Homestead

My dad is my hero. Always has been. I’m very lucky to be able to say that.

He’s always been adventurous and brave—launching off cliffs in a hang-glider, sailing out to sea, or skiing down Mt. Baker in his youth. In 2006, he was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis. He had spent his life doing laborious jobs and living a highly-active lifestyle—jumping from business ventures like fishing boat captain to oyster farmer on the Oregon Coast. When the days work was done, he would load up a hang-glider and drive a few miles down the coast to Cape Kiwanda or Cape Lookout, and launch into the skies.

The disease only took a few short years before it began to limit his mobility, and he gave up his glider. Still, he contracted with Pacific Seafood to provide support to their business, as well as clearing out a property he had purchased in Sand Lake, OR while his health was relatively good. The property had been overrun with blackberry bushes, but using large tractors and other tools, he, along with Brenda, his girlfriend at the time, cleared out nearly all of it and shaped the property he always wanted—one that was rich in natural diversity, and attracted wildlife.

When they got married, it was on the same property that they had built together.

In the early days, he sought out medical treatments and doctors across the country, often very expensive procedures. At one point, he had tried a stent procedure to increase blood-flow through his arteries, but it only forestalled the progression of MS.

He lived in a small manufactured house that he, with his wife , refurbished over the years and made it their home. On the walls, paintings and family photographs, as well as friends. A single trophy of a 15-point deer hunt hung on the wall—he’d gave up hunting some time during my teenage years and, as he would say, only shoot animals with a camera. He treated the property in Sand Lake as a wildlife preserve, with 15 acres of the 20 acres to be donated to The Nature Conservancy of Oregon in his will.

There, geese migrate annually and land in the pond. Deer graze on grass in the lawn, sometimes coming close to the house for an apple—or eating away at blueberry bushes.

Each night, he would listen for the coyotes.

Not wanting to use a walker, he would use ski poles (a remnant from his skiing days) as a method to get around while the use of his legs deteriorated. He always had said he was too young to be using a walker.

As time went on, and the disease progressed, he was forced to use a motorized scooter to get around, though he treats it more like an ATV than a mobility tool—often getting stuck in the mud or tipped over.

In 2017, after my grandfather passed away, he and his wife purchased a property out in Eastern Oregon, by Elgin—A 100-acre hay farm with a large ranch house that offered the space he needed. The property also allowed him and Brenda to collect yearly income from the hay, hiring out thatchers and balers to do the manual labor work, and the heavy equipment needed.

During the summer months, when the hay is ready to be harvested, tractors and trucks come down the gravel path. The avid businessman, he negotiates contracts through phone and email. Its a good season this year, he says—hoping that the quicklime they laid out last year yielded larger results. The farm produces about 200 tons of hay per year, most of which gets sold and used by farmers and ranchers to feed horses and cattle.

An old set of scythes, used by the first owners sits beneath two trees in front of the ranch house—relics of a bygone era of farming. In the distance, Tevra, an 18-year old recent-graduate of the nearby High School pilots the large mower/tractor through the fields. Conditions need to be right for several days before the hay-making process can start. Moisture can ruin a perfectly good crop—as can waiting too long in the season to begin cutting.

Once cut, the hay stays in the field for several days to dry out before baling, and eventual sale of the hay.

My dad watches from his scooter. Everything is in motion for a successful harvest this year. The balers and the thatchers take their cut of the sales, and the rest goes back into paying taxes on the property, as well as general upkeep and livelihood of my dad and Brenda. Its a retirement, but a busy one.

Out there, the coyotes howl every night. Elk and deer trample through the grasslands. A small pond holds bullfrogs the size of tennis balls, and the golden glow of the sun setting over hay fields signal a time for rest. The Milky Way rises bright and vibrant over the horizon.

My dad is my hero—as is Brenda, who has been one of the best mothers I could have hoped for—a heroic woman with strength, loyalty, and tremendous willpower who has taken care of my dad these past 18 years, and stood by his side as his partner and friend through all his trials.

My dad, Mark Wittwer
A photo that I had taken of Dad and Brenda in 2002 during a trip to Gold Mountain, Oregon when I was 10 years old. It sits above a small TV which is rarely turned on.
Dad relaxing in his chair. An open window keeps him cool.
Brenda cuts his hair, wipes away dirt as he prepares for his portrait to be taken.
Using a leftover detergent bottle, Dad mixes liquid fertilizer and pours it on the tomato plants just outside the house.
Brenda relaxing on the porch on July 4th, drinking coffee.
Dad looks out towards the field, where Tevra is mowing the hay.
In his youth and for much of his adult life, he would take hang gliding trips, often travelling several miles over grasslands. In 2012, while he was still in the early stages of MS, he still flew. He had crashed due to fog cover obscuring tree tops. It took rescue workers several days to locate him in the Oregon Coast range. With his radio dying, he checked in every hour with Brenda in an attempt to locate his position. Eventually, when the helicopter arrived, he was awed by its power to push back the trees, and chilled by the drafts.
A tire swing outside the ranch house, which is used by their grandchildren when they visit. In the background is the original barn from the properties early days, which was used to feed cattle.
Brenda applies some Hydrogen Peroxide to a small cut on his finger, which he had received while weeding out thistle around the property.
Tevra, one of the mowers, cuts down the hay in the southern field of the 100-acre property.
While Dad handles most of the business related parts of the farm, Brenda does most of the chores and cooking, as well as maintenance around the house and property in the form of gardening.
Dad opens up the door to an old barn on the property, which was once used to hold and feed cattle.
His signature hat, a straw fedora with a bandanna wrapped around its base and bird feathers. During warmer months, he uses a damp bandanna to keep cool—warm weather exacerbates the MS symptoms.
Dad driving his scooter along the gravel road just outside the farm.