Look, on the page, it’s an editorial, no it’s a column, no it’s a letter, no it’s a ...
  From time to time we here at The Newberg Graphic need to do a little teaching. Recent confusion over what’s what on the Viewpoint page seems to indicate it is that time again.
   Generally, the Viewpoint page is laid out the same from issue to issue. In the top left corner is the editorial. Editorials are a newspaper’s stance on an issue, or a pat on the back for someone or some group for doing something worthwhile, or our take on the week’s events. You’ll notice they are not signed, nor is anyone’s name or initial affixed. That is because the editorial represents the newspaper as a whole, not a particular person.
   Editorials differ from the feature typically found just below them, namely guest columns. These are authored by people outside the newspaper and typically deal with issues in the community, although from time to time we publish guest columns addressing issues of state, regional or national interest. Oftentimes, guest columns were originally meant to be letters to the editor, but were too long to fit into that category, so they were massaged a tad and more info about the author is attached before they are published.
   Occasionally, we run columns such as this, written by members of The Graphic’s news staff. Sometimes they’re slice of life tomes meant to be funny or thoughtful; sometimes they are that reporter’s thoughts on an issue in the community. They are owned by the author and the viewpoints expressed are not necessarily shared by the other employees of the newspaper.
   Then there’s letters to the editor. The topics for letters range from citizens railing against bureaucracy to people thanking others for their generosity. Letters, by design and necessity, must be succinct. In fact, we have a 300-word limit, although that gets stretched from time to time, especially during election season.
   There are two important points to remember when reading letters to the editor: they are the opinion of the letter writers and not that of the newspaper; we have an open letter policy here at The Graphic, meaning if the letter is not libelous and does not contain information we know to be untrue, it will run, regardless of what it posits.
   It’s not often that we turn away letters to the editor, and that’s only when they potentially libel someone — an affront that is legally actionable against both the letter writer and us — or the letter contains information that is blatantly erroneous.
   You’ll notice that the Viewpoint page also contains what are called editorial cartoons. These are not comics like Peanuts or The Far Side. These are, generally, critical toward politicians or other high profile folks in the national arena. Unfortunately, we don’t have the bankroll to hire our own cartoonists, so it’s not likely you will see cartoons depicting locals.
   Finally, in the bottom left corner of the Viewpoint page you will see a feature called “What Others are Saying.” These are editorials taken from other newspapers, generally those in Oregon. Again, they don’t represent our views, but they are designed to allow people to see what’s going on in the rest of the state.
   Which ones we publish is generally catch as catch can; many papers these days require that you subscribe before you can access their Web sites, precluding us from borrowing their editorials. Some papers don’t have opinion links on their Web sites. Of the papers that do, some only editorialize on issues so local they would be of little interest to those not living in that town.
   Hope that clears things up. Contact us if you have any questions. Class dismissed.
   Gary Allen is managing editor of The Newberg Graphic

