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“[Marco Rubio] has got a language advantage over me, ‘cause I’m not learning your damn language,” Trump continued. “I don’t have time. I was okay with languages but I’m not gonna spend time learning your language. That much I won’t do.”

— Donald Trump to Latin American leaders, March 2026

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October 2008. I walk into a French restaurant in Santiago de Chile feeling out of place. Casual slacks and an untucked blouse, my hair a frothy mass of curls, too long. My face damp and make-up smudged. Alone.

I feel thousands of miles from my Nevada home and a lifetime away from the comfort of speaking English. So few chilenos speak English. This makes Santiago an excellent place to immerse myself in language learning.

That said, I’m tired of working so hard to communicate.

Estoy sola. Estoy cansada. Tengo hambre.

So hungry. The restaurant’s foyer is narrow, dark, humid. Still air. Shuttered.

No one greets me or acknowledges my presence. It’s 7 p.m. Mas temprano. Too early for self-respecting chilenos to be dining out. Two or three men sit alone in booths, reading newspapers, drinking pisco sours topped with frothy egg whites.

Today’s El Mercurio is folded under my arm.

I catch the eye of a bustling waiter, setting up for the night. He’s placing carefully folded white cloth napkins on tables. Arranging forks. Aligning wine glasses for white and for red.

I straighten my back.

“¿Permiso?”

Nothing. I try a more commanding, confident tone. Soy profesora.

“¿Perdón?”

He finally looks at me. I gesture to a table. He shrugs. I sit. Unfold my paper. Wait for a waiter.

I stare at the closest, willing el mesero to come to the table. I catch the gaze of another, walking briskly out of the kitchen. He sees me. Catches my eye. Looks away.

Unlike me, the waiters seem cool in the heat of the late spring evening. No discernible sweat. Brisk in pleated pants and crisp white shirts. Collared like coiffed French poodles.

Mas temprano.

It was a Friday night and my students had taken a bus to Viña del Mar en la costa. My plan was to force myself to get out and practice language skills. I decided on dinner at a French bistro, highly recommended by students, a block from metro Estación Manuel Montt. With a population of more than 6 million, Santiago is the largest city I’ve lived in, by far. I’m teaching two university classes for a study abroad program at La Universidad Andrés Bello. I’m enrolled in four semesters of Spanish compressed into five months. Como reportera necesito hablar español.

I rent an apartment in Providencia, close to metro Estación Salvador. My place is equidistant between the university campus and fine dining, galleries and clubs where my mostly U.S. students dance until 4 a.m. One wanders into my morning classes in the clothes she wore the night before.

I’ve dined by the pool at a renowned Peruano restaurant Barandiaran, ordering ceviche, the best I’ve ever tasted. But that night I was with people, some of them men. And it had been the right time for dining – after 9 p.m. But I was raised in the U.S. Midwest where we enjoy an evening meal at 5 p.m. So I wait to go out until 7 p.m.

Which is still desmasiado temprano. Ahora estoy sola. Me siento cohibida. Feeling self-conscious. Every hair out of place, keeping my arms at my sides so pit sweat doesn’t show. I lean into the aisle and practically trip a waiter.

“Un cerveza, por favor,” I ask. Looking at his eyes. Which are averted. And he repeats the order, correcting my careless gender mistake, as much for the lurking staff as for anything.

“Una cerveza, por supuesto,” he said, pronouncing the “ah” in “una” distinctly. A beer is a girl, not a boy. “Una cerveza para la señora. Claro.”

And I wish I were home in my 11th floor condo overlooking Parque Balmaceda, tucked in safe with a pot of boiling water on the stove, a plastic sack of elbow macaroni and The Daily Show to watch on my Macbook. I’d cook the noodles al dente and stir in grated cheese. A crushed clove of garlic, bat of butter, squirt of sriracha. Porque tengo hambre. Hey, estoy pensando en español.

I catch myself thinking in Spanish for a few seconds almost every day. For weeks, I have had to focus hard and plan ahead, memorizing words to accomplish life’s simple tasks – eat, drink, buy groceries, travel. I panic before opening my mouth to speak. I stand in line at el supermercado, rehearsing answers to the standard questions. Do you have an account here? Do you want paper or plastic?

