Ken Bilderback

The following is an excerpt from Creek With No Name: How the West was Won (and Lost) in Gaston, Oregon, available in paperback and for Kindle. All material copyright Ken Bilderback 2011. All rights reserved:

The motives of those suspected of hiding secret lives remain unclear as well. Why would a man live like a hermit in a decrepit shack if he really was a millionaire? Why would a man who lived a life of international intrigue suddenly turn up as pastor at an old wooden church in the foothills of Oregon’s Coast Range? Why would a quiet rancher warrant a raid by federal agents?

The case of Louis Rader is the easiest of the three to solve. Rader was the subject of many stories in The Oregonian after his arrest, but the basis of his story is revealed in the cascading headlines on the very first article, which appeared on the doorsteps of Portlanders on the morning of June 27, 1923. The story involved a planned visit to Portland by President Warren G. Harding, and the main headline blared: “Farmer Threatens Life of President.” The first subhead elaborated on the evidence against him: “Rancher of Gaston Arrested for Writing Letter.”

On the surface, a letter threatening the life of a President about to visit the area sounds pretty damning. Upon closer inspection, however, the letter seems more a statement of confusion than confession. The letter was written to the Portland Chamber of Commerce and contains this threat, or possible threat: “Now friends this nice morning I have a hunch here it is President Harding will be called this month on a Fryday to a high court where he will give account to the above mention.”

OK, so maybe the letter itself left a little doubt about his motives, but this is where Mr. Rader’s small-town neighbors enter the drama. Rader is described as “a grizzled (sic) little German, short of stature, stockily built, with a cheerful, good-natured disposition.” But neighbors told investigators of a darker side to this immigrant from Europe who, they said, was hiding a past as a radical in his faraway homeland of Germany. While he had managed to escape to America, neighbors said, many of his fellow radicals remained imprisoned back home, and he hoped to avenge what he saw as injustices perpetrated against them. Rader was, his neighbors in Gaston told the agents, much too dangerous to remain free while Harding was in the area. Another of the subheads in the Oregonian story summed up the neighbor’s accounts: “Louis Rader, Elderly German, Who Is Said to Be Erratic, Forecasts Death of Harding.”

Louis Rader, however, was never charged with any crime, freed in part by the meaning of the word “forecasts.” The final subhead elaborates: “BLAME LAID TO SPIRITS.” The spirits that led to Rader’s arrest were not the kind being distilled in the steep hills of moonshine territory across the valley, either. They were “celestial spirits” who spoke regularly to Louis Rader, guiding every aspect of his life. It seems that while his nosy neighbors were speculating about him conspiring with radicals, he really was conspiring with unseen apparitions to lay bare the future. These spirits had sent him a prophecy that Harding would die in Portland.

It was ghosts, not Rader, who predicted this foul turn of events, but the Feds had no jurisdiction to arrest the ghosts so Rader was the one who found himself in jail. Rader’s luck improved while he languished behind bars, however, when he got yet another message from his guiding spirits, telling him that they had been wrong about Harding’s impending doom in the Rose City. Louis Rader shared the good news with prosecutors and was released to return home to Gaston.

Of course Warren G. Harding did not die on his visit to Portland, where he gave a triumphant speech to nearly 30,000 people at Civic Stadium on the Fourth of July before continuing on to British Columbia and then north to Alaska. He even visited Portland again on his return train trip, but this time he had to cancel a planned speech because he unexpectedly fell ill between Seattle and Portland. So no, Warren G. Harding did not die in Portland. He died a couple of days later in San Francisco from the sudden illness that thwarted his second Portland appearance.

Louis Rader was wrong on another count: Harding did not die on a “Fryday”; he died late on a Thursday night. Nonetheless, Rader felt vindicated and a few days later wrote a letter to The Oregonian from his farm in Gaston. In it, he said: “You know now I did not miss it very much.”

We don’t know if Louis Rader ever was an agent provocateur as his nosy neighbors alleged. Regardless, it wasn’t his life before arriving in Gaston that made him interesting. It was his life on his little ranch that earned Louis Rader a spot in history.