Identifying juveniles in print: What’s the standard?
   In the June 12 edition of the newspaper, we published an article about a pair of Newberg youths who allegedly stole a car, ditched it in Dundee and then were captured by police after they employed a tracking dog.
   One family took exception to seeing their son’s name and photograph printed in the newspaper, arguing that it was improper to identify a minor in the paper.
   It’s a common misconception that newspapers are prohibited – some believe by law – from printing minors’ names and photographs. There is no such law and policies differ from newspaper to newspaper. Some don’t publish names of minors; others publish names on minor crimes.
   The Newberg Graphic makes the decision to reveal names, and sometimes photos, of minors on a case-by-case basis. Basically, we’ve established a threshold for publication. If, for instance, a youth gets nabbed for minor in possession of alcohol, his or her name will not appear in the paper. However, if that charge is accompanied by a host of more serious crimes, such as theft or assault, then it’s likely his or her name will see the light of day, especially if they are a repeat offender. We are willing to give minors the benefit of the doubt on lesser charges, but that largess can only go so far.
   If the minor is charged with a serious crime — say arson, murder or rape — their name will appear in the paper. To do otherwise, to conceal the name of a youth charged with such serious crimes, would be to fail our responsibility to our readers.
   Some disagree with that policy, including at least one member of our community editorial board who wrote:
   “I do not support the publication of juveniles’ names or pictures. These young people are juveniles that we hope would learn from their mistakes without the added publicity that the newspaper can generate.
   “I don’t see the purpose of compounding the consequences of poor decision-making by a child in the challenging process of growing up, by publicizing their name and photo in the newspaper.”
   “I don’t think the publicity would necessarily alter the juvenile’s conduct, but instead, satisfy the neighbors ‘need to know.’ ”
   Sam Farmer, a retired member of the George Fox University administration, saw it differently. In reading the story of the two alleged car thieves, he said  the actions of the youths warranted their names be publicized in the paper.
   “The actions of the two certainly endangered property and potentially the lives of others, as well as taking the valuable resources of our police department.”
   Kris Horn — who is not a member of our editorial board, but who is a prominent member of the business community — counted herself among those that thought it was “illegal or taboo” to print the name of a minor in a news story. Beyond that, she said not printing the minors’ names could, in the end, be more of a disservice to the youths.
   “I worry that we may doing the offenders an injustice some how by not acting as though these are serious acts,” she wrote in an e-mail. “I think that knowing that it might be publicized, your family embarrassed, your peers made aware of your acts, might be a deterrent to a youthful offender. I think that having their name in the paper is just one consequence of their actions. We learn from consequences.”
   Horn did say, however, that “Your current policy might be considered too subjective. Maybe a less subjective way to do it would be print names, etc., on felonies but not on misdemeanors rather than on a case-by-case (basis).”
   That’s certainly a possibility and something we have and will continue to consider. Although a juvenile, for example, whose name repeatedly appears on the police blotter for multiple misdemeanors is probably someone readers should know about.
   A local business owner and member of our editorial board, said: “I feel that if the crime is serious enough the juveniles names should be used, especially if they are 16 and older” or if they are a juvenile who will be tried as an adult or “has had a long string of run-ins with the law.” Otherwise he recommended the decision be weighed by the newspaper as to whether the accused’s name be released to the public.
   Back in what some believe was the halcyon days of American newspapers, back when the media turned a blind eye toward many of the negative things happening in the community, it was unlikely you would see a juvenile’s name revealed in the newspaper in connection with an alleged crime. You would also be loath to find the names of corrupt politicians and inept bureaucrats.
   Sure, those papers were easier to read because they gave a rose-colored view of the world. They also failed in their mission to inform the people, regardless of the nature of the news.
    We don’t make the news, nor do we concentrate on one type of news over another. We just report the news. And if a juvenile, or a person of any other age, is accused of committing a serious breach of the law, we’ll report it.
   To do otherwise would be failing our responsibility to our readers.
   Gary Allen is managing editor of The Newberg Graphic