The workers speak fast so I have to guess the questions and often give up and answer no, no. If I hear language that sounds like the standard “how are you paying for this?” I respond with efectivo, gracias, and whip out chileno pesos. Given occasional confused looks from clerks, I likely give this answer to the wrong question.

“How are you doing today?”

“Cash, thank you.”

Most days, I want to be back in Reno where I don’t have to remember to tip the young person who packs my food items into bags. Where I don’t have to ride the metro home with bags on my arms. Where I can drive my car to Safeway, type my phone number into a keypad for deals, pay with my credit card, and load groceries into my trunk. Where I don’t have to rehearse my orders at the deli counter and remember that half a kilo is a pound of cheese. Medio kilo, I would say, and point to el queso.

I point so much. When you can’t speak a language, you point and point. When you can’t speak a language, you can’t understand directions to the store that sells towels and you can’t find café entero or la machina in which to grind whole beans. My first week in Santiago involved attempting to find good coffee or a grinder for the whole beans that I’d packed in my luggage.

After many frustrating quests, I bought a jar of Nescafe. Instant coffee is easy. Add a little cocoa powder and you’ve got a gas station mocha. My new chileno friends joke about this, about my weird affection for No Es Café.

But tonight, tengo hambre. I plan to order delicious French cuisine. I will point to menu items and the pretentious chileno waiters will not try to hide their scorn for my 43-year-old female solitude. I will read the paper to hide from them. But my belly will be full.

I wait and I wait. Espero y espero. The gorgeous verb “esperar” means “to wait” and also “to hope.” My beer arrives and I drink it. But no menu. The waiters have disappeared. I give up. I fold my paper, leave the equivalent of $10 on the table and walk out.

It’s two blocks to a shop with 50 flavors of helado. I like frutas del bosque the best. Fruits of the forest.

Next to me in line, a chileno starts a conversation in English. He introduces himself.

“Hello, I am Geraldo.”

“Didra,” I say. If a Spanish-speaker looks at those letters, they will pronounce my name exactly right.

“Are you of the U.S.?”

“Si, soy estadounidense.” Weird to me that we don’t have a word in English for a UnitedStates-ian. We are all americanos, of course, from Canada to Patagonia. It takes travel to learn the reality of this.

I order frutas del bosque.

“Sabe a moras,” I explain to Geraldo that it tastes like blackberries. He asks for the English translation. He likes to practice English and says he studies my language by watching The Simpsons.

“Black, how you say, berry?”

“Blackberry, si, perfecto.”

He asks where I live in the estados unidos and I say, “Nevada, Las Vegas.” I’ve tried telling people I’m from Reno but Las Vegas is more widely known in sudamerica.

“Las Vegas!” Geraldo’s eyes light up. “It is my dream to go there for one weekend. I would, I think you say, clean up.”

“Buena suerte!” I tell him. “If you get to Las Vegas, Geraldo. I hope you do. Espero.”

We part ways. Fueled by frozen dairy, I walk to the bar district in Bellavista and slide into a dark dive with live music. It’s almost 9 p.m., and the place is starting to fill.

“Una cerveza,” I say at the bar, fucking nailing the gender this time. “Guiness, por favor.”

New language, new soul, new window to the world. Familiar Irish beer.

El barman responds without delay. I will tip him well. Men are smoking at the bar. I light a Lucky Strike. Inhale. Exhale. Fumar es una dicha. Bliss to my lungs. Nicotine surges into my bloodstream, heightening senses and mental acuity. I lean back, smile and take in the scene.

In a dark corner of the room, a teen sings from a tall stool, long bangs drooping over his face. He plays an acoustic guitar plugged into an amp and leans into a microphone, singing mostly 1990s covers from U.S. bands. He’s learned the sounds of words, stringing together unfamiliar consonants and vowels memorized. Language is a cryptic mesh of noise that we learn to decipher, to unglue meaning. So many people learn English by watching and listening to U.S. popular media. I’m impressed. The singer throw his heart into the lyrics of Pearl Jam, Sublime, Guns and Roses. Channeling Cobain, he strums and sings: “come as you are, as a frand as a nold enemy.” I realize I don’t know the lyrics to “Come As You Are” or I might sing along. Because I’m drinking.

Alcohol is a universal language. I sink into the spell of warm imported beer, overpriced and only slightly better than the local macrobrew Crystal. The men next to me, I guess early 50s, are tipsy from beer and whiskey. They look like shorter, heavier versions of Robert DeNiro, with an extra chin, and Harvey Keitel, balding with a comb-over. We engage in small talk but soon launch into inquiries about U.S. politics and the upcoming election.

