The Last Goodbye

April 2009:
The woman from Catahoula Rescue half picked up, half dragged the large 65 pound puppy and pushed him into a crate in the van, like sausage meat into casing. There were at least a dozen other dogs in the van, barking, crying, whining. Then, she was gone and with her, my precious-turned-aggressive puppy, Chinook.

The last four months have been very difficult for me and I'm sure it has been hard for Chinook, too. He spend the first two weeks traveling up and down the Eastern seaboard in the van before finally getting dropped off with Vance in Franklin, TN. He used Catahoulas to help round up lost cattle. We though that Chinook might be re-trainable as a "cow dog." Apparently, that did not work. Vance said, "he was too much of a pet." He didn't really know how to work with the pack and kept running back to the human for reassurance. Ironic since he didn't do so well as a pet. At least, not with me. Vance is not a pet kinda guy. His dogs are pure working dogs and Chinook was essentially taking up space and eating, not earning his keep. He had failed as a cow dog and needed a new home.

From there, he went to Michelle's place. Michelle knew Vance and he told he had a dog he couldn't use. She met Chinook and really liked him. He was given to her and sometime after the fact, when I happened to call Vance for an update, he told me that he'd given Chinook away. Vance had never let on that there was any kind of problem. Obviously, I hadn't been told the whole story.

Michelle was very nice on the phone, sounded young, and trained horses for a living. In the evening, she went back to the 60-acre ranch on which she worked part time in exchange for housing. She seemed to really care about him and had plans for training him, keeping him busy and raising him with her other dog, a pointer-cattle dog mix. And so, they have been together for the last few months. She said, "sure" when I asked if I could come out and see how he was doing. And, sign the pedigree paperwork over to her, the final step in the transfer.

Last Friday, I left Asheville around 1pm, driving up through Knoxville and across the Appalachians to the rolling hills just east of Nashville. Kali came with me for company. I was worried the whole drive. How would he be? Would he be happy? Healthy? Could I see him without falling apart emotionally? I checked into the Motel 6 in Hermitage, TN, uncertain whether I'd be able to sleep for my thoughts & feelings. As it turned out, I didn't need to worry about that due to the raucous families above me and to either side. I think I got about 4 hours total.

We left first thing in the morning for the last 40 miles to Fairview, TN and, after a bit of trouble thanks to Mapquest, found the place. It was a beautiful, sprawling ranch. Deep green lawns contrasting with bright white, split rail fencing, sectioning off squares of fields and paddocks. I drove along the narrow drive, unsure where to go with all these buildings and areas. And then I saw him, in a chain link kennel under a tree. A very small dog house sat off to one side. I called him and he swung his head in my direction, too-long early flying. Michelle came out of her rustic log cabin and opened the kennel door. He came running to me, full speed then leaping up, licking my face before rolling on his back and squirming. I leant over him, rubbing, petting. I began sobbing as Michelle walked over with a casual greeting. I couldn't answer her at first. I managed a "hi" and tried to calm myself.

He looked good, clear eyes, healthy coat, not-too-skinny. He'd gotten taller. I glided my hands over him as if I were checking out a horse. Then I saw the thick circular scar around his neck. "What's this?," I demanded, "what happened to him?" Michelle explained that when Vance couldn't put him to work, he basically ignored him and Chinook's collar began to cut into his neck, unnoticed, as he grew. He became nasty and snippy and wouldn't let anyone touch him. Of course, nobody told me any of this. Eventually, they got a hold of him and discovered what had happened. I still don't know if he healed on his own or got any veterinary care. It was healed. I decided not to dwell on it and make the most of my time with him.

We threw some balls, ran around the yard and did some more snuggling. He went over to my car where Kali waited and they started snarling and growling at each other. We called him back and he came over readily. He seemed truly happy and Michelle seemed to really enjoy him. I got out his records and went over his vaccinaations and microchipping with her, reminding her of upcoming shot due dates. And then I signed him over to her and tried to be nonchalant as I handed her the pedigree form. Shortly after that, I left.

My heart ached and again, I questioned what I could have done differently. And then, I just decided, "I can't do this to myself anymore. He is happy. He has a lovely home. She loves him. It is over." And, I drove the 350 miles back through the Smoky Mountains to my own log cabin with my dog.