The ordeal, part two: Hunting in the Blue Mountains
   It was perhaps the greatest shower of my life. Dinner wasn’t bad either.
   But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me recount the events leading up to my blissful cleansing:
   It is a cold and windy autumn morning in the Blue Mountains northeast of Pendleton. Gray skies spit snow and the wind drives it sideways across the landscape. It’s Oct. 26, opening day of elk season, a day I anticipate with a glee exceeded only by a youngster at Christmas.
   Traditionally on opening morning, I park myself for the first 90 minutes of light at the end of an old logging road on the side of a deep canyon facing south toward Elgin. This day, after talking the month before with a seasoned bow hunter during deer season, I chose to hike out several miles in the predawn darkness to a spot two ridges removed. He said the elk, particularly the spikes, were spending their time on that ridge.
   We also had a new member of our hunting party, Dave, the 70-year-old father of one of my hunting buddies. With a bad back and other ailments, he wasn’t up to hiking in the dark miles out to a stand, so I relinquished my usual spot to him.
   It was 9:50 a.m. by my watch when the shots rang out. The unmistakable boom of a magnum rifle came from the general direction of our new hunting partner. I wasn’t sure it was him who had fired, until the radio crackled. It was Dave, saying something to the effect of “I’ve got one down over here.”
   A herd of 50 elk had moseyed his way, he said. The lead bull was a seven-point, he said, accompanied by about 48 cows and a single spike, the only bull we had tags to shoot.
   I was five miles from the road, which was two miles from the trailhead, which was one and a half miles from the downed elk.
   It was going to be a long day.
   After much confused radio traffic, it was decided that Dave’s son, Trent, and our other hunting partner, Truman, would converge on Dave’s position and begin processing the elk.
   My job was to double-time it the five miles back to the truck, drive to the trail head, load up our newly purchased game carrier and the freighter backpacks that had the various meat saws, rope, game bags and other paraphernalia, and shuttle it to where the elk was.
   Yikes!
   I got to the elk, and its three attendants, at about 12:30 p.m. Much work remained. The wind and rain had subsided, and the temperature warmed — snow was imminent. It began coming down in gigantic flakes as we lit a fire and continued processing the animal — skinning, quartering and packing up the meat. It’s a messy job, not one for the weak of stomach.
   It was one and a half miles to the truck on a pretty good road. We had rear quarters affixed to two backpacks, with the rest of the animal, some 200-odd pounds, tied to the game carrier. Truman and I, the guys with the somewhat sound backs, would carry the backpacks. Dave and Trent would coerce the carrier down the road.
   Except for the occasional downed log across the road, the system worked pretty well, at least for the first half mile. That's when we heard the sickening sound of plastic breaking. It was one of the carrier’s wheels, snapped at the hub from the weight.
   The cursing and head-shaking went on for about 15 minutes before what had to be done became clear: Truman and I were going to have to backpack all the meat out to the truck.
   What would have been a four-hour job turned into a six-hour ordeal.
   Truman and I made three round trips, each time carrying anywhere from 75 to 100 pounds of meat, packs, rifles and various other items. Fortunately, the road to the truck was generally flat and we made good time — about 15 minutes each way.
   The first trip actually went well. It was a relief to no longer be hunkered over an animal, but to walk erect with the satisfaction of knowing we had meat in camp on opening day.
   By the third trip, however, the packs were getting mighty heavy. My body began to object to this treatment. The bottoms of my feet, despite my expensive hunting boots, were getting sore. My shoulders, despite my backpack’s high-tech suspension system, were carrying a lot of weight and beginning to bark at me. And my right hip, I noticed after a while, was staging a revolt.
   I was being transported back in time 361 days earlier to the last time I packed out an elk. That time we did it in the dark. That time the wind was howling and the temperatures were plummeting. That time we were carrying the bulk of the elk out in a plastic wheelbarrow.
   It was not pleasant duty.
   Neither was this, but two things kept me going since earlier in the day — showers and someone else cooking dinner.
   You see, earlier, when we were huddled under the trees, next to the fire, dressing out the elk, I proclaimed I wanted a shower and a restaurant-cooked meal when this was all over. Dave, feeling sheepish he couldn’t pack out the animal he’d shot, said he would pay for the showers — offered by a bed-n-breakfast in Tolgate, about 10 miles up the road from camp.
   There was no, “Oh, that’s all right, we’ll pay for ourselves,” or “Keep your money, we’ll just make do in camp.” There was only heads nodding furiously as we accepted his offer before he could rescind it.
   Finally, all the meat was in the back of the truck and we drove to camp, erected meat poles and hung the meat. Darkness fell quickly. It was 6 p.m., eight hours and 10 minutes since Dave pulled the trigger.
   Soon I was standing in a hot shower, smiling. Two elk in as many years. Two stories to tell. Two miles to the restaurant.
   Managing editor Gary Allen, a graduate of the now-defunct OSU journalism program, lives in Newberg with his wife of 18 years, Janice, and their sons, Brendon and Barrett.