“¿Las elecciones en estado unidos? ¿Te gusta McCain?”

They want to know how will I vote. Do I like John McCain? Do I support the right – and perhaps by extension Pinochet-style dictatorships or the left, this Obama guy, this wannabe Salvador Allende. In Chile, it boils down to this. Fascism or socialism. Security or equity. I try my best to express my ideology en español.

“La gente de mi país tiene miedo.” The people in my country have fear. I don’t have the right words to describe my nation’s growing terror of The Other — immigrants, women, people of color. I don’t know how to say I think George W. Bush’s administration exploits those fears.

No tengo el vocabulario para describirlo.

I bungle it. Double Chin DeNiro stumps out his cigarette, sips his whiskey neat and asks me:

“¿Ellos piensan que Obama es peligroso?”

“Ah, no. Disculpe. La gente piensan que todos es peligroso.” The people think that everything is dangerous. “Me gusta Obama. Espero que gane.” I like Obama. I hope he wins. Espero. Espero.

Double Chin DeNiro laughs at this, pats my shoulder, changes the subject. Combover Keitel leans in close and chides me for smoking Lucky Strikes. The Luckies have too much nicotine for a girl.

“Demasiada nicotina,” Keitel says. He furrows his brow. “Deberías fumar algo menos.” You should smoke something less. I observe that nicotine, like beer, is also a girl.

I use my Lucky to light another Lucky. Keitel and DeNiro cackle at this and shake their heads. I lean back to watch Chileno Cobain cover Michael Jackson’s “Thriller.” I feel comfortable. Me siento a gusto, I think, I feel OK in this moment.

“Una cerveza mas, por favor,” I ask el barman. “Una mas.”

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Postscript: A month later, eight of my travel writing students gathered in my Santiago 11th floor apartment to watch election returns. We made a huge pot of a traditional chileno stew charquicán and drank pisco sours and vino tinto chileno. I cried as we watched Barack Obama’s acceptance speech. It had been eight long years.

Espero y espero.

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Deidre Pike is chair of the journalism department at Cal Poly Humboldt. Ella pide disculpas por los errores en español.

Yesterday, millions of people around the country gathered together with their cardboard signs and upside-down flags, singing and marching and declaring a fairly unified message in our constitution and this American experiment. It feels like the message keeps getting muddled in the name, since we have no kings. One pastor said, “If it was called ‘No Assholes’ I would go, but this whole ‘No Kings’ thing makes it seem ridiculous.” Another pastor retorted back, “Yeah, but the collective gathering is still important.” And I could see everyone is both wrong and right to some degree.

Protests are a backbone of our country — non-violently rebelling against an unjust dominant narrative and insisting people see a different way forward. It’s a constitutional privilege needing protection at all times. Today starts Holy Week in the Christian Church, which began with a protest against an idolatrous empire and oppressive dictators.

Holy Week began with a protest.

Palm Sunday is the start of where we see, more obviously, two kingdoms clash against each other — the kingdom of empire with military might and oppression, juxtaposed against the kingdom of love with grace and peace. It began at the start of Passover week, when Jesus and his disciples — with a crowd of marginalized folx like the poor, healed, formerly blind, children, women, and others — arrived into Jerusalem. This was a city of around 40,000 people, but during Passover it ballooned to over 200,000 with pilgrims and travelers. (Josephus, a Jewish historian, counted the population as high as 3 million.)

Because Passover is a historical celebration of Israel’s rescue out of slavery in Egypt and the escape from the oppressors that kept them captive, there was always concern that the Jews would turn on Rome and revolt. So Rome, which occupied and ruled over Israel, would send whomever they put in charge of the area to Jerusalem with at least 1,000 troops to police the city and keep the peace.

On this Sunday, it was incredibly likely that Pilate, the Roman official in charge of Jerusalem, would be arriving into the city from the East out of the Mediterranean area. He would be atop his war horse, wearing robes with the details of his official capacity and the backing of Roman power. Pilate’s garrison would be marching before and behind him. There were horses and men and weapons and armor. There were flags and noise and dust and everyone would have known they were coming from miles away. Within this legion was heavy intimidation and a severe threat of violence should anyone try to cause a rebellion or if things got out of hand.

