can imagine the beauty of the exposed landscape as witnessed with clarity through the scope. But one can also imagine it going terribly wrong. Are the hands in the right position on the gun? Should they be higher, lower? Is it possible to pull the trigger too quickly? Too hard?

A boy’s dream can often trump reality. So can a boy’s nightmare. When it came to shooting, I was happy to let it be but an idea in my head. Happy to be ignorant.

That’s why I was nervous when Jay brought a rifle into the passenger seat of my car on Saturday. It wasn’t loaded, rendering it essentially a paperweight, but still.

On the drive up Flat Creek, where we went shooting, I thanked Jay for agreeing to teach me.

“Anything to keep people from being ignorant,” he said.

When we pulled into the shooting site, Jay set everything up. He first demonstrated his own skills. With the help of the magnifying lens on the top of the gun, he can move a can across the dirt the way some people can drag a yo-yo over cement.

He had to show me how to load the clip, how to pull off the safety – things that most people reading this can likely do with their eyes closed.

Jay handed me the gun and my sweaty hands gripped it weakly. I awkwardly turned to the side and held the weapon up the way Jay instructed. I cocked the gun, pushed down the safety, and suddenly there was nothing left to do but shoot.

I eyed the water bottle, my intended target, through the scope and pulled the trigger when it looked like the crosshairs were on the bottle.

The shell skidded across the distant dirt before I realized that I had just shot my first bullet. It felt nothing like things I had conjured up in my sleep. It didn’t feel like anything. As a pacifist, that scares me a little.

When I finished the clip, I turned to put the gun down and accidentally swept the barrel across Jay’s body.

He yelled just like that camp instructor yelled. Justifiably so, but I couldn’t help feel a little defensive – the way anyone does when they are scolded. Jay insisted I shoot a few more rounds, and I reluctantly agreed. Had I swept the gun across his body before ever firing a bullet, I might still be a gun virgin.

After we finished, I thanked Jay for teaching me how to shoot.

“You’re not taught yet,” he said. “Not even close.”

Not taught, but not ignorant.

How connected?

I went to see Dave Matthews Band at the Gorge Amphitheater in Quincy, Wash., this weekend with my friend Kyle and his girlfriend. I’ve dreamed about going to this venue ever since falling in love with the band at SPAC (in Saratoga, NY) in high school.

The Gorge is everything I ever could have thought. It looks down into this wide open canyon and the stage seems entirely out of place. In a DVD, Dave Matthews actually says something to the effect of “I feel bad making noise in such a beautiful place.”

I wish I had pictures, but I forgot to put the battery back in my camera after charging it. I’m an idiot when it comes to that kind of stuff. Sorry. (These pictures from the Web will have to suffice.)

We went for two nights and sat on the lawn on Saturday and in the orchestra on Sunday. From the lawn, you can’t really see the band all that well. You can make out the figures on the stage, but mostly you just watch the big screens if you want to see what’s going on.

That got me thinking: How close are you to the band when sitting on the lawn? I don’t mean physically. I mean, how connected are you to them? Sure, they are in the same proximity and you can tell that they are standing there. But you couldn’t even be 100 percent positive that Dave Matthews is in fact the man at the center of the stage.

I started to compare this sensation of doubt to Twittering. Dave Matthews has a Twitter account and fans can send messages to him, which he actually responds to. I tried this a few weeks ago. No response. Still, he responds sometimes. Obviously, Dave might not actually be the one Twittering on his account. But if I believe he is, which I do, and if I were to receive a response from him, how connected to Dave would I be after getting the response? Would I be more connected to him by exchanging messages on a Web site or looking at a shadowy version of him from atop some hill in Washington state? I’m really not sure.

A few weeks ago, USA Today released a poll saying people use social networking sites for narcissistic purposes. Duh! Social networking is a form of constant communication and isn’t most communication somewhat narcissistic? Someone is usually sharing something about themselves when communicating, which focuses the attention on that person.

The question really is how connected do you feel to someone you communicate with via social networking? Obsessive tweeters are dubbed over-sharers for a reason, aren’t they? What do status updates and bulletins reveal? Sometimes the connection feels really personal. But then you realize that a million people could be reading that same message, even if it is directed toward you.

So what about that connection from the lawn? How connected can you be to the dark figure playing his music under the night sky? Even when you hear the intro to the song, the one you’ve always wanted to hear live, start and feel like it is being played for your benefit, the rest of the crowd screams, too. All connected? Or all equally distant?