Smile though your cart is aching

Late entry for July 25th, 2009

This would be the true test: I would drive to the North Seattle Costco, BBQ shopping list in hand on a busy summer Saturday. I would be patient, kind, friendly, polite, and most of all completely pleasant with a capital “P,” practicing all the skills I’d learned during my first 7 months in North Carolina. Could it work? Would it work?

The first thing that happened is that somebody pulled into the parking space I had been sitting waiting for, baking in the car during the hottest heat wave the city of Seattle has ever seen. Really. It got up to 103 degrees. If that is not evidence of global warming, I don’t know what is. Anyhow, I smiled a broad genuine smile as the driver looked at me while pretending not to see me. No problem. I’m bigger than that. I’m not going to get sucked into a hostility vortex so early in my experiment. I found another spot and walked towards the entrance, people cutting me off right and left in their rush to get in before me. I just breathed calmly and kept a slight Mona Lisa smile on my face. The first surprised response of got was when I warmly greeted the card checker at the door. “How are you holding up today?” The African American woman looked at me quizzically before venturing a response, “uh, fine, I guess.”

I started out in the produce area which is essentially a walk-in cooler. It’s got to be 30 degrees in there but certainly no colder than frigid expressions on the other shoppers faces as they scowled at prices, looking for the best deal. I hummed to myself and selected a few items for my cart. Then, it was off to the freezer section for burgers – beef, salmon & black bean. This is Seattle after all. As I ambled towards the glass doors, a man parked his cart directly in my path and walked a short distance away towards the quesadilla samples being given out. “Excuse me, sir,” I called out cheerily, “would you mind if I moved your cart just a bit?” He tilted his head ever so slightly in my direction and blinked slowly as if to say, “I didn’t hear anything, did I?” When he did not move his cart, I stood there calmly waiting, gazing patiently towards the sample cart with what I hoped was an understanding look on my face. When he came back, I smiled. “Looks good. Maybe I should try one.” He completely ignored me but did move his cart. I loaded up on burgers. The detour to the bun area was mostly uneventful (although I did manage to squeeze in a few smiles, nods and "how are you today"'s) so I headed towards the check out area. As I did, a tiny Asian woman speeding along with a loaded cart at about 40 miles per hour literally crashed right into me. “Oh,” I uttered with genuine surprise, “I’m so sorry, are you ok?” even though it was obviously and totally her fault. She back up a couple of inches, changed her trajectory and headed off towards the dietary supplements. I shook my head in disbelief but quickly regained my composure, determined to stay in character for my social experiment. Just as I got in line, an older man wearing a Hawaiian shirt came scurrying over to me. “I saw that whole thing – people are just so rude, especially those Orientals. I think they should go back to where they came from, don’t you?” This was a stretch for me. I wanted to call him a racist pig and tell him to mind his own damned business. What came out of my mouth surprised even me. I said, “oh, that’s ok, she’s probably got a lot on her mind; it’s no problem.” He stared at me, incredulously. “Are you nuts? She rammed right into you and didn’t say a word!” I just smiled stupidly, nodding. At that point, he turned on his heel and stomped off with frustration at not having found someone to collude with for his racial stereotyping. I stood in the check out line, chatting with the checker and making small talk with the person in line behind me. Then, I was out the door to the car, loading my groceries, proud of myself for keeping my promise, feeling somewhat holier-than-thou. I was also emotionally and physically exhausted from being so darned nice.

Does it count as truly “pleasant” with a capital “P” if one is smug with a capital “S” upon accomplishing one’s pleasantries?? Nope, probably not. Just goes to show, you can take the girl out of the city but you can’t take the city out of the girl. Still, my North Carolina friends would have been proud of me I think. I drove home, tailgating as many cars as I could get away with.