On the other side of Jerusalem came a different sort of parade and noise, when Jesus arrived on a donkey with the poor, marginalized and forgotten before and behind him. Nothing would be adorning Jesus to prove who he was. He was confident in his identity and mission and he knew God’s kingdom would always stand up to and against Roman imperial power, or any other kind of oppressive power that causes marginalized, poor and ignored people to suffer.

Palm Sunday shows two different kinds of kingdoms. A kingdom of intimidation and a kingdom of inclusion. Jesus revealed an alternative kingdom, where instead of violent Roman imperial power bringing political change, love and justice could move mountains.

I am in no way comparing these United States to the ancient Roman Empire, but I am comparing our human propensity for domination, power, greed and control. These aren’t just sins living in the individual human heart but they are the cultural waters we swim in and are impacted by — our political leaders as well.

Your collective hatred of our current president won’t save you or fix you. It’s simply a convenient distraction from the good work you’re meant to do in this world. When all our energy is focused on the things we’re against, we sometimes forget to participate in the things we are for, because no matter how unkind, horrific and abusive power is, even when power threatens your very life, there’s a deeper truth of love in the world. Love has more power than anything else. Love has the power to save.

The truth is, the world has been desperate for saving for a long time because things haven’t been made right. Wars and bombings and genocide. Masked policing and border problems and dehumanizing of undocumented folx. Mass shootings and tornados and Epstein and divorce and cancer and abortion and racism and all the things coming undone around us that make us cry out, “Hosanna! Save us! Deliver us! Make it right, right now!”

“Hosanna” isn’t “hallelujah.” Hosanna isn’t praise and it isn’t worship. Hosanna isn’t balloons and snow cones and parades with streamers and fireworks and a marching band. Hosanna is desperation. Hosanna is crying mothers and frenzied shouts. Hosanna is truth-telling in the rawest form, vulnerable and exposed. Hosanna holds nothing back and isn’t protected in bubble wrap or sensitive to another’s emotions. Hosanna isn’t afraid of hurting someone’s feelings or manipulating a situation. Hosanna is a broken, at the end of your rope, and boldly demanding that things are finally made right … because we’ve had enough!

Palm Sunday isn’t a day for palm branches and parades. It’s a day of protests and signs and chanting our needs. It’s a day of demonstration and desperation. It’s a day where we cry out our broken and bold “hosanna” in the most obscene fashion, and trust that Jesus is with us in that broken hosanna. It’s a day when we speak truth to power, defenseless and unarmed.

Palm Sunday reveals the truth of what is and the hope of what’s to come.

Holy week starts today with desperate, truthful shouts of what we need. Jesus didn’t belittle or shame the crowd who protested injustice and boldly spoke out against oppressive powers. Jesus joined in the protests by upending everything from religious institutions to violent objects of death. He spent his last days making a mockery of Roman power and religious obligation. He spent his last days demonstrating what love looks like, and that love conquers all. Because the truth is, God’s love isn’t contained to temples or church buildings.

The truth is: God’s love isn’t prosperity gospel or flashy advertisements to convince you to join the crowd. The truth is: God’s love is usually found in the most desperate of places, with the most desperate of people, who are desperate to see. The truth is: God’s love comes riding into every fortified or occupied place in the most defenseless way. The truth is: God’s love shows up in our desperation, and with a broken, disappointed and hopeful hosanna, we continue forth in that love.

Christ has died. Christ is risen. Christ will come again.

And until then, may we hold up signs and speak truth to power and make our neighbors chicken soup. May we stop flinging hatred into the world and instead continue forth in Love.

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A huge crowd of protestors gathered in downtown Eureka on Saturday for the third “No Kings” rally,  a nationwide movement condemning the policies and actions of the Trump administration. 

The sprawling crowd wrapped around the Humboldt County Courthouse, stretching along both sides of Fifth Street for several city blocks. Demonstrators joyfully sang along to Chappell Roan’s “Pink Pony Club” and protest songs led by the Raging Grannies while waving handmade signs and whooping at honking passersby. There were lots of American flags, inflatable animal costumes, cowbells and AI-generated art.

It’s always difficult to estimate crowd size, but Eureka Police Chief Brian Stephens guessed that there were between 2,000 and 3,000 people in attendance. He told the Outpost that the event organizers would probably have a better estimate after the protest. Asked whether there had been any issues reported, Stephens shook his head and said the day was going smoothly. 