Friendly visit

I was taking a break from writing when I saw these guys munching on some apples outside my back window. Also, you should now be able to access some stuff I have written recently for the paper. I got my admin powers back on the Web site. Some of you have been wondering about those football pictures. You can read the story on the Web site. It's called "Only bees play football."

Weathering the storm

I was sitting by the river the other night reading when I was startled by my neighbor climbing up the steep bank.

“I didn’t know you could get down to the river that way,” I yelled.

“Jeeze. You startled the old man. Shit I almost rolled right back down this sumbitch.”

Surprisingly, this started a conversation. He grew up in Missoula and considers it the “big city.” (It has a population of about 50,000.) He said he wanted to get away from the “big city” because he doesn’t like being around so many people. Then I asked him what he likes about Superior.

“People are friendly.”

That’s what I find so odd. So many people in Superior claim to like the small town because it allows them to escape people. But then they say they enjoy the small town because the people are so nice.

Cities do present an interesting dynamic. It’s amazing how much easier it is to feel lonely in a big city. You’re surrounded by everyone but connected to no one. In Superior, I wave to everyone I see whether I know them or not. That’s just the way it is. I have to do it. It’s bad enough that I still have New York plates.

But I don’t quite get why these people in Superior, who claim they like not having to be around people, love the fact that they have nice interactions with people. Can anyone explain this? It fascinates me.

In other interaction news, I met a woman in a laundry mat. Not like it sounds. She was gray haired. We started to have a nice conversation, though. That is, until it turned to politics.

She started bashing Obama’s healthcare plan. I didn’t ask her if she relies on Medicare, but I was prepared to. I’m so sick of the misinformation that is out there and I was absolutely prepared to try to give her some of the facts. But as soon as I started to do so, she started talking about the weather.

I’m aware that people use weather as a neutral topic of conversation, but I’ve never been in a conversation that turned so benign so quickly. I guess some people just aren’t looking for storms.

Comments welcome,
Andrew

Stir it up

I really haven’t had anything interesting happen lately. It doesn’t help that my latest blog post was pretty scandalous. It’s a tough act to follow, so I’ve been neglecting to do so.

Many of you were curious to see the story that came out of my time with the boys. There’s a reason you haven’t been able to find it anywhere. My publisher did not allow me to print it. You can judge for yourself how offensive you think it might be. I’ve posted the text below.

The prohibition on publishing raises an interesting issue. It’s essentially a form of censorship. This event happened in Mineral County, so I covered it. I didn’t even pitch the story – it was actually assigned to me by our former editor. If the event took place in our community, why should we ignore it?

The publisher’s argument was that people in the county don’t want to be enlightened. Even if the homophobic beliefs, the norm in town, are close-minded, people like it that way. They don’t want to change their views.

In my view, that’s absolutely a double standard. The week before I covered this gay thing, I had to write three stories about the churches. It made me very uncomfortable, but I did it. I even gained a little more respect for the good work churches can do in a community.

As I said at my sister’s wedding, everyone needs to look at everyone else as an individual – not as a church member or a gay person. Sounds like common sense to me.

But here is a newspaper, the one I work for, ignoring such a basic principle. Aren’t newspapers supposed to rock the boat a bit? Isn’t there a reason that some people in town don’t like me and never will? I’m not saying we need to stir up controversy, but we shouldn’t avoid it, either.

(These pictures are just from my reporting)

Comments welcome,
Andrew

Float with the Boys

Andrew Waite
Mineral Independent

They came to Montana to enjoy each other’s company for the weekend, but for a few hours on Saturday the mostly male group participating in the Pacific Northwest Gay Rodeo Association fundraiser was at war.

“Forward ho!” Screamed JC, emphasizing the second word. He wanted his boat to charge head on into one of the group’s other rafts that was supposed to be leisurely floating down the Clark Fork River. Instead, the members of that raft were fiercely paddling upstream toward the one JC was sitting in.

JC is what everyone called him, and he did not want to be identified as anything else. He jokingly said the letters stood for Jesus Christ. He had skinny arms, a Ying-Yang tattoo on his shoulder and a round belly. He only stopped babbling when he needed a long hit of his cigarette or a deep sip from his University of Wyoming mug, which he said contained a combination of whiskey and water. Because JC’s hands were occupied by his cigarette and drink, he did not paddle. He was the only one of the seven people in the raft not paddling.