Late entry: Heading West, July 21st

I’m sitting here at O’Hare waiting for my plane which is, of course, delayed. I’m so excited to be going home to Seattle. Just the fact that I phrased it that way should tell me something but, well, does it? But, even so, I can see how living in NC has changed me….for the better. As I find myself wandering through these airport terminals, I no longer feel the normal Seattle-esque inclination to I want to be invisible, not talking to anyone. That was never my natural way, anyhow. I feel an openness, a willingness to look people in the eye and smile, chatting when the opportunity presents itself. I have promised myself that if I do move back I refuse to crawl back into that ubiquitous passive-aggressive, “I don’t see you,” Seattle social attitude. I’m going to be warm and friendly, continue to look people in the eye, connect and share openly who I am. It always amazes me how traveling to a different place or, in this case living in a different place, somehow seeps in through one’s pores in ways that are hard to identify or define. And, you might not even realize these very subtle changes unless you leave that place. Somehow, there is a different filter or sensibility or orientation that colors the way one perceives every other place. In fact, one of the ways to begin to define where one has been living and how it feels to be there is to leave and go elsewhere. I thought I was leaving Asheville on this trip in order to see what I really feel about Seattle. But now I see that by leaving Asheville, I will have the opportunity to have perspective on that life. The cornball, cheesy song that is running through my head right now is, “Torn Between Two Lovers.” I mean, why is it expected that we have to like living in one place. Why can’t it be two…or even three? Why does one place have to “win,” and be THE CHOICE? I guess it basically comes down to finances. If I had lots of money and didn’t have to be dependent upon work, I could actually live in multiple places. And, if I am truly honest with myself, that is what I really want, although I think I’d like to add one place to the mix…Northern New Mexico. So how to make that work….or is it worth it….or even feasible....?

It is undeniable that the NC land, beauty, cheapness, friendliness, accessibility, lack of traffic-ness is creeping under my skin, into my heart and consciousness. The warm, rich, deep fragrances of this morning, over at the park, sweet and heavy with honeysuckle and wild raspberries, are precious and fine. It literally makes me want to sob with the beauty of it all. The soft curving lines reaching towards the sky, the dark hollows and winding dirt roads heading off around the bends and disappearing…oh, it is just too wonderful. The land beckons to me…discover me, find me, love me. And I do. And I will. When I get back from Seattle.

The essence of mountain living (sort of) & Sam Knob.

I'm starting to fall in love with this land, the sheer energy of it and the protectiveness of the elder spirits of the mountains. Yesterday promised to be in the 90's so I loaded up Kali & appropriate hiking gear into the car. We headed east on Smokey Park Highway just about 2 miles to the junction with route 151. It starts of broad and rolling through the Hominy Valley, past farms & fields and old country churches before ever-so-subtly beginning to climb. It winds past B&B's, more churches, an elementary school & fire station, a couple RV parks mostly empty this early in the season. All of a sudden, the road narrows. The sign on the right reads "windy, mountain road" and then starts a series of three dozen or more switchbacks and corkscrew turns, climbing sharply, the Subaru in 2nd gear the whole time. The temperature begins to drop and the sharp & tangy Bluegrass tunes playing on WNCW in the car ping off the cliffsides and bounce down the valleys. Joy is what I feel. Freedom is germinating. We climb ever higher for 15 minutes until the sign, "Blue Ridge Parkway." We hop on, heading south towards Mt. Pisgah, driving swiftly past there for another 12 miles to Forest Road 816, otherwise known as the Black Balsam Knob access road. But, that's not where we were going.

We passed the dozens of cars parked on the right after about a mile and kept going til the end, to the Sam Knob trailhead. And, what a glorious trail it was, reminding me of the Alpine meadows and edge-clinging paths of Mt Rainier. The trail was very reminiscent of the Northwest in many ways, being highly forested with evergreens in places, streams and creeks flowing all around. We climbed a moderately steep way up to the summit of Sam Knob, a rock-covered platform surrounded by butterflies and flowers with views of other peaks in every direction. At the peak, it is 6050 feet above sea level. Every step was a joy, every glimpse brought a smile to my lips and a song to my heart. Then, we made our way back down to the open, grassy meadow to the junction with the Flat Laurel Trail which was supposed to create the remainder of a 3.6 mile loops. Except, I made a mistake. We cut across the flowing creek - more like a narrow river - and I lost my bearings.

I read the sign carefully. I swear I did. Only I must not have. With renewed vigor, we plunged down the trail. It sure didn't seem like .9 to the parking lot. We should have reached the parking lot. I got a little panicky, began hoarding water and mentally going through the contents of my backpack as the sky got darker and a storm began to blow in. The temperature dropped a good 10 degrees at least. Yes, I had matches. Rain poncho, check. Space blanket, check. Extra food, sort of check. Compass, er, nope. Extra water, um, nope. On and on through my pack as we walked & walked and I chided myself for not following my own best guidance a little better. I hadn't brought my brand new, very clear National Geographic map of Pisgah Nat'l Forest. It was sitting on the passenger seat of my car. I had a small photocopy of a map from the book. Every dozen steps or so, I pulled it out again and re-examined. The route I now felt we were on was not listed on my map but then, we were no longer on the trail it was meant to depict. We passed beautiful waterfalls as I rehearsed my survival strategy (stay put, don't wander off the trail) and thanked my inner hiker for informing my sister of where we were headed. When was the last time I'd gotten lost hiking.... I think it was on part of the Appalachian Trail (the "AT" as they call it here) with my sister in Pennsylvania about 20 years ago. As we walked, I could hear the parkway so I knew we weren't too far from humanity. I imagined the top story on the news as they pulled us out...."middle aged wannabe wilderness woman and crazy dog survive a cold night in one of the highest elevation areas off the parkway; how'd they do it? tune in at 11." Eventually, we saw a family hiking and I was so thrilled to see them, I almost ran up and hugged them. They confirmed my fears. I had screwed up and we were about 6 miles off course.

