Paul Scott Ostrom
September 13, 1947 – July 15, 2025

Scott Ostrom, beloved father, stepfather, husband, entrepreneur, and pioneer in Northern California’s diving and sporting goods community, passed away peacefully on July 15th at the age of 77.

Born in Honolulu, Hawaii, on September 13, 1947, Scott spent his early childhood in Laie before moving with his family to California. Raised in Citrus Heights and had two younger siblings (Barbara Molen & Loni Brooks) He developed a lifelong passion for the water—becoming a certified scuba diver at 13 and setting regional records in competitive spearfishing during his teenage years. That passion became the foundation for his life’s work.

After graduating from high school in 1965, Scott studied marine biology and oceanography at Sierra College and Humboldt State University. While still a student, he became a NAUI-certified scuba instructor (NAUI Instructor #1254) and began teaching diving at HSU, where he also led multiple university dive trips to Mexico and along the California coast.

In 1970, Scott co-founded Pacific Marine Engineering in Eureka with a couple of dive buddies from HSU. Originally a commercial dive operation, the business began selling dive gear and quickly evolved into a full retail shop. Over the next several decades, Scott and his partners expanded the company into Pro Sport Center in Eureka and The New Outdoor Store in Arcata, offering outdoor gear, athletic shoes, fitness equipment, bicycles, snowboards, hunting and fishing supplies, and more. Scott also continued commercial diving during this time—raising sunken boats, performing underwater repairs, assisting in evidence recovery, and leading search-and-rescue dives.

In 2009, Scott and his partners opened a new store in Ukiah under the name Pacific Outfitters and soon after rebranded the Eureka and Arcata stores to match. His entrepreneurial vision and leadership helped shape these businesses into trusted local institutions, serving the North Coast community for generations.

In 1988, Scott married the love of his life, Marilyn Ostrom, blending their families and creating a warm, welcoming home filled with love, laughter, and a deep appreciation for the outdoors. Together, they shared more than three decades of marriage, building a life rich with travel, adventure, and unforgettable experiences. Whether exploring national parks, road-tripping along the coast, diving in exotic locations, or discovering new places together, Scott and Marilyn embraced every opportunity to live life to the fullest. Their shared passion for nature, family, and each other created a strong and joyful partnership that deeply touched everyone around them.

Scott was an amazing father — patient, hands-on, and always willing to teach. He shared his knowledge generously, teaching his kids how to work on cars, remodel houses and apartments, cook, and master countless other essential life skills. He believed in being self-sufficient and capable, and he made sure his children were, too. Scott also believed in balance. On weekends, he often packed up the family for trips to the lake, where they spent long days wakeboarding, kneeboarding, tubing, and enjoying the sunshine. 

Scott taught by example — to work hard, take pride in what you do, but also to make time for fun, and to create lasting memories. His love and life lessons continue to shape the lives of those he left behind.

In 2019, after a long and courageous battle with cancer, Marilyn passed away, leaving a lasting legacy of strength, love, and resilience. Scott’s devotion to her throughout their journey was a testament to the bond they shared — one rooted in mutual respect, adventure, and enduring love.

Not long after, Scott met Joyce Graham in a grief support group. Their shared experiences brought them together, and they spent the next several years traveling the world as partners.

Scott is survived by his sons, Aaron Ostrom (spouse Leslie Ostrom) and Chris Ostrom Juvencio (spouse Lea Juvencio Ostrom); his stepdaughters, Lisa Gage (spouse Sonny Gage) and Jennifer LaFranchi; and his beloved grandchildren: Karlie Bibler, Alyssa Presson, Alice Ostrom, Tori Willis, Issac Ostrom, and Skyler Ostrom. He is also survived by his siblings, Barbara Molen and Lani Brooks, and their families.

He leaves behind a lasting legacy of business innovation, ocean adventure, and community leadership. He is remembered by countless former students, dive partners, employees, and customers whose lives he touched with his mentorship, generosity, and pioneering spirit.