“Do you always need to be running your mouth?” Duane Johnson questioned JC.

“I’m not running my mouth,” JC protested. Johnson huffed.

When the other raft came close and started splashing, JC moved to the center of his vessel and cradled his plastic bag that held three cigarette cartons against his lap.

“We have a $5,000 camera on this boat,” JC yelled at the attackers. “If you break it, you’re gonna have to buy it, and I don’t think you can afford it.” But more than the camera, it was clear JC was most concerned about his cigarettes.

JC’s boat took on a lot of water in the attack. The other raft had a neon squirt gun, which functioned as a not-so secret weapon. But the battle ended when the guide from a third raft jumped off his own boat and pulled the guide on the boat attacking JC’s raft into the water.

For the moment, JC and his cigarettes were safe. But the war was not over.

The naval war was just part of the fun that the gay rodeo association fundraiser attendees participated in last weekend at the Cowboy Up Montana Ranch outside of St. Regis.

In addition to raising money for the gay rodeo association, last weekend’s retreat also raised money for the Missoula and Spokane Humane societies, Jeff Taylor, the group’s treasurer, said. The weekend cost guests $150 per person and about 30 people made the trip from all over the Pacific Northwest. It was the fourth year the “Meet Me in Montana” fundraiser has taken place.

The men who came said it was nice to have a vacation where they could be comfortable with themselves and spend some time with others who share their lifestyle.

“This is a rare experience for most guys here because there’s not a lot of places for gay guys to come to Montana and be free to enjoy themselves,” said Darrell Goodwin. Goodwin grew up in White Horse but now lives in Maine. He was visiting his parents near Glacier Park when he heard about the getaway. Goodwin said that Montana’s geographic size and sparse population does not help build community of any kind, especially a gay community.

Doug G., who declined to give his last name, recently moved to Montana from Tampa, Fla. He said he is still adjusting to life in Big Sky country even though he used to work in Glacier National Park before heading to Florida. This weekend’s retreat helped him feel more at ease.

“You can’t flaunt it in Montana,” Doug said of his lifestyle. “But here, (at the fundraiser) nobody judges you. You are what you are.”

Some of the attendees will benefit more directly from the event because they are rodeo men themselves. Rick Fredrickson said he just competed in a gay rodeo in Calgary and earned $800 and three buckles for roping.

“I’ve been roping all my life,” he said.

Although the group was floating a relatively calm section of the Clark Fork on Saturday, when the splash battle started, staying in the raft was almost as difficult as staying on a bucking bull.

Plus, some rafts sent rogue sailors into the water to sneak attack other boats and pull unsuspecting victims into the river. The constant splashing lowered visibility on the bright day and added to the element of surprise.

JC continued to bark commands.

“If I [feel sick] from drinking river water, I’m blaming you,” he yelled to the attacking boats. But those in JC’s raft did not side with their own man.

“Do you guys want some wine, because we’ve got a whiner right here,” yelled Robert Edwards during battle. The Seattle resident was obviously referring to JC.

Suddenly, Johnson, who earlier had asked JC if he ever stopped talking, took off his ball cap and sunglasses and dove into the water, preparing to sneak attack someone.

JC continued his futile effort of smoking during the splashing war. Then, just as he bent over to try to re-light his cigarette, Johnson grabbed the back of JC’s lifejacket and pulled him overboard. JC went in cigarettes, drink and all.

JC cursed when he resurfaced after being pulled into the Clark Fork. But he also smiled.

“You see what you made me do. Now I lost my cigarettes,” JC yelled, holding up his soaking plastic bag that the cartons were in.

“You didn’t lose them, they’re just wet,” Edwards joked.

After a pause, they shared a chuckle. Then JC put his head back and floated freely down the river in Mineral County Montana.

Man, I felt like a woman

I should have known when I shook his hand. He wasn’t just introducing himself. He was sizing me up like I was some sort of elk or something. I noticed I unintentionally deepened my voice when I told him my name. It was the best defense I had.

Those who know me know I have no problem with homosexuality. In fact, when I went to cover a gay rodeo fundraiser, I was nervous that I was going to be the one threatening them. That fear was partially accurate because when I rolled up and told someone who I was, I was told this was a private function and they were not interested in media attention. But after talking to the head honcho I was allowed to stay and even accompany the boys on a leisurely float down the Clark Fork.