Eventually, exhausted & thirsty, we came to a widening of the trail across the creek to some campsites which lead to a road. Down that road about 1 1/2 hilly miles was the parkway. Then it was 3 miles to the access road and another 1.5 miles to the car. So, we did what any lame trail sign reader would do - we hitched. An old beat up red pickup let us scramble into the back and up the steep incline to the parkway we rode, bouncing along, doing what I've cursed many people for doing in the past - riding in the back of a pickup with a dog. They dropped us off at the entrance to the parkway and we began walking in the direction I hoped was north. Some people felt sorry for us, or, rather, for Kali and tossed some water bottles out the car window towards us. It was right around then that I got stung by something. Was it a bee? I'm allergic to bees. Yes, I had my epi pen. Was I feeling short of breath or was that just the pitch of the parkway? Was I feeling dizzy or was that just the lack of sufficient water in the midday heat? We ambled along. I started crying softly, cursing myself and making a list of the lessons I had already learned from this (bring MORE water, bring the good map, get a bigger backpack so I can fit everything, bring MORE food, check the signs more carefully, ask people if in doubt, get a fucking compass you idiot!). Lots of motorcycles whizzed by. They definitely couldn't give us a ride. Then I saw a beige Kia coming towards us. I stuck my thumb out. Then, on second thought, brought my palms together near my heart, praying they would stop. They did! Two Asian women from Jackson, TN on their first trip to the area. They were afraid of dogs but let us in anyhow and drove us the my car with me repeating "thank you" over and over.

Then, we climbed into the Outback, cranked up the air conditioning, thanked my lucky stars and elder mountain spirits and twisted our way back down the mountain into the 20 degree warmer heat and headed home.

A perfect day.

A song is heard in the shadow of Mt. Pisgah...or was that a screech?

This morning, I awoke late to the sounds of an avian cacophony. As I listen, I often find myself mentally transcribing the bird calls onto a musical staff, with my best guess of pitch and approximated rhythm. Pretty cerebral stuff for a self-described nature-lover. I guess you can take the girl out the music conservatory but you can't take the conservatory out of the girl. This propensity towards listening too closely and analytically is the same reason I can't just play background music like "normal" people.

There are pros and cons to this compulsive musical behavior but one of the pros is that I can listen...really listen. Which brings us back to the birds, the ones who woke me up this morning. "What kind are they?," you may ask. Well, that's a damned good question. I don't have the foggiest idea. I mean, here I am, a wannabe country girl direct from the land of Starbucks and pho (amazing Vietnamese noodle soup quickly becoming as ubiquitous as lattes), sitting in a leaky, musty log cabin , within sight of Mt. Pisgah, listening to birds. What the hell do I know about birds? Oh, hey, I know that one - its a crow "caw, caw, caw." Yes, I know what eagles, geese, ducks & red-tailed hawks sound like. I know what robins & cardinals LOOK like. But, can I identify their calls while lying supine. Well, by now, you can guess my answer.

Those poor birds, their efforts are wasted on me. Not that I don't appreciate them for I surely do. I just can't identify them. In the slightest. I know that this area of North Carolina represents a joining of two zones, the northern temperate zone and the southern sub-tropical zone. As a result, there is a huge diversity of life here, not just in birds but in plants, salamanders, bacteria and other living stuff (not the least of which are the freaky, "half-back" people - just take a stroll in downtown Asheville). My ignorance makes me feel guilty, a feeling which defeats the simple joy I am aspiring to today. So, with some finger flicks of the keyboard, I hereby toss that feeling aside and promise to just enjoy my feathered friends who joyfully surround my home in the woods with song. Lucky, lucky me! I am smiling contentedly...at last.