A celebration of life will be held at the Elks Lodge on September 21st (Sunday) from 2 p.m. to 5 p.m. All are welcome to come celebrate and honor Scott’s extraordinary life.

Been thinking about that induction stove? Or maybe a nice new heat pump? Of course you have! It’s the 21st century.

On Tuesday, 350 Humboldt and a bunch of allied organizations are hosting an “Electrification Fair” at the Jefferson Center, and there’ll be a whole host of experts on hand to help you navigate how to ditch natural gas in the easiest (and cheapest) possible way. More details here.

Below: 350 Humboldt’s Wendy Ring joins the show to give you a little preview of the kinds of things that will be on tap at the Fair, and to make the case that even if you don’t know it yet — yes, you really want to electrify.

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During the 1930s and ‘40s, Fernbridge pool was among the best-known salmon fishing spots in the western United States, if not the world. As the first Eel River pool above tidewater, it hosted thousands of salmon and steelhead that gathered there in late summer and autumn as they prepared to move upstream. This annual salmon migration attracted hordes of eager fishermen, who jammed into auto courts in Fortuna and nearby towns, or camped on the river banks. And men, women, and boys growing up in the valley shared in all this excitement.

Fernbridge pool, confined solely to the north bank, was deep and much longer than it had been in more recent times, running from the bridge itself upstream for more that a half-mile until it narrowed to become Palmer Creek pool. It was possibly 100 yards wide at its widest point.

Fishermen commonly trolled in early morning from rowboats, and one memory about trolling there stands out especially for me. It has to do with my nephew, Wallie Cheeseman; the year was 1939. Just about every morning when the river was fishable that season, Wallie rode his bike from Fortuna to Fernbridge at daybreak, and time after time he was skunked: he would get no strike at all, or someone would cut across his line when he was playing a fish, or the hook would pull out, or whatever — some unlucky thing was forever happening. I would see him at high school later on those days and ask about the fishing, but I really shouldn’t have asked — his sad face told it all: he had caught no fish. It was the same story day after day; I really felt bad for Wallie, but admired him for his iron determination to catch a salmon. That guy simply would not give up!

His break came one weekend morning when the two of us were trolling at Fernbridge; when the sun was barely above the horizon he hooked and landed a salmon. The common practice was to beach the boat when you hooked a fish, work it carefully up to the shore until it fell over on its side, then slide it up on the gravel. On this particular morning Wallie got a strike, and he did everything just right, expecting, I’m sure, that his jinx would take over at any minute. But this time things worked out right for him. He finally landed his first salmon, a king that weighed 18 pounds.

Glowing with that success, we resumed fishing, and within a short time, he hooked another salmon, and his luck held again, this time in the shape of a 24-pounder that still had sea lice on it.

We fished some more for my sake, but got no more strikes. Although I felt happy for Wallie, I was more than a little envious too; I felt it was my turn to have some luck. But the salmon trolling typically went flat when the sun was on the water, and it did that morning. Deciding to give up on trolling, I had Wallie drop me off on the deep side of the river, where someone had tied a flimsy wooden dock to the willows, and I switched over to bait casting. Within a few minutes, I caught a big “half-pounder,” a steelhead about 18 inches long. That was the best I could do, so before long we both quit.

Wallie hung the salmon on the handlebars of his bike and rode back proudly to Fortuna, and I followed, carrying my dinky little half-pounder. On the way, Wallie jokingly told me I could slip my fish down the throat of one his salmon so I wouldn’t be embarrassed to be seen with it. His suggestion really bugged me at the time, but I eventually came to realize that after trying for so long and not catching any salmon, Wallie had a right to feel kind of smart-alecky when he finally broke his jinx.

From that point on, Wallie caught salmon almost every time he went fishing — right on into adulthood. It was as if the fishermen’s patron saint had decided to test him rigorously, and he passed, so it now rewarded him for life. My luck was never good, but I didn’t fish that much. One weekend that fall, though, I hooked a salmon at Fernbridge pool, but when it was close to the bank it tried a last run, and I was so eager to beach it that I wouldn’t give it line. At that point the hook pulled out, and came sailing back and hit me in the chest. I cried in fury and frustration, knowing very well I should have let the fish run. (But I never fully learned that lesson; as recently as last September, on a different river, I made the same dumb mistake and lost a big silver. I blame it on excitement.)