When I boarded the bus, I tucked into an empty seat and looked out the window. I was suddenly startled when the man who had sized me up before asked if he could sit next to me. Not wanting to seem like the token straight guy who was uncomfortable with this whole thing, I obliged.

“So you’re straight as straight aren’t you?” the guy asked. He was wearing a cowboy hat, a pink shirt and torn shorts. (He later forced me to take this picture of him.) It was 10:44 a.m. and no joke I could smell beer on his breath. “So I’m not even going to get one little kiss?” he asked. I told him no, but I was much friendlier than I should have been.

And then I made a huge mistake. He started talking to me about where I’m from and what I am doing out here (he kept calling me a photographer because of the camera I was carrying) and then he asked me if I was uncomfortable with the event I was at. I told him I wasn’t and I gave him my family background to prove it. Big blunder.

“Hmm. So you ever think about being bi?” He asked me this while putting his hand on my leg. I squeezed my leg away from him and politely told him I was not interested. I said I was not there to ponder my sexual preferences. I was there simply to cover the fundraiser.

The dude did not quit. He kept his hand on my leg and even nestled his head on my shoulder. I shook him off as best I could, but I was powerlessly squeezed between the school bus window and this drunk, erotically charged gay cowboy.

That’s when it hit me: This is what women must feel like when some creepy guy hits on them at a bar or something. It’s a completely helpless feeling. I don’t mean for that to sound chauvinistic. It’s just that men typically have a certain physical dominance. I don’t think I would feel threatened by any girl who was coming onto me no matter how unattractive or needy she seemed. For the first time in my life, I felt like I could actually be empathetic toward the opposite gender.

Eventually the guy took the hint. But then he got up while the bus was driving, took his shirt off and insisted I take a picture of him. I told him the camera lens was too big and it wouldn’t actually get him in the frame. He got bored and moved on. But the image will remain in my mind forever.

Comments welcome,
Andrew

Religulous

I had to do it. I wanted to avoid it. But, after a few weeks, I realized I couldn’t. I mean there’s four of them in a town of 800 for Pete’s sake.

I had to cover the churches this past week. I wrote three stories for this week’s paper that were centered around religion. It took every bit of me not to scream when listening to what some of the people had to say, but I guess that’s good practice. I need to be an unbiased reporter even if I am covering people who I believe are brainwashed. One woman actually talked about wishing she could go to the Wailing Wall and convert all the Jews. I’m half and half, which really means I’m nothing. One religion is as crazy as the next in my eyes. But a quote’s a quote and the more devout someone is the better that quote just may be.

The whole process represents another piece of this whole journey. It is venturing into something that I do not know. If I can cover a rodeo, I can cover the religious. Although, I think I would have an easier time staying on a bull.

Anyway, here’s to new experiences and an open mind.

Comments welcome,

Andrew

Introduction

Here's an open letter that I wrote to the people of Mineral County Montana as a way of introducing myself. It appeared in this week's paper. Here's some more stuff to check out. (That's three links, btw.):

I am the new reporter here from Albany, N.Y. You may have seen my license plates. You may have also seen me traveling around Mineral County carrying a pretty expensive-looking camera. Don’t be confused. I’m not a photographer. I’m the one making this paper look worse than it once did.

I’m a reporter, a writer. I only take pictures because my editor and publisher make me. So I apologize for any blurriness that has ensued.

With that said, I do take my writing and reporting very seriously and hope that I can bring quality news and quality stories to the county. I graduated from Boston University’s College of Communication in May with a journalism degree and began my foray on Montana just seven short weeks ago.

On graduation day, I thought I was headed for an internship at a newspaper in a Boston suburb. Things change quickly when you are 22 years old. It’s important to be able to adapt in this ever-evolving industry.

My philosophy on community news is that it should be written in an engaging way. Let’s face it, a lot of the stuff that fills this paper is not earth-shattering or ground-breaking. That’s not to say I don’t also want to do some digging. But in many ways, we are all quite lucky to live in a place where carnivals, not carnage, are most likely to be the lead story in the paper. So regardless of what the news entails, I just want to engage the county in matters that people care about. I want to tell your stories.

Because I am interested in telling stories, I have to let you know that some pieces of information will not make it in between these columns. In a story about a cancer fundraiser, I really am not interested in who won every item at a silent auction unless I am trying to fill space. That’s an important part of the fundraiser, but not really a factor in the narrative arc of the event. I’m just trying to give you a sense of the way I approach town news. I don’t see myself as a stenographer. I’m sorry if you disagree.