And to think, I volunteered for this
   Those shin splints? Those should subside as I work my way up this road.
   That burning sensation in my right quadricep? That should work its way out before I reach the end.
   And that searing pain in the little toe of my left foot? I resign myself that it will be there until I finish this leg of the Portland to Coast relay.

Mile 2
   I’m starting to get an inferiority complex. Everyone from portly businessmen to aging waitresses with varicose veins are passing me as I stumble forward. A quick glance down (don’t lose focus for too long or you’ll walk even slower, I tell myself), reveals their advantage: they were blessed with normal length legs.
   Me? I go nearly 6 foot 2 inches tall, but have the inseam of a 12-year-old. As a result, asking these freakishly short pegs to walk fast is akin to asking a Chihuahua to become a bird dog and fetch ducks.

Mile 3
   Try to remember: When I was recruited for a second time to walk in the Portland to Coast relay, did I tell Captain Dave to assign me legs with hills. Hills, I must have explained, are my forte. Although they’re short, my legs are strong, my lungs are good and I can power up just about any incline in good time.
   Dave came through on the first leg, assigning me a 5.7-mile jaunt from the Columbia County Fairgrounds into the coastal mountains. Although my time was fairly slow compared to two years ago (I was two years younger, you know, and had been training hard for hunting season), the leg was tough and the sun was beating down.
   The second leg? Not so good. It’s a 7.4-mile, nearly all flat, section that rewards long legs and a bouncy step. I possess neither. In fact, I’m not sure I’ve ever had a bouncy step. Yet, here I am, trudging up a Weyerhauser logging road that reaches to the horizon.
   It’s Saturday afternoon. Stretching for tens of miles to my front and rear are literally thousands of walkers of all shapes, sex and age. Like those young turtles you see on the Science Channel, they are joined in a common mission — to reach the sea. These walking teams, typically numbering 12 divided into two vans, began in downtown Portland between 6:30 and 9:45 a.m. Friday morning.
   Before them stretch 36 legs ranging in length from 3.3 to more than 8 miles and totaling more than 127 miles. They walk through the night, sleep when they can and fantasize of the time when they can stop moving their legs for more than a few minutes.
   Sometime during the night runners in the Hood to Coast race from Mount Hood to Seaside will pass them, usually far up in the coast mountains. Teen runners in the High School Challenge will also speed by. So will hundreds of vehicles, mostly mini-vans, responsible for getting walker/runners to the exchange points on time and ready to compete.
   At times the scene is truly surreal. I think back to late the night before, to the exchange point between our van of six walkers and the remainder of the team in Van 1. It’s a moonless night and thousands of people are gathered at a grange near the town of Jewell. The road is lined with people, there’s a race organizer bellowing on a bullhorn, generators hum to provide light and people are dressed in colorful garb, some carrying brightly-lit staffs so members of their team can find them.
   Every 30 seconds or so a weary walker stumbles to the exchange, hands off a sweaty wristband and collapses into the arms of his or her teammates.

Mile 4
   I alternate between pleasure and pain, between thinking I’m making good time to imagining I’m one of the banana slugs I keep spotting — slowing making my way across the pavement, the sun slowly baking me into an enchilada.
   But, I have some advantages over the first leg. I can’t hear in the distance kids frolicking in a swimming pool, nor is there a course worker telling me I’m almost to the end, when in fact there’s more than three miles remaining.

Mile 5
   Shade! Wonderful shade! I’ve reached the end of a four-mile segment that is as straight as you can imagine a road being and have dived into the cool shadows of reforested timber. I imagine the temperature gauge plummeting from 120 degrees to nearly freezing; in fact it probably decreases from 80 degrees to 77, but I’m not one to argue at this point.

Mile 6
   The path gradually turns toward civilization. I see, in the distance, minivans crossing the road. When I reach the intersection a course worker tells me the end is “less than a mile.”
   Yah, sure buddy, I’ve heard that yarn before, I tell myself.