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Here’s a Fernbridge pool story of a different kind: For many years, members of the Southern Pacific Rod and Gun Club of San Francisco chartered a train for a weekend of fishing on the world famous Eel River. Their Pullman cars were shunted of to a siding at Fortuna, and local fishermen would take them out fishing for a day or two. During their 1941 trip, I agreed to row one of these visiting fishermen around in my 10-foot boat, which was very unstable, very tippy. Although a storm was moving in, I picked him up and we went fishing as planned. I rowed the man from one end of Fernbridge pool to the other, trolling our lures (probably Andy Reeker wobblers) back and forth, up and down the pool, even after heavy rain started falling and everyone else had gone in.

My guest was not only a determined fisherman; he was also a jovial drinker. He had two pint flasks of whiskey with him, and he offered me a drink, which I declined; I didn’t think people should drink while they fished. But he kept taking snorts from one of the bottles, and telling corny jokes. As the morning wore on he was obviously feeling no pain, or cold either.

Finally, with no sign of fish, no let-up in the rain, both of us thoroughly drenched, and him drunk, I decided to call it quits. When we reached the shore (on the steep north bank of the river) I told him to sit still in the stern until I unloaded the boat and pulled it up on firm ground. I removed the rods and oars from the boat, and tied up, then told him to crawl carefully to the bow. By that time, however, he was beyond being careful about anything, so he tried to stand up, and of course, the boat tipped. When he tried to lean the other way, the boat tipped in that direction, and you can guess the rest. The boat and the man kept up their unequal balancing act faster and faster, until the man, arms flailing the empty air, pitched over backwards and disappeared below the surface in a spectacular splash, and the boat turned over.

For a few seconds, all I could see above water was the man’s hat, drifting into the current. But soon the hat’s owner popped up, coughing and spitting water, grabbed the side of the boat, and pulled himself ashore. He had lost his tackle bag with his gear and the remaining pint of whiskey, and although we searched for some time, we were unable to find it in the muddy water. Finally I righted the boat and we went up to the car. I drove him to our place, and my mother bundled him up in blankets by the stove while she dried his clothes as well as she could. After she’d fed him some warm food, and he got dressed, I drove my dejected guest back to his Pullman car, and that was the last I ever saw of him.

That afternoon I went to see my good friends Cecil Davis and Leland Fielden at Hydesville, and told them about the morning’s fiasco. By then the weather had eased, and we decided to go to Fernbridge and snag the abandoned tackle bag off the river bottom, which we did. That evening, I stuffed the salvaged flask of whiskey in my shirt, and the three of us went to the movies in Fortuna. After the movies, we went into the adjoining soda fountain and ordered cokes, which we surreptitiously spiked with a little whiskey. June Quigley (who married Leland a few years later) was working at the fountain, and we sat around until she closed the place, then all of us left together. I again stuffed the flask in my shirt, but when we reached the sidewalk, it slipped down through my pant leg, and shattered on the concrete. We were stunned at first, then we ran for the car, and when we reached it we started laughing. The closing scene of that eventful day is of four teenagers cruising up and down Main Street, from one end to the other and back again, laughing, laughing, laughing. And I laugh now as I tell the story.

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The last memory of Fernbridge pool during those years harks back to 1946, when Wallie and I went gaffing there one evening — and nearly got ourselves killed.

Warden Bill “Kaler” Kaliher in uniform. Photo courtesy of William F. Kaliher Jr., via the Humboldt Historian.