Still, despite the fact that my name fills these pages, this is your newspaper. I am eager to hear what you think should appear in the Mineral Independent. If you think something is important, let me know. I can be reached at 822-0041 – yes, I live in Superior – or at awaite87@gmail.com. My editor and coworkers will likely think I am crazy for putting my direct contact information in here, but I think it is important.

I want a flood of phone calls. I want to have to reject five story ideas per week because I have too much else going on. This is a small but happening place. There are a lot of issues in Mineral County. Let me know about them so that I can fill our issues with yours.

Comments welcome,
Andrew

Writing-free time

So I haven’t been writing in the blog as much as I should. This sentence is usually where I would apologize for that, but I’m not going to do so.

One of my journalism professors sophomore year said that he originally got into journalism because he thought he wanted to be a novelist. I, too, am in this field because I like to write and it is the only practical way to make writing a career. Someday, I would like to write books (fiction or non-fiction). But that professor said he no longer sees himself writing novels. He never exactly said why, but now that I am actually working as a full-time journalist, I think I know what was holding him back.

Writing is a painstaking process. So when you write for a living, you don’t really want to be writing in your free time. It’s unfortunate, but it’s just the way it works. I’m still keeping a notebook of ideas and I am always thinking about what will someday make a good book, but I haven’t actually started working on anything.

And, as you can tell, I also haven’t been diligently posting to this site. It just becomes a bit of burden after sitting at the computer and composing pieces for the paper. In London, I was craving the chance to write. I loved working at the Observer, but as you may remember, I was excited just to get one crummy byline. I don’t have that void here, which I think is a good thing. All types of writing are good practice.

The other thing about being here is that I am not meeting people in the same way that I was in London. There, a big theme was familiarizing myself with the Brits. Here, my only real interactions are the ones that occur while reporting. I don’t see the need to comment on them on this site.

Anyway, I just wanted to offer a bit of an explanation. I still enjoy keeping this blog and I am always looking for material to put in here, but it’s a quiet life in Montana. Not much to sound off about. A lot of times I would just rather enjoy the scenery. I’m actually about to go body float down the Clark Fork River for a little bit. It’s a hot, sunny day here already. And I have two stories that need to be covered this evening.

Comments welcome,
Andrew

Just some stuff

Below is a link to a story I wrote. Again, I'm not pretending that this is hard-hitting journalism. My goal in covering events like this one is to try to tell people's stories and to ultimately tell the story of the event in a meaningful way. I have tried to do that here. Relay for Life is all about beating cancer. So my task was to tell the stories of the people fighting it. I've also learned that with community journalism, the more names you can get in the paper the better.


Relay for Life

And here's a little video of some pictures from my visit to Glacier National Park. I'll put up a more thoughtful post sometime in the next few days, but in the meantime I am working on a piece about local bars serving underage kids, which I hope actually will be somewhat hard-hitting.

Pushing the limits

I go for these bike rides every couple of days partially up into the mountains in order to sit by one of the many creeks that flow here. I find them to be very peaceful to sit next to and think. The noise of the flowing water makes me feel less embarrassed if I slip up and actually verbalize some of my thoughts. (There are not even 1 million people in this state, what the heck am I worried about?)

As I was biking away from Trout Creek the other evening, I thought to myself (or did I say it?) how beautiful of a spot that was. I never would have seen that spot if not for this whole thing. I never would have made it to such a remote and placid place. But then I thought that it isn’t that remote of a place because it is right off of a road. How remote can any place be if it is right off a road? I was slightly upset that this beautiful spot was not in the farthest away of locations.

But that’s silly. I’m in MONTANA for crying out loud. Everything out here is remote.

I think that’s one of my biggest issues. I have trouble being satisfied with the place that I am living. Last summer I lived in Boston. Well, actually, I lived in Allston. Allston is a neighboring town of Boston, but you could walk between the two and not know you were in differently named places. But see, when I was living in Allston, I always had the desire to be more down town. I would be happy to make it as far east as Kenmore on a walk because that actually felt like I was in the city.

This past year I lived in South Campus (right near Fenway). Walking to Kenmore from there did NOT feel like I was in the city. It was too close to home to be really down town.

In London I was unsatisfied to hang around South Kensington (the richest section of London) simply because it was where I was living. I wanted to be “out” in the city. Whatever that means.