In the 1990s I decided to try solo mountain climbing, which was a foolish decision made even more foolish by the fact that I had no training or experience in climbing mountains.

Somehow, out of sheer stubbornness I was successful in a surprising number of these ascents, and those successes fueled a self-confidence that carried me to my greatest successes, both professional and personal.

Standing at the summit of a mountain, even a relatively small mountain, is as exhilarating as anything I’ve ever experienced, made even more special by the knowledge that no one, including me, would have thought I could do it.

Each such experience is different; even the same mountain never yields the same experience twice. One time you might find yourself in bright sunshine, surrounded by an endless sea of clouds below you. You find yourself on a deserted island with nothing in sight but the summits of a select few other mountains, enjoying an experience that is, for a moment, yours alone, unique in all the world. The next time the same peak might offer unobstructed views below of crowded cities and remote mountain lakes and golden eagles soaring high above the Earth, yet not nearly as high as you, one of the most Earthbound creatures on the planet.

One unseasonably hot September I felt the urge to climb a mountain. An unseasonably hot September is a bad time to conquer most peaks, because the snow and ice is very unstable. Bachelor Butte, however, was surprisingly bare of snow that cloudless, sizzling summer day, rendering it more of a strenuous hike than a climb. I had been to the top several times before without incident, so off I went, dressed in shorts and T shirt but carrying warm clothes, just in case.

Before long, the thermometer on my pack registered an even 100 degrees, much warmer than the forecast high. The eastern sky also was defying the forecast, producing billowing white clouds. The extreme heat slowed my ascent, giving the clouds time to build into suddenly black, roiling masses. Pondering my options, I decided that making it toward the top and to the relative safety of the ski lift terminal might be safer than trying to climb back down into the disorienting darkness.

Soon I encountered a young couple, both experienced climbers, who affirmed my decision. Together we headed toward the building, reaching it just as frigid gale-force winds swooshed up the mountain. We watched as our thermometers plunged toward freezing, and suddenly we were in a whiteout of ice pellets that felt as though they could penetrate our skin in the howling wind. We were, I think, prepared to weather the storm, although that didn’t completely alleviate my anxiety. We decided to spend the night on the leeward side of the structure, hoping for sun the next morning.

As it turns out, we didn’t need to wait nearly that long. Within minutes the last of the storm blew off toward the east, and the sun re-emerged. The temperature rose just as quickly, which gave us only moments to gape at the ice crystals that had formed from the cracks in the rocks. By the time I dug my camera from my pack, the best of the formations already had melted or broken.

The skies suddenly clear again, we started down the mountain, and I was happy to have company for a change. Not because I was scared. Far from it; the bright sun and the idle chairlifts created the perfect path and conditions for a smooth and rapid descent. Instead, I valued the company of these strangers because they affirmed what I had just experienced, even if each of us described it in different terms and with a slightly different sense of how long and how scary it actually had been. We soon split up, because the young woman was developing shin splints from our quick descent, and I wanted to get back to Bend to have my amazing pictures developed to share with friends.

The pictures turned out to be less than amazing. I had missed the moment, and even my best shots couldn’t capture the context of an ice storm on perhaps the year’s hottest day. That evening in my hotel room I watched the local news to see what other effects this unexpected storm had created, but there was no word of it on the news. In fact, the lead story was of people tanning and trying to stay cool in the sweltering sun, oblivious to the storm clouds around them. My experience had not been completely unique, because I had shared it with two total strangers. Still, as I looked out over Bend at dusk, watching commuters headed home from their air-conditioned offices or days of physical labor in the blazing heat, I felt I was privy to a magical secret, as though for a few moments I had been transported to a parallel reality in a world most people didn’t know existed. As I went to bed that night I couldn’t wait to climb more mountains, to acquire more such experiences.

The experience spurred me to tackle higher and more difficult climbs, but I never again reached the summit of a mountain. The climbs I chose all proved to be a little too high or a little too difficult for me, and each exhilarating day ended with me trudging down the mountain cloaked in noble failure. Settling again for lesser conquests held no magic, so by my late 30s, my climbing days soon were over.