There was a moment when two EPD officers seemed to be responding to an incident or chasing after someone, running across Fifth Street and around the corner to the Sheriff’s Office side of the courthouse. Fortunately, it was just a dog that had gotten away from its owner. They got the dog on a leash and walked it back toward Fifth Street to be reunited with its owner. Whew!

As usual, your LoCO took lots and lots of pictures. You may peruse them below.

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On this week’s show, your usual host, Tom Wheeler, is in the hot seat to explain EPIC’s long-lasting litigation against Caltrans’ Richardson Grove Project. Sixteen years of litigation, boiled down to a half-hour of radio.

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[Ed. note from the Outpost: This episode of The Econews Report was recorded before a state appellate court handed down a decision in favor of Caltrans late Friday afternoon. More on that soon.]

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Surely the utility of canals was an integral part of the eastern experience, and whenever settlers from the eastern seaboard or from the old northwest territory — generally referred to as “down easters” — came to an area as richly endowed with navigable waters as Humboldt, the notion of artificial waterways was not far behind.

The immediate vicinity of Humboldt Bay proved especially stimulating with respect to canal building prospects. A glance at a map of the area shows a spacious and protected bay with numerous flanked on the northern and southern extremities by the two principal streams of the area, the Eel and Mad rivers, respectively, both emptying into the ocean just a few miles from the bay and navigable to a limited extent.

Among the numerous obstacles to effective overland transportation in the immediate bay area was the rank vegetation which often proved impenetrable and extended virtually to the edge of the bay and to the ocean. In addition, the combination of seasonal heavy precipitation and the ubiquitous moisture-retaining clay soil, which often reduced the first attempts at wagon roads to impassable quagmires during a good portion of the year, was a deterrent during the initial decades of settlement. Thus the quest for alternate, less expensive and more reliable means of transportation commenced with the arrival of the first settlers, and canals to connect the Eel and Mad rivers with the bay were advocated repeatedly during the first quarter century of Humboldt County history, with intermittent echoes audible into the Twentieth Century.

Many canals were proposed, but few were actually realized. Of those that were dug and placed in operation, none proved even marginally successful in terms of bringing a profit, but the story merits telling nonetheless, if for no other reason than the fact that it reveals the tenacity of the canal idea in this particular locale.

The purpose of this journey into the past is therefore to suggest that Humboldt County experienced a canal era of modest proportions and duration, and to relate some of the more interesting highlights and curiosities of the same.

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The first recorded evidence of a suggestion for a canal in Humboldt County comes down to us from the Brannan expedition, a group of San Francisco residents who sought to ascertain the prospects for establishing settlements in the newly discovered bay region. On the way up the coast in the spring of 1850 the exploring party halted at the mouth of the Eel River in order to reconnoiter this stream, while the parent ship, the General Morgan, remained at anchor outside of the bar.

Several members of the expedition, in two small boats, succeeded in crossing the bar and made their way upstream, testing the river’s navigability. The heavy surf prevented their return to the waiting Morgan. During the ensuing exploration of the lower reaches of the Eel for some alternate route to rejoin the main party, they followed a slough to the north which brought them close enough to Humboldt Bay to enable the men to drag their boats overland and enter the bay at its southern extremity, probably in the bottomlands somewhere between the two promontories that were later to become known as Hookton and Table Bluff.

These early explorers were favorably impressed by the timber resources along the Eel River and the navigable nature of the stream. In addition they quickly became cognizant of its potential as an artery of supply for the mines which were located in the headwaters of the various tributaries of the Eel, and as a means for transporting agricultural products from the rich prairies which lined the river banks. The actual exploration was done during the early days of April 1850, and already by the end of the same month a report of their findings was published in San Francisco. In order to encourage settlement of the region, certain improvements were advocated for the most advantageous exploitation of the Eel River area, among these some form of “…water carriage from the bay into the river by a canal, which might be easily cut through the low flat neck of land which separates them and over which the Indians haul their canoes.”

A little over a year later a correspondent returning from a visit to the Eel related that the produce of the valley was marketed either at or via the “neighboring harbor of Humboldt.” Although not an outright canal enthusiast, the writer at the very least was aware of the feasibility and potential advantages of a canal when he estimated the distance separating the river from the bay at their nearest point as merely amounting to a “scant” mile. The area in question was apparently the same “low flat neck of land” originally suggested by the Brannan party, particularly since he described the site as being situated where a branch of the Eel and a sluice from the bay approach one another.