When living in cities, I always seem to desire to be more in “it.” Now that I am out here in “God’s country,” as a woman I met while reporting calls it, I want to be more out of “it.” I can’t really explain why, nor do I really want to rid myself of that feeling. I kind of like it. It gets at my curiosity and forces me to never be satisfied. Some may look at that as a bad thing, but I see it as motivation. Here’s to pushing the inner and outer limits.

Comments welcome,

Andrew

July 4th Pics:

Supposed to be

Today was supposed to be my first day as a co-op at the Patriot Ledger. My how things change. It's crazy to think about everything I have been through during what was originally going to be my last summer vacation. I've certainly missed out on a lot, and who knows what I am missing by not working at the Ledger, but I've also certainly gained a lot by moving out here.

Here are some links from this week:

Concert

Golf

Hard news (just in case you thought it was all fluff and fun out here)

Sunglasses

Just about everyone I talk to asks me how long I have been with the paper, which forces me to tell them “only about three weeks.” The next obvious question is “Then where do you come from?”

So I answer. I don’t think most people understand that I am not from New York City. But that’s OK. That problem arises no matter where I am.

I find their responses to be interesting. Some say, “Oh that’s really far. How are you adjusting?” But others don’t even react. It’s like I told them I moved to Superior from Missoula or something. I’m almost more intrigued by the people who show the littlest interest in my move. I am not sure if they just don’t process the information or if they don’t care or if they didn’t even listen or what. Anyway, it’s interesting.

Other people don’t ask me anything. And here’s why.

I was reporting a story up in Haugan about a radio field day and in walked this couple. I was in the middle of talking to the guy in charge of the field day, and he stopped to introduce me to the couple. They said they knew who I was. They had seen me at the flea market, about which I wrote last week. They told me they enjoyed my article and they also liked the piece I did about the Gildersleeve mine. They are friends with Sue Mclees,

the woman who was at the mine, and they appreciated me giving her some press. Then the woman asked me if I had a fun time whitewater rafting. She said she thought otherwise based on the picture. I told her it was simply the water splashing in my face that made it look like I was stressed out.

But the point of this drawn-out sequence is to illustrate just how closely these people can follow me.

They knew what I was up to on Thursday, Friday and Saturday just by reading the paper. And by asking around, they already knew a little bit of my history and didn’t need to ask.

I never really thought about being followed in that sort of way. I realize that this blog is a little bit like that, but it’s not quite the same. Most people who take the time to read my droning posts know me. That’s why they take the time. Here were people I had never met, who live 2,500 miles from my home town, who are now able to follow a certain aspect of my life.

A woman in the post office also said she saw my whitewater piece. “That was pretty cool,” she said. Similar thing happened at a community concert I reported.

Now, I am not saying I need to go around wearing sunglasses like a celebrity, but it is strange to think that the people on the street are more likely to know me than I am to know them.

I mean, aren’t I the one who’s supposed to be writing about everyone else?

Comments welcome,

Andrew

Some Links

Here are links to some of the stories I have written for this week's paper:

karate

gold mine

white water

Ascent

I think it was in my college essay, the one that I had to write when applying to schools, that I first used the phrase “descent into adulthood.” I remember my father reading that phrase and questioning me about it.

“Do you really mean to use the word descent?”

He thought I should have used ascent, or at least something more positive. He was interested in my motive.

I remember thinking that it was a descent because life is ultimately on the path to six feet under, or at least that was my existential, young-adult thought. I’m not really that cynical. I think I was just trying it on for size.

But now that I’m here, beginning my foray on adulthood, I can’t help but think about that phrase again.

In college, I was all about ascent. I was excited about working my way up in most everything I tried. And, for the most part, I’m happy with how far I was able to climb.

Here in adult land, I’m once again at the base of the mountain, and not just the ones I can see from my front door. My adulthood, no matter how many twists and turns, will really have only one path. There is only one peak that I will ascend to. The scary part is picking which one I want to climb. Wouldn’t it would be easier to just let gravity push me in its natural direction?

Climbing the corporate ladder, or whatever the equivalent in my field might be, is not something I’ve ever worried about. I have always had positive reinforcement and success in that area.