LATE ENTRY ~ "Omni Extaris" or Thoughts Regarding 2009 Commencement at UNC-Asheville

Well, it has acutally been three weeks since this wonderful event at University of North Carolina-Asheville. I had mentioned it a bit in my blog a few weeks ago....the fun & warmth of the dinner party at my house, etc. However, I failed to mention that Doc Watson was an honored guest. there to be granted an honorary doctorate.

He's pretty old and he hobbled onto the podium with the help of an assistant When it was time for him to say a few words, he decided instead that he would sing. He sat down in a chair in front of thousands of people, chit-chatting casual as can be, humble and self-deprecating. The assistant handed him his guitar and right there, as if he were in your living room, started singing a few old tyme favorites. I jotted down the titles because I thought I might forget them and, of course, not only did I forget them but I can't find my notes! But, just trust me, it was fabulous! For about 20 minutes, he jammed & crooned, transporting all of as back to a simpler time. There was lots of toe tapping (never before had I seen so many people wearing cowboy boots with academic gowns - that's Asheville for you. We are, after all, the closest city of any significant size to the mountains of Western North Carolina) and cheering. It was, by far, the most entertaining graduation ceremony I've ever been to.

Doc Watson provided a wonderful icing on the cake to the opening ceremony in which Sam was awarded educator of the year by the Board of Regents from UNC. But, I may be repeated myself. I was so very proud of him, his dedication and commitment to his students made clear by the quotes from evalutations which were read out loud.

The fabulous third course, a treat for all present, was the commencement address delivered by Les Purce, president of Evergreen University in Olympia, WA. Just seeing someone from Western Washington made me feel all misty-eyed & nostalgic. But then, he was very charming, funny and impressive. He spoke of the importance of sometime putting one's neck out and beings oneself, (Omni Extaris is their school motto meaning, roughly, "Let it all hang out"). With that, he launched into a solemn delivery of the prelude to the Evergreen University fight song, words and music by Malcolm Stilson, 1971. After a few hymn-like verses, it morphs into a rousing march-like chorus, extolling the virtues of their mascot, the geoduck!

For those of you who haven't been lucky enough to encounter a geoduck first hand, let me share a bit. The geoduck is a mollusk native to the Pacific Northwest. The geoduck (pronounced "GOO-ee-duck") is the largest burrowing clam in the world, weighing in at anywhere from one to three pounds at maturity. The appearance of geoduck's large, protruding siphon has led to the belief that the geoduck has the properties of an aphrodisiac. The geoduck has a life expectancy of up to 150 years with the oldest recorded at 163 years.

Here are the words & the link if you can handle the sheer emotion of it - http://www.experiencefestival.com/the_geoduck_fight_song:

Go, Geoducks go,

Through the mud and the sand,

let's go.

Siphon high, squirt it out,

swivel all about,

let it all hang out.

Go, Geoducks go,

Stretch your necks when the tideis low

Siphon high, squirt it out,

swivel all about,

let it all hang out.

As one who is often preoccupied by the way that she appears to others, this is excellent advice. We all need to allow our true but unglamorous nature to shine through once in a while to remind us that we are, after all, human and as such, utterly outrageously flawed...

Cherokee Lands & Traditions

Yesterday, I took niece Zoe & nephew Abe out to the remote Little Snowbird community of Robbinsville, Graham County, for the "Fading Voices" demonstration festival of the Eastern Band Cherokee. The main part of the tribal lands are within the reservation Qualla boundary however, as I have been learning, there are many Cherokee communities & Cherokee-owned land outside that specific border. Scattered along the Snowbird, Little Snowbird & Buffalo Creeks, about two hours from Candler & an hour from Cherokee proper, residents incorporate many traditional practices into their daily lives. This community was established when President Andrew Jackson ordered the dispersal of the Cherokee from their ancestral lands to Oklahoma, a long walk known as the Trail of Tears which began in 1828. The ancestors of these folks found refuge deep in the Snowbird Mountains and thus avoided permanent relocation.

We went for the food (of course!) and more. My formerly fry bread virgin niece & nephew are now devout followers of this delectible but very unhealthy, ubiquitous, pan-Indian treat. I've literally eaten frybread from Neah Bay, the far northwest of corner of Washington state to the Tohono O'oadham lands of southern Arizona; from the Rosebud Lakota Reservation of South Dakota to, well, far west North Carolina Cherokee communities.