Mile 7
   But then, in the distance, I can hear a bullhorn and cheering. Walkers are picking up their step.
   Could it be? Is the end near? Who am I?
   Determined to salvage some semblance of respect and finish with a decent time, I begin to walk at a pace I know I can’t keep up for more than a mile. There’s a speedwalker in front of me, one of those guys with the unhinged hips that walks faster than most people run.  I fix my eyes on his back and start to pump my arms and legs furiously. I’m not keeping up, but I look like I am.
   Saints be praised, the exchange comes into view. Paula, who will carry the team’s colors into Seaside and cross the finish line with the electronic timing bracelet affixed to her wrist, is there with her hand outstretched, waiting for the wristband. I pass it off, then stand stationary for the first time in hours.
   My toe hurts, my leg hurts, I’m sunburned and I’m having a tough time focusing. But I’m smiling.
   A few hours later the entire team, together for the first time, sits in a circle on the beach in Seaside. We exchange stories, including how Dave interrupted Van 2’s only short sleeping time Saturday night when he awoke in a panic, saw a light outside Jewell High School’s gymnasium and thought it was daylight, assuming we were missing our exchange. Only after he roused everyone out of bed did he realize it was a fluorescent lamp outside the gym. Being sleep addled will do that to a person, but we still haven’t forgiven him.
   Dave e-mails me the day after the race is complete. He’s setting up the team for 2006. He wants to know if I’m in. I tell him he’s a glutton for punishment, then add my name to the list.
    Managing editor Gary Allen, a graduate of the now-defunct OSU journalism program, lives in Newberg with his wife of 18 years, Janice, and their sons, Brendon and Barrett.

When did we start caring more about business than people?
   Let me see if I’ve got this straight: Members of the Oregon House have approved a resolution forbidding state agencies from adopting policies that would reduce so-called greenhouse gases, basically pollution emitted by cars and industry that is trapped by the atmosphere and is slowly frying the earth.
   The reason for such a move? It might keep away businesses interested in locating in Oregon.
   Call me crazy, but what difference does it make if we have industry at the expense of the environment? And what will be the expense to business if the environment, for one example the change in weather patterns in the West, is hampered by global warming?
   The greatest minds in the scientific community, including the majority of the members of the National Science Foundation, agree that global warming is a real and immediate threat. The majority of the other industrialized nations are initiating steps to curb greenhouse gases.
   The United States is not. In fact, efforts to require that American automobiles pollute less and use less gas have been thwarted at every juncture by lobbyists and legislators. Cars are the greatest contributor of pollution, and therefore greenhouse gases, to the environment, although industry is a close second.
   And yet 35 members of the Oregon House voted in favor of restricting the dozens of state agencies from making the thousands of vehicles in their charge more environmentally friendly.
   It boggles the mind.
   Even Gov. Ted Kulongoski, not exactly a leader in environmental policy, recognizes it’s time to make state government more green. The governor recently introduced initiatives that, if effective, would reduce Oregon’s contribution to global warming. Included in those initiatives is a campaign to reduce the energy used by state agencies by a minimum 20 percent by 2015.
   Yet, state Rep. Gordon Anderson, a Grants Pass Republican, told an Associated Press reporter Tuesday that enacting tougher global warming policies would represent too great a risk to the state’s economy.
   “It will make Oregon less and less attractive to new business,” he was quoted as saying.
   In the first place, poppycock. Second, and with more emphasis, shame on you Rep. Anderson. This type of shortsighted, sell-out-everything-so-the-fat-cats-can-make-even-more-money mentality, is a slippery slope with plenty of precedent.
   Folks like Anderson would have you believe Oregon is unattractive to business because its tax system is too onerous. In fact, Oregon ranks in the lower third of taxes levied on business and corporate Oregon has seen its tax burden slashed in the past two decades. The truth of it is, Oregon’s tax burden is squarely on the shoulders of residents, not corporations.
   Fortunately, the House resolution does not carry with it the weight of law and hasn’t been ratified by the Senate. Hopefully legislators with some vision will recognize that a fostering a healthy business climate and being environmentally sound are not mutually exclusive.
   Managing editor Gary Allen, a graduate of the now-defunct OSU journalism program, lives in Newberg with his wife of 18 years, Janice, and their sons, Brendon and Barrett.