But would an ascent toward the top of my profession be a true ascent into adulthood? And would that mean leaving other facets of life well below me? What would it be like to see the world as a play set high above from the corporate jet? I’m really not sure how great an ascent that would turn out to be – how great an adulthood that would turn out to be. It could be grand, but it could be lonely. There’s really only one way to find out: start climbing.

So I will ascend toward the adulthood I’ve started and reach out toward the sky with open arms and an open mind. Some things may crumble beneath me on the way up, but I’d rather fly than die.

Comments welcome,
Andrew

The remotest

I never thought I could say this, especially so soon, but I went to a place today that makes Superior look like New York City. I traveled to this gold mine, well an old gold mine, way up in the mountains on Cedar Creek road for a story. The road goes nearly into the Idaho border.

The car and I chugged slowly up the dirt path. I almost got seasick from all the pot holes. Going down was cool though because I put the car in neutral for almost the entire way. It was also beautiful. The creek somehow manages to look sea-green.

Also, I saw this moose. It was scary when he poked out, but he was definitely more scared of me.

That’s why he ran away so fast.

Comments welcome,

Andrew

Spot News

I had to do my first spot news the other night. I got a call from the volunteer fire chief about a fire that ignited on a semi-trailer on route I-90. By the time I got the call, it was over, so I simply had to write the story based on what he told me. Not really all that exciting, but there is something to be said for the thrill of having to write a story quickly.

Still, spot news has never really been my forte. Even in college, I tried to avoid it. I avoided it mostly because it usually required a lot of running for a non-story. A few one-mile sprints down to Kenmore from the old FreeP office only to find out that a phantom fire alarm had gone off, and I quickly realized I never wanted to do that again. When I was editorial page editor, I used to snicker quietly whenever I heard sirens, knowing full well I wouldn’t be the one to chase them.

But more than just not wanting to run, I never cared about spot news because it’s not really what I’m about. I’m not about the quick thrills. Some people get a rush by getting to a disaster site and reporting the story as fast as is accurately possible. To me, that’s not what I enjoy. I’ve done it, and am happy to do it, but it isn’t my preference.

In my mind, that kind of journalism is superficial. It’s bang, bang what happened. I’d rather delve deeper. I want to know why, who this impacts? Could it happen again? What’s the human element?

I think you can classify journalists in part by how much they enjoy spot news. There are those who live for it. They want day after day to chase the scoop and report the facts. It’s an important job.

But then there are those who would like to take a moment to reflect. They’d write the day-after feature trying to make sense of it all. I think that’s more where I fall.

But when you’re young, you have to do it all. And I think that’s good. It takes doing it all to know what you prefer.

With that, here's another story I wrote for this week's paper. I wrote a bunch more that I will put on the Web site soon. Once I do that, I will link them from the blog. My favorite story is one about the Lolo National Forest receiving stimulus money without being able to guarantee that local contractors will get the work.

Comments welcome,
Andrew

I see the light?

That’s 10 at night. And I didn’t play any tricks with the clock. It really stays light for that long. I think it’s because the two hour time difference overcompensates for the speed of the Earth’s rotation or something. Don’t look at me, I’m no scientist. But it creates an interesting paradox.

See, I don’t have much of a social life in Montana. Don’t be sad. Going out at night was never something I really really loved doing. I just did it because it was something to do. But because I don’t have a night life, I like to go to bed early and take advantage of things I can do during the daylight. Unfortunately, that often means trying to fall asleep while the residual light still shines.

The interesting thing about being here is that a lot of what I can do in an hour or two would be a day’s activity from Boston or Albany. Like this morning I went on a hike up a small mountain/large hill and was back by 10 a.m. -- 9:37 to be exact.

Sometimes in Boston I would feel like I wasn’t doing enough to take advantage of my surroundings. I would blame myself for sitting around, even if I was doing work. Here, it’s easy to take advantage of my surroundings. And if I can be done with a significant hike before my morning coffee, it’s easy to feel like I did something with my day, even if I spent most of the day writing and reporting from my desk.

Heck, even the commute to the office feels like an activity. The road cuts through the mountains and offers some of the most intense scenery I have ever witnessed.

It’s easier to feel calm when you don’t have the pressure of trying to take advantage of the place you are living in. Simply living here is taking advantage. However, that also makes me feel like I’m out of “it.” There is nothing to be missed, except maybe a star or two. It’s a satisfying yet unsettling sensation.

I guess I’ll quit worrying and get to bed. It’s almost 10, and the sun is yet to set behind the hill.

Comments welcome,

Andrew