“Climbing days” is an accurate measurement of my alpine adventures, which lasted only about three years, a mere blink of the eye for a now 56-year-old man. Still, those few days created many years of memories and pride. Writing about this chapter in my life is somewhat embarrassing, because I would never undertake anything so foolish today. I’m too old, too sedate, too broken down for that nonsense I left so long ago in my past. Among other things, my old-age-afflicted knees are shot, and the pain, perhaps appropriately, affects me more when I’m walking downhill than when I’m ascending. The forces of nature have a way of pulling a body down much faster than one might want to go of his own accord.

I don’t think about those reckless days often, but when I do I swell with a certain odd sense of pride despite the fact I know that I wouldn’t, and couldn’t, do it all again. I’m thinking about those days right now because I heard an old Kris Kristofferson song the other day. The song’s message is, for my readers, a trite cliché unworthy of a true writer. I prefer to think that I might see a meaning in the lyrics that others (maybe , for example, the people who spend too many days in air-conditioned offices), might miss.

“If all he ever gets is older and around,” Kristofferson wrote, “the going up was worth the coming down.”

You now can find Creek With No Name and Wheels on the Bus in all formats at one place on my Amazon Author Page. Amazon Prime customers can read either book for free.

Better yet, if you have read either book you can leave a review or start a discussion about them.

Regardless, thanks for being a fan!

The Yamhill County History Museum in Lafayette is the latest outlet for Creek With No Name, joining Corner Antiques in Forest Grove and these fine Gaston stores: the Gaston Market, the One Horse Tavern, the 3 Layer Quilt Shop and Plum Hill Vineyards.

When you buy the book at any of those outlets, you will get a signed copy AND you will be supporting a local business or organization.

The book also is available in paperback or Kindle version at Amazon.com, if you are outside the area.

Third Street Books in McMinnville, Oregon, is making national news by taking on amazon.com.

When small bookstores stage stunts such as Third Street’s (bring in proof that you canceled your Amazon account and get a 15 percent discount), the message is that consumers are standing up against corporate greed. In reality, consumers are being duped into doing the opposite.

I am an avid supporter of local businesses, especially the ones along Third Street. Third Street is the main drag through McMinnville, which is one of the most beautiful and vibrant small towns in America. You won’t find corporate chain stores along Third, just a series of unique restaurants and stores carrying merchandise from local producers. Although my wife and I live as close to Portland as we do to McMinnville, “Mac’s” Third Street is our preferred destination for special dinners and holiday shopping.

I’m an even bigger supporter of small businesses in a little town a few miles up the road from McMinnville: Gaston. Gaston is my home and the subject of my latest book, which nearly every local store carries. I could sell those books myself out of the back of my car and eliminate the middleman, but I want local businesses to prosper. I want the struggling local merchants to get a cut of each book sold, and the chance to show off the unique products or services they offer to those coming in to buy a book or to have a copy signed.

One might think that I would be a prime target audience for gimmicks such as Third Street Books, but in reality the owner’s call to boycott Amazon feels like something of a personal attack. I can survive quite nicely without Third Street Books, but without Amazon I cannot survive as a small local business (remember, self-publishing is a business).

I have ample evidence that I can survive without Third Street Books because the owner declined to carry my first book, even when I offered her free copies to sell as a test after being honored at a major book festival. That rejection stung, but also motivated me to concentrate on new business models. It helped me realize that small bookstores, which I had hoped would be my major sales channel, were instead irrelevant to my success.

They were, sadly, in some ways almost worse than irrelevant. The small bookstores that did carry my first book bought it at extremely sweet prices, and I got a royalty that amounted to a tiny fraction of what I would get through Amazon. Most of those small bookstores then turned around and sold it on their Amazon online stores, usually undercutting Amazon by a few pennies per copy. They stole the sale from Amazon, consumers saved 25 cents or so, and I lost dollars on each sale. Perhaps worse yet, some of those stores took me up on the offer of free books, which meant the sales were pure profit for them and pure loss for me.
So instead of realizing my dream of selling my books in charming little stores such as Third Street Books, I sadly decided that for self-preservation I would initially bypass them altogether for my second effort. I say initially because I know that like my first book this one will end up on the shelves of quaint bookstores as used copies, which are highly profitable for the bookstore but from which I don’t see a dime.