Travel and the volume of commerce between the still sparsely populated Eel River valley and the Humboldt Bay did not warrant the digging of a canal at this early date — not even one a “scant” mile in length — especially in view of the fact that an adequate wagon road already existed between these points at the time.

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After subsiding for the next several years, interest in an Eel River canal was briefly reawakened during the fall of 1854, by a suggestion that the two largest rivers of the county, the Eel and the Mad, be connected with the bay by means of canals. The rather sanguine proponents of this newest scheme felt that both canals could be realized with “very little labor.” As far as the Eel was concerned, no canal materialized and the residents of the valley continued to haul their goods either via the road or the long way around by water, down and out of the river and up the coast to the bay.

Possibly the greatest 19th Century impetus for a canal from the Eel to the bay came in 1859, when the following petition was circulated and presented to the California Legislature:

Inasmuch as the country of Eel river, Bear river and Mattole valleys are compelled either to haul all their produce and groceries around some twelve miles, or else take them in small boats twelve miles, then pay an exorbitant price for hauling across Table Bluff, three quarters of a Mile, to Humboldt Bay, and then re-ship to Eureka, all of which can be avoided by the proper kind of enterprise in building a canal intersecting Eel river and Humboldt Bay, which canal the citizens very much desire:

— we propose to open and keep in repair for fifty years from date of said charter, and three years from the opening of the same … if we obtain from you the right of way.

Admittedly the language of the petition stated the dilemma of the settlers in the area in question in no uncertain terms and would probably have had no difficulty passing the Legislature, but the petitioners had neglected to do their homework. They had not sold the populous and enterprising bay towns on the idea of the canal.

In a lengthy and, for that paper, overly cautious editorial concerning the above petition, the Times thoroughly examined all aspects of the canal question and strongly opposed the project for the time being. Although not denying that such a canal could bring many benefits to all parties concerned, the editor felt that the anticipated engineering problems and concomitant expense needed further study and were not to be underestimated:

The distance from a point on a tributary of Wait’s Slough from where it must start to high water mark on Humboldt Bay is not less than one and one half miles. At least a quarter mile of this distance would have to be flumed, and one quarter mile of dredging would have to be done after reaching the Bay, before access to deep water could be had.

In addition, and here a trace of xenophobia becomes apparent, the public was reminded that the petitioners, Messrs. Gier and Newland, were strangers to the area and possibly suspect of coveting the value of the charter more than the eventual canal revenues. In closing its case against the canal, the paper called attention to the need for reliable and trustworthy entrepreneurs to engage in a project of such magnitude and importance to the economic well-being of the bay community and hinted that such desirable types were more likely to be found close to home, pointing out as an example a prominent but unnamed local citizen who had been entertaining the notion of building precisely such a canal for quite some time. but who was prudent enough to wait until the matter had been properly studied.

None of these Eel River canals ever materialized. They never got beyond the pipe dream stage. But in that state of dormancy the canal idea persisted for nearly half a century. The immediate solution to the transportation problem of southern Humboldt County arrived piecemeal in the form of more and better roads at first, and subsequently with the coming of the railroads.

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The turn of the century brought with it a quickening of the economic pulse of Humboldt County. Rumors of railway connections with the outside world were rife, and prospects of Humboldt Bay navigation improvement made outlying areas such as Ferndale anxious to share the benefits of the impending transportation improvements. As early as 1906, a committee of the Ferndale Chamber of Commerce assessed the possibilities of a canal route around Table Bluff to connect the Eel River and Humboldt Bay. It was estimated that 800,000 cubic yards of earth would have to be excavated in order to construct a 60 foot wide canal at an estimated cost of $100,000. The members of this committee were “… thoroughly convinced as to its feasibility, and were also well aware of the fact that the construction of the canal would redound greatly to the advantage of this valley and to other sections of Humboldt.”

By early 1907 the Ferndale Chamber of Commerce had become so enamored of the canal idea that it had appointed a committee to contact Humboldt’s representatives to the State legislature concerning the compilation of data in support of a Federal survey for said canal route.