At that time the river shallowed out into a riffle a short distance downstream from the bridge, on the creamery side. On this particular occasion, Wallie and I had stationed ourselves directly under the bridge, where we could see the riffle, but no game warden could flash a light on us from above. The game warden we feared and hated most was named Bill Kaliher, hut we never used Bill or “Mister” when we spoke of him, and couldn’t have spelled his name correctly. To us he was simply “Kaler,” a name we would spit out venomously, although he had treated me very fairly when we met one time at the Weymouth summer bridge. But fears and hatred don’t go away quickly, and the basic rule remained unchanged: Don’t ever let Kaler catch you!

Not many salmon were moving that evening, although a small one that came up the riffle ventured too close to Wallie, who gaffed it right behind the head, killing the fish immediately. It didn’t even flop when he brought it in. After that we just sat and smoked and waited, but no more fish showed. Finally a car came up on the bridge slowly from the Fernbridge side and stopped directly above us. We sat quietly, and before long some men got out and stood for several minutes at the bridge railing, occasionally shining the light down on the riffle. From their talk we could tell they weren’t game wardens; they sounded a little drunk.

After a while they got back in their car and continued across the bridge, then headed toward the river bar on the Ferndale side, and turned off their lights. We knew we would see them soon, and we had no wish to share our fishing spot, bad as it was, with anybody else, so we decided to give our competitors a scare when they tried to invade our territory.

At that time I had a powerful seven-cell flashlight I’d bought before the war, and Wallie had a five-cell flashlight. We sat and waited, and sure enough, in a few minutes we heard hoots crunching on gravel across the river, then splashing as two men waded toward us. We waited until they were 20 or 30 yards away, then we both reared up, threw our lights on them and yelled as loud as we could, “Stop in the name of the law!” As we did this we ran full- speed toward them, and they hightailed out of there, heading back toward their car. We heard their gaff hooks clatter on the rocks when they threw them away. We chased them for a hundred yards or so, until they out ran us, and we were winded. Then we went back to our safe base under the bridge. There were still no fish running, and we sat there, bored.

Some time later we heard the men’s car slowly coming back across the bridge, with no lights on. It stopped above us, and the men got out and again came to the bridge railing. Suddenly, they started yelling, “Take this, Kaler, you bastard!” and they started shooting down at us. The reverberating sound of the shots was deafening. Some of the bullets hit the water and some thudded into the muddy riverbank near where we were cowering. Finally, apparently having used up their ammunition, but still screaming every obscenity they could think of at Kaler, they got back in their car and roared away. Wallie and I were scared, I mean really scared. Much later, when we were sure those wild men were long gone, we sneaked back to our car and drove home.

When Wallie and I get together, we chuckle about that crazy evening, when our efforts to drive poachers off the river came close to getting us killed. And now, with mature perspective, we agree that Bill Kaliher, the game warden with a mission, did a pretty respectable job. When you live in his shoes as we did for those few minutes, you learn to see the man in a different light.

Beverly ‘Betty’ Jean Shamberger
June 11, 1945 – July 14, 2025

It is with heavy hearts that we announce the passing of Beverly “Betty” Jean Shamberger, who left us on July 14, 2025, at the age of 80. Betty was surrounded by her son, Jimmy, and her companion, Brian, at the time of her passing.

Born on June 11, 1945, in Arcata, CA, Betty was the daughter of Elmer and Mildred Steeves. She was the second oldest of four siblings—Robert “Bob” Steeves, Barbara Jones, and Elmer Steeves—and was raised in McKinleyville, CA. As a child, Betty spent countless hours playing in her Uncle Frankie’s barn with her siblings and double cousins Patty, Carol, and Nancy. She also loved riding her horse, Nashawa, and developed a deep connection with nature that stayed with her throughout her life.

Betty graduated from McKinleyville High School, where she met her husband, James “Jim” Shamberger. Together, they built a loving family with two sons, John and Jimmy. Betty was a devoted wife to Jim and a loving mother to her boys. She took special care of her son, John, until his untimely passing from heart complications at the age of 19. Her love for her family, especially her sons, knew no bounds.

Betty was incredibly proud of her Native American heritage and was a proud member of the Karuk Indian Tribe. Her culture and traditions were integral to her identity, and she shared this pride with her family and community.