I don’t begrudge any bookstore owner’s right to deem my books unworthy of space on their shelves. Some of their customers actually appreciate that screening process. When I objected on Third Street Books’ Facebook page to the store’s attack on Amazon, a customer responded by saying she buys at bookstores because she is “appalled at the crap” self-published authors turn out. It is that customer’s perfect right to shop at stores that fill their shelves with publishing house’s books by authors with names such as Kardashian, Bachmann, Gingrich, Bieber, etc., in lieu of the “crap” produced by self-published writers. But when the owners of those stores go from turning up their noses at my books to trying to deny me any outlet to reach readers, their defense of literature looks more like what it really is: sanctimonious bullshit.

I don’t think most bookstores are malicious; I think the problem is they don’t understand their own industry. One local bookstore owner proudly showed me her “local authors” shelf as proof of her support for independent voices. Every single book on that shelf was used, so the local authors make no money and lose sales they might otherwise have made on Amazon. Meanwhile the prime space in the store was filled with new copies of corporate books, and every selection in the store’s book club for the past year has been a corporate title, many of which the “customers” borrowed from the library or purchased from Wal-Mart or Amazon.

I don’t claim that I have discovered the secret to being a successful self-published author, but the first week for my new book offered promise. Stores in Gaston had trouble keeping them in stock and we filled the One Horse Tavern to standing room only on a typically slow Wednesday night for a book signing. The One Horse made money from a non-traditional source – books – and sold beer and food to a packed house. A tavern owned by a shrewd businesswoman sold more books that day from one independent author than many small bookstores sell by all their corporate authors combined.

In another touch of irony, my wife and I went to McMinnville to celebrate our success. We love it down there. Every store along Third Street features amazing local food, local art, local music and local products of all kinds … with the notable exception of the bookstore, which struggles to survive selling the corporate wares of multinational publishing powerhouses.

I’m not bitter about local bookstores’ rejection of my books. In fact, I’m grateful for the store’s rejection because it forced me to become creative and find ways to sell books in a post-bookstore world. Among other things, it frees me to work with small, local businesses that support other small, local businesses, such as mine. I can share the wealth through sales at museums and other non-profits without a tinge of guilt that I might be hurting a local bookstore.

The rejections actually make me sad for the bookstores, because it proves that even I don’t need them anymore, even in my role as a book lover, supporter of local businesses and author.

Creek With No Name is available online. It has to be or I would go broke. Plus, I make more money from selling on Amazon than I do selling through local stores. But here’s my message: If you can, buy the book at a local business.

The Gaston Market, the One Horse Tavern, the 3 Layer Quilt Shop and Plum Hill Vineyards all enthusiastically carry the book. Up in Forest Grove, Corner Antiques and Collectibles has it for sale on the counter.

When you buy it at one of those places, I share the profit with the owner and the wealth is spread around town. Better yet, if you go to one of those stores to buy a book you might just find something else you like. Your jaw might drop when you see one of Amy’s quilts at the 3 Layer shop. Your mouth might salivate when you see Wendy’s menu and beer list at the One Horse Tavern. You might sample Juanita’s incredible pinot noir at Plum Hill (although Kris suggests you to try the pinot gris instead). When you walk through the unpretentious doors of Jeff’s Gaston Market you’ll find an array of gourmet meats and food you would never expect. And Sue’s Corner Antiques? You could be lost for days.

In short, when you buy the book at a local store, the experience is a little like what you encounter upon opening a book: A little curiosity, a little intrigue, and the hope that you might find a new favorite.

All the books in the stores are signed, although not personalized. Don’t worry, however, because I gladly will add a personal message later.