While at the festival, we met artists & craftspeople who are still practicing old techniques for soapmaking, bow & arrow carving, quilting, coffin-making, pottery & more. One of the highlights was talking with SHIRLEY OSWALT. She was born at home in the Snowbird Community and grew up speaking the Cherokee language. We shared a joke when I showed her the hat I was given as a volunteer at the Center for Cherokee Plants. She explained to me what the writing on it meant (one who plants or gardener) and told me the correct pronunciation, ah-wee-suh-wee-skee based upon the Cherokee syllabary. But, she said jokingly, the folks at the center may not know that with confidence. She said I should go back and say that I'd spoken with a fluent elder who told me it actually says, "your mother is a cow." Very amusing. I think I'll try that. Anyhow, Shirley attended the Snowbird Indian School, a small community school where students were encouraged to speak Cherokee language as well as English. A member of the Seven Clans Art Guild, Shirley learned basketmaking and beadwork from her family, and also carves and paints gourds.

She has taught workshops at schools in North Carolina, Tennessee, and Georgia, and regularly demonstrates at festivals, including The Cherokee Voices Festival at the Museum of the Cherokee Indian, and the Sequoyah Birthplace Museum Festival. At Fading Voices, she was demonstrating her pottery-making while her husband sold her gourd rattles at a nearby table. I still regret that I didn't purchase one of those rattles!

Here are some more photos from Fading Voices:

I mentioned above the Center for Cherokee Plants. I have just started volunteering there. The center, under the skillful direction of Sarah McClelland and her husband, Kevin Welch, has grown in leaps and bounds. As one of the programs of the Cooperative Extension program with North Carolina State University & the tribe, the Center is collecting, archiving, growing & distributing traditional and heirloom food & craft plants. Currently, they are nurturing a small "potted grove" of White Oak trees for basket-making & other crafts, bloodroot for dye, ramps (native wild onion), heirloom potatoes & strawberries among other plants. These are given to elders, children's heritage gardens at the schools & artists in the community. The Center consists of a nursery and garden area for propagating and growing Cherokee traditional vegetables, wild edible plants, plants significant as Cherokee artisans' resources, and native plants for landscape revegitation projects and a building to house the Cherokee Traditional Crops Seed Bank. Public educational programs are also being developed. The Center stemmed from a seed bank feasibility study lead by Kevin Welch. Funding for these projects is being sought from the Cherokee Preservation Foundation among other sources.

I'm really enjoying it so far. If it weren't for Karen, I never would have known about the Fading Voices festival. THANKS, Karen!!

Here taken directly from the Indian Country Extension website, http://www.indiancountryextension.org/extension.php?=27:

Current activities include the revegetation of ramps (a native wild onion) as a traditional food; revegetation of river cane, white oak, and butternut trees for traditional basket making; revegetation of American Chestnut for wildlife; the Cherokee Farmers Market; the Costa Rica Eco Study Tour; for youth and the Traditional Seeds project.

Goals of the cooperative extension office include:

Enhancing Agriculture, Forestry and Food Systems.
Conserving and Improving the Environment and Natural Resources.
Building Quality Communities.
Developing Responsible Youth.
Strengthening and Sustaining Families.

Other programs of the extension program include:

Cherokee Garden
Cherokee provides technical assistance to Cherokee farmers and gardeners. The annual garden contest grows in popularity each year. In 2006, 54 Cherokee gardens were in the competition. Over the past 3 years, the Chief's Cherokee Family Garden Project has distributed 1250 garden kits and 1000 apple trees to families to promote traditional family gardening. Two new interest groups have formed and meet monthly in Cherokee, the Smoky Mountain Beekeepers and the Cherokee Native Plant Study Group. Farming activities on two tribal farms are coordinated though the FRTEP Agent. Field days and on-farm demonstrations occur at these community farms.

Cherokee Youth in Costa Rica
Cherokee youth have the opportunity to travel to Costa Rica each year for international experiences in cultural exchange and learning about the environment and sustainable practices. Cherokee Extension prepare the youth for travel through an extensive educational series monthly classed from January to June. Thi stravel experience has allowed Cherokee youth to grow in their understanding of environmental issues and cultural appreciation. 2006 youth participants initiated a community recycling project, inspired by their experiences in Costa Rica. The youth-led community service recycling project is now established in four high highschools in Western North Carolina.