Events moved quickly thereafter, with First District Congressman Engelbright introducing H.A. 7552 on December 12, 1907, which, in effect, directed the Secretary of War to proceed with a feasibility study and cost estimate of a ship canal from Humboldt Bay to Eel River. March 1909 brought tidings of a fortuitous change of name for the proposed Eel River Canal to that of an Intra-Coastal Waterway in order to qualify for congressional appropriations, and by late April of the same year a Colonel Biddle and Captain Demerritt of the U.S. Engineers were conducting a preliminary survey to determine the feasibility of such a canal. The initial reaction of these officials was favorable, and by the end of June 1909 considerable progress on the official survey was reported and an alternate route proposed which was deemed shorter and more affordable than that originally selected by the promoters. The newly advocated canal would run “… up the McMulty Slough from Eel River, thence through the fields of P.H. Quinn and W.L. Heney with a bay outlet at the Heney landing. It is believed by the engineers that this is the most feasible route, although it would necessitate an 80-foot cut in one place.”

As a result of these positive signs the summer and early fall of 1909 saw the canal, by whatever name assigned, assume a reality of its own and the only question remaining was when it would be completed. The bubble was not long in bursting, however, and by October 1909 we find the aforementioned Colonel Biddle providing the rationale for turning down the canal to George Kellogg, Secretary of the Greater Humboldt County Chambers of Commerce, in these words:

I will state that it was not on account of its impracticality but on account of its cost. Considerable quicksand was found on any line of the Canal around Table Bluff, which would make it very costly, and furthermore on account of the high water in the Eel River in time of freshets a lock would be necessary in order to prevent debris from Eel River being carried into Humboldt Bay, and also on account of the current without a lock being too swift for navigation.

And that was the last hurrah for an Eel River canal into Humboldt Bay. The ‘ original proponents of this ultimate Eel River canal scheme, the Ferndale Chamber of Commerce, sought to rally the remaining boards of trade and commerce of the County to a final revival of that canal via a strongly worded resolution, but to no avail. Its text reads like a most suitable epitaph to an idea whose time had passed.

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Next week: And what about the Mad River canals?

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On March 14, 2026, Vernell Price went home to her heavenly home into the arms of Jesus and reunited wither husband Paul Price and family.

Willie Vernell Price was born on July 26, 1924 to Jesse and Euna Carter in Pierce, Oklahoma. She had six siblings — Odell, Doyle, ML, Jean, Lavon and Jerry.

When Vernell was four years her family and other relatives moved from Oklahoma to find fortune and a new beginning to land near Old Mexico. When they arrived, the family found out that their newly purchased land was a scam. The family decided then to move on west, first going to Oregon and then to California. The family moved onto the Bay Area to work. While there Vernell’s oldest sister, Odell, died of infantile paralysis. Next the family moved Porterville, Calif. They went back to Oklahoma to find work but soon returned to Porterville and settled down.

Vernell went to a country dance with her friend Margie and her cousin when she was 16. At the dance she met Paul Price. Paul told a friend that he had just met his wife. Within a year on June 28, 1942, Vernell and Paul were married. They went to Las Vegas with Paul’s brother Bill and Vernell’s friend, Margie, they had a double wedding.

Paul and Vernell settled in Porterville. Paul and his brother, Bill purchased a gas station. In 1944 Carolyn was born and a year later Paulette came along. World War II interrupted life and Vernell found herself caring for two toddlers when Paul was drafted in 1945 and sent to the Aleutian Islands. Fortunately, Paul was only in the army a little over a year. Vernell and Paul once again settled into life in Porterville. They rededicated their lives to the Lord Jesus Christ and Joined the Nazarene Church. Marilyn was born in 1949 and rounded out their family with the third girl.

In the spring of 1950 Paul and Vernell took a job opportunity to move to Eureka. with GL Speir’s Logging Company. They found a Nazarene Church community that embraced them into their congregation with open arms. Paul and Vernell settled in Eureka and found their forever home. Paul had many business endeavors. Vernell supported him by caring for the family, sewing the girls’ clothes, keeping the books for his businesses, selling Avon, working at Globe Imports and Walsh’s Fine Dinnerware. Both Vernell and Paul were involved in their church doing whatever needed to be done. She loved being a girls counselor many years at Blue Slide Nazarene Camp.