Please don’t feel guilty if you end up buying the book on Amazon instead, because without Amazon there wouldn’t be a book. Amazon’s subsidiary, CreateSpace, is the publisher and printer for every book, whether you buy it online or in a store. Amazon also is the distributor that allows people outside the Gaston-Forest Grove-McMinnville area to enjoy the book. In short, Amazon is the company that allows me to operate my small publishing business against the wishes of the corporate publishing giants (I’m looking at you, Rupert Murdoch).

And if you do buy the book on Amazon, I’ll sign it for you next time you’re in the area. Maybe I’ll meet you for a beer at the One Horse or a glass of wine at Plum Hill. Maybe we’ll buy a snack at the Gaston Market or look at quilts at the 3 Layer. Want to search for artifacts at Corner Antiques? I’ll meet you there.

After all, buying books should be fun, don’t you think?

Everything you really need to know about the American West happened in Gaston, Oregon.

OK, that’s an exaggeration, of course. Some of it happened as much as 10 miles outside of town.

In “Creek With No Name: How the West was Won (and Lost) in Gaston, Oregon,” I explain how the trends that shaped the West — the Oregon Trail, unquenchable thirst for water, federal land giveaways, the railroads, Native Americans, the timber industry, farming, grandiose goals of visionaries — all happened in Gaston. Wild West shootouts? Got ’em. Ghost stories, too. Bootleggers and brawls, dastardly deeds and Utopian dreams. Of course we had a gold rush, too.

But where you find winners you’ll find losers. The Indians, of course, but also the Chinese and Japanese. Most of the visionaries eventually saw their dreams die, sometimes in spectacular disaster. Nature has taken a beating, and so has the working man.

All these stories and more are told by award-winning journalist and author Ken Bilderback in ‘Creek With No Name,’ available now direct from the publisher, at gastonoregon.com, and very soon at the Gaston Market, the One Horse Tavern, 3 Layer Quilt Shop and Plum Hill Vineyards.

In the spirit of doing what I do best, here’s some shameless self-promotion.

Here are stories about me in The Oregonian, News-Register, Ohlone Monitor, patch.com. The Argus didn’t publish online, and there might be others.

Excerpt from ‘Wheels on the Bus.’ All rights reserved.

Read more at Patch.com

Up until that point I had had only one encounter with a prostitute, an “older” woman of about 35 back in Detroit. She had no interest in me, however.

I was hanging out in a bar near my parents’ home with a group of friends, playing pinball and pool and drinking pitchers of Stroh’s. This woman, who was not unattractive but who was old enough to be a friend’s mother, had latched on to, literally, one of my friends. She was drunk and hung on him, sometimes grabbing his crotch and sometimes whispering in his ear before trying to poke her tongue in it. Eventually my friend pulled me aside and asked if he could borrow my car because the woman had offered him oral sex for $5. Unable to think of anything that could go wrong with such an arrangement, I handed him the keys to my Camaro.

After a while a mutual friend came into the bar from the psychedelic head shop across the street. I loved that head shop, especially the black light room filled with glowing posters and clothing. I always planned to have such a room in my home when I got older. The head shop’s owner was kind of a creepy guy, but he shared his bong with us as long as we weren’t greedy; I had not heard “Bogart” used as a verb until one night when he scolded a friend for bogarting his bong.

Anyway, on this night the friend who had just left the head shop didn’t want to talk about bongs. He wanted to tell me that our mutual friend was in my Camaro in the parking lot and needed my help immediately. This mutual friend was laughing and told me “This is really fucked up!” What I found on this cold winter night was my friend hunched over in the passenger seat of my car, shivering without his pants.

He had no pants because the woman, after fulfilling her promise of a blow job, had grabbed his wallet and run off into the night. His wallet was still in his pants pocket, so now he had no pants, either. His story scared me as we sat in the dark, snowy parking lot, but it made him laugh. This is how he viewed the situation: He had just scored a free blow job. He had no money in his wallet and wasn’t sure how he was going to break that news to her; her theft of his pants had prevented the awkward conversation. We found his pants the next day, slashed to shreds.

His next book, “A Creek With No Name and other True Tales of Gaston, Oregon,” is due out later this summer.