Watergate: If it happens now you'll never know
   To most people younger than 40 years old, this week’s revelation of the identity of Deep Throat probably is of little importance. Afterall, it was more than 30 years ago that the Watergate scandal dominated the news.
   Being a little longer in the tooth, I was captivated by the story. As a product of the `60s and `70s I was very aware of America’s upheaval at the time.
   It seemed to begin with the assassination of John F. Kennedy in 1963. No one at the time thought things could get worse for America than losing a president to an assassin. But the problems did worsen. Race riots broke out in America’s cities. Civil rights legislation was stalled in Congress. Robert Kennedy and Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. were assassinated. America was mired in a protracted war. Protests against the war were escalating and becoming increasingly ugly.
   Then came Watergate. Revelations that President Richard Nixon directed a team of burglars to break in to Democratic headquarters and bug the place were shocking to many Americans. But it proved only the tip of the iceberg. Nixon’s antics in the White House went well beyond simply burglary to lying to Congress, firing prosecutors who were wise to his shenanigans, destroying evidence and initiating massive coverups.
  But Nixon’s men, his cabinet and others privy to what was going on, remained loyal to the president. They would let Nixon continue on a course that threatened to unravel the very fabric of his presidency and presidencies to come.
   Fortunately, there was one man — admittedly a man with marked flaws of his own — that refused to see the country further scarred by the Nixon administration. This week it was revealed that the man was Mark Felt, the No. 2 man in the FBI at the time.
   Felt was the primary source in the dozens of stories crafted by Washington Post reporters Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein. In those stories the Post detailed the entire saga, beginning with the Watergate break-in in June 1972 and ending with Nixon’s resignation in dishonor in August 1974.
   The thought that Nixon, who won election to a second term in a landslide over George McGovern less than two years earlier, would resign in disgrace would be unfathomable if it weren’t for Felt. A staunch believer in the FBI, who rose through the ranks under the wing of the infamous J. Edgar Hoover, Felt could not stand by and see Nixon take down the country with him.
   Journalists often point to Watergate as the impetus for why they got into the business. They hold up the work of Woodward and Bernstein as a beacon of the good effective reporting can do to inform people on what is going on in the government charged with representing them.
   But the reporting wouldn’t have been possible without Felt. And, I submit, it would be nearly impossible today.
   There’s been a significant shift in the last 30 years, particularly in the last decade, in government and in journalism. Government, especially since Sept. 11, has made journalists’ job of disseminating information very difficult.
   Sometimes it’s a subtle change in policy, such as HIPAA, the Health  Information Portability and Access Act. Originally designed to allow people to carry over their health insurance from one job to the next, the act was adulterated to also make it nearly impossible for journalists to determine even the most basic information about victims in car crashes, fires and the like. It is manifested in these news pages when we try to determine the name and condition of someone involved in a crash or a fire or some other incident.
   Then there are the more drastic changes affecting information gathering, such as alterations to the Freedom of Information Act instituted by the Bush Administration under the guise of homeland security. Whereas before, when a journalist filed a FOI request the government had to give good reason why it would deny the request. Now? Homeland security is all they need say and the documents will never see the light of day.
   Worse yet is the trend, wholeheartedly endorsed by the Bush Administration, to threaten journalists with imprisonment if they don’t reveal their sources in stories. Judges used to understand that the press’ ability to gather information from confidential sources, and to protect the identities of those sources, was important to informing people on the goings on of government. That is no longer the case.
   What will be the result? Watergate, Iran-Contra, the war in Iraq, U.S. government involvement in El Salvador — citizens will never know about them because the press’ ability to track down the information necessary to write the story has been kept for them. And it will be done with the public’s blessing.
   Managing editor Gary Allen, a graduate of the now-defunct OSU journalism program, lives in Newberg with his wife of 18 years, Janice, and their sons, Brendon and Barrett.

Contact Gary