Vernell and Paul sold their tire store, Paul Price Tires, in the early 1990s, purchased a motor home and set out to see the USA with other friends. During their retirement Vernell joined the Women’s Golf Association and learned to play golf. She played golf well into her 90s. She was forever thrilled when she made a hole in one on the 8th hole at the Muni. Eventually Vernell and Paul sold their motor home and purchased a trailer in Arizona. They had to sell their property in Arizona when it became evident that Paul had Alzheimer’s. Vernell took such great care of Paul along with the family until he passed away in 2004.

Vernell managed to find a new life for herself in various ways: She was involved in her church, golfed weekly, played Mexican Dominoes with a group of friends, worked in her yard, enjoyed and cared for her family. Even in her 90s Vernell stayed as active as possible. After Vernell turned 99, it was evident that she could not live alone. A decision was made to move to Timber Ridge Assistant Living. The last year she had been in their Renaissance Memory area.

Vernell was preceded in death by her parents, Jesse and Euna Carter, husband, Paul Price, granddaughter, Rebecca Hansen, siblings, Odell Carter, Doyle Carter, ML Carter, Jean Thompson and Jerry Carter, nephews Steven Zbrudzewski, Don Price and niece Pam Carter.

Vernell is survived by her sister, Lavon (Art) Baird, daughters and their spouses, Carolyn and Drew Bass, Paulette and Arlin True and Marilyn Nilsen and Paul Mangum. She is survived by her grandchildren and their spouses, Michael (Maikken) Bass, Mark Bass, Michelle (Eric) Anderson, Randy (Lisa) Hansen, Renee (Michael) Miles, Nathan (Shelley) Nilsen, Jeremy (Amy) Nilsen and Ryan (Amy) Nilsen. Vernell’s great-grandchildren are Austin (Alyssa), Alec and Annika Anderson, Morgan (Dominik )Munch, Max (Shayda) Bass, and Hannah Bass, Aria Miles (Casey Highstrom), Chloe ( Jace) McFetridge, Olivia Miles, Jordan Miles, Trevor and Alexandra Nilsen, Rhett and Cole Nilsen and Cameron Hastriter. Her great-great-grandchildren are Audrey and Archer Anderson, Gabe, Piper and Brady Hansen, Banks Miles-McGrady, Jackson and River Miles-Highstrom. Vernell is also survived by nieces and nephews, Beverly Patterson, James Price, Dave Zbrudzewski, Steve, Mark, Greg and Jeff Carter, Sandy Carter, Larry and Allan Wilson, Debbie Sanders, Paula Weaver and Kathie Bourne.

A graveside service will be held on Monday, March 30, 2026 at 2 p.m. at Oceanside Cemetery in Eureka.

Honorary casket bearers will be Vernell’s six grandsons.

We appreciate and thank Vernell’s caregivers at Timber Ridge Memory Care.

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The obituary above was submitted on behalf of Vernell Price’s family. The Lost Coast Outpost runs obituaries of Humboldt County residents at no charge. See guidelines here. Email news@lostcoastoutpost.com.

Gabe Smith, 45, of Scotia, formerly of White River Junction, Vermont, passed away March 17, 2026.

Born January 25, 1981, Gabe was a charismatic and free-spirited man who followed his dream of moving to California, where he built a life surrounded by the beauty he loved. He found peace walking among the redwoods and joy in traveling to the coast to watch the sunset-simple moments that brought him happiness.

Above all, Gabe’s greatest joy in life was being a father. His children, Evey and Robey, were the center of his world. He loved traveling with them and sharing experiences-days spent exploring parks and museums, visiting rivers and lakes, and adventuring in the mountains. These were the moments he cherished most, and the memories he created with them will live on forever.

Gabe had a warm heart, a vibrant spirit, and a presence that made people feel at ease. He will be remembered for his love of nature, his sense of freedom, and the deep love he had for his family.

He had a great love of Jim Henson and the Muppets since he was two years old in Germany and that was the only TV in English that could be found. 

He is survived by his children, Evey and Roby; Kashmir Nelson, his son; Caitlin Bisson-Hoyt, the mother of his children; his mother, Kathleen; his father, Timothy Smith; his sister, Arielle Smith; his nephew, Cleo Bridge; and many friends throughout the country.

No services are planned at this time. A celebration of life will be held this summer. In lieu of flowers, donations may be made to Alcoholics Anonymous in his honor.