The Territorial

Being a trained observer can be hell. You see things as they are, not as you wish them to be.

There’s no malice, no romance, no filter, just plain reality staring you down like a poker player who’s holding a winning hand. And when I drive around my old hometown of Klamath, that’s exactly what I get—no soft focus, no glow, no storybook setting, just the truth.

Now, truth can be stubborn. It’s like trying to weed a gravel driveway—you tug and pull, and it still keeps coming back.

The truth about Klamath is that while there’s pride in having grown up there—and I carry that pride myself—the place still looks like a patchwork quilt stitched together by three people who didn’t talk to one another.

That might sound harsh, and I don’t mean it as a condemnation. I mean it as an observation, one I’ve carried since childhood.

Back then, “making do” wasn’t just a phrase; it was a lifestyle. Crooked fences, rusted car bodies serving as lawn ornaments, and hand-painted signs that were more wishful thinking than professional marketing—they were part of the scenery.

That kind of scenery sticks with a person, like the smell of wood smoke in your jacket after a campfire.

Driving through today, I see something different and yet strangely the same. There are well-designed buildings, which are impressive structures that accommodate tribal agencies.

It’s a success story. The Yurok Tribe has put down impressive markers of growth, and the new town site has sprouted where there once was only brush.

But just behind those gleaming headquarters is the other truth—the poverty still tucked into the folds of the community. I can’t ignore it, even if I’d like to.

Socialism, as it shows up on all reservations, has roots that run deeper than the Klamath River itself. The system tries to lift people up but often ends up pinning them down, like a well-meaning uncle who insists on fixing your car but strips all the bolts in the process.

I remember my parents hosting dinner parties where conversations eventually turned to dreams of a modern Klamath. People spoke about paved streets, thriving businesses, and homes that didn’t need patchwork repairs every spring.

There was a hunger then, a vision for something brighter, and to be fair, much of that has come to pass—at least in appearance. The storefronts look strong, and the town’s footprint is bigger.

Outwardly, there’s progress. Inwardly? That’s where the long row to hoe comes in.

For every strong building, there are ten sagging porches. For every step forward, there’s a shuffling step sideways.

Poverty doesn’t surrender just because you slap a new coat of paint on it. And pride doesn’t go away either—it clings, fierce and stubborn, because the land is still home.

If you’re reading this and wincing, I understand. Pride cuts both ways.

It’s hard to hear someone point out the weeds in your garden when you’ve spent your whole life tending the flowers. I’m not standing on a soapbox here; I’m sitting on the same old driftwood log as everyone else.

I grew up in it. I love it. I ache for it.

The truth is, Klamath—and towns like Crescent City, Reno, and Sparks—wear their scars openly. They don’t dress them up or tuck them away.

And maybe that’s a kind of beauty in itself, the honesty of a place that refuses to pretend. You take it or leave it, but it won’t lie to you.

So yes, being a trained observer can be hell. It means I can’t just drive by the crooked fence without noticing it still leans.

I can’t ignore the old rusted car in the yard, now home to moss and mice. It also means I can’t help but notice the resilience—the fact that, despite everything, people are still there, still trying, laughing, holding their pride close, like a warm jacket on a cold morning.

And maybe that’s the whole point. Life here has always been a long row to hoe.

But if you’ve ever actually hoed one, you know—step by step, row by row, you get somewhere eventually.