Throughout her life, Betty dedicated herself to helping others. She worked for many years as a teacher’s aide in Woodland, CA, before taking on a new role as a relief manager at Motel 6, traveling around Northern California. Betty also cherished spending time with her family, especially on hunting and fishing trips to Idaho with her husband and son, where they were welcomed by long-time friends John and Tina Otazua.

Betty’s heart was always open to her loved ones, and she spent much of her life contributing to her community. She was a constant source of support for her family, always there with a helping hand, a kind word, or a thoughtful gesture.

She leaves behind her son, Jimmy, and his wife Rochelle; her beloved grandsons, John Shamberger and Jacob Ralls; her great-grandsons, Jack Shamberger and Matthew Ralls; her sister Barbara Jones and her husband Steve; her brother Elmer Steeves and his wife Sharon; her sister-in-law Linda Hudson and her husband Stan; her sister-in-law Darlene Steeves; and numerous nieces, nephews, and friends.

A very special thank you is extended to Barbara Jones, whose financial support was invaluable, and to sister-in-law Pat Shamberger, who lovingly assisted both Betty and Jim in their final days.

Betty was preceded in death by her beloved husband, Jim; her son, John; her brother, Bob Steeves; and her brothers-in-law, Gary and Bob Shamberger.

A graveside service will be held on August 23, 2025, at 10 a.m. at Greenwood Cemetery, where Betty will be laid to rest. Her nephew, Nathan Steeves, will perform the eulogy, honoring her life and legacy.

Betty will be deeply missed by all who knew her. Her love, warmth, and generosity will forever remain in our hearts. May she rest in peace.

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Press release from the Humboldt County Department of Heath and Human Service:

UPDATE, 6:04 p.m.: The official maps were released at 5:47 p.m. today, a Friday — curious timing! — and you can find them here.

The leaked maps are the same, at least insofar as we are concerned, but I see that I did read that leaked map wrong in one insignificant particular. The proposed Second District’s southeast corner does not extend as far down as Susanville, after all. Rather, it stops at the Modoc/Lassen county line.

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ORIGINAL POST:

The kickoff party for the “Election Rigging Response Act” was yesterday — Gov. Gavin Newsom and various worthies made the case for new, mid-decade California Congressional maps rigged to favor Democrats — and now the maps themselves have leaked, presumably just an hour or so ahead of their official release. (See here, here.)

Feast your eyes on the ERRA’s proposed map of the Second Congressional District — our district!

To the left: Before. To the right: After.

Is this a gerrymander? You better believe it! That’s the whole point! Apparently “gerrymander” stopped being a bad word a few years back, when the Supreme Court decided that gerrymandering for political purposes was pretty much A-OK, at least as far as the Constitution was concerned. So nowadays a party in control of a state legislature can draw the lines in such a way that will ensure that they will stay in power more or less in perpetuity, and they can draw similar lines for a state’s delegation to the House of Representatives.

Usually, barring extraordinary circumstances, state legislatures draw those lines every 10 years, in response to the decennial federal Census. But this year, in the wake of that Supreme Court ruling, Texas Gov. Greg Abbott – apparently at the urging of President Donald Trump – is trying to redraw lines in the middle of the decade, with the explicit goal of pushing out a few of that state’s Democratic representatives. This would be ahead of the 2026 midterm elections, in which Republicans are at risk of losing sole control of Congress.

So California Democrats are asking the left-leaning California public whether or not they should fight fire with fire, and the map above is the result. One of the most expedient ways to accomplish their goals, it appears, is to disenfranchise our neighbors in Redding by ridding them of the God-fearing Rep. Doug LaMalfa (R-Richvale), and to consign LaMalfa himself to the ninth circle of electoral Hell.

LaMalfa’s small Butte County hometown, just south of Chico, would suddenly be anchored not to Redding, but to Healdsburg, Cloverdale, Hopland, Ukiah and Willits, in addition to the large college town to his own north. The map we’ve seen shows that Democrats lead Republicans by five percentage points in this configuration of the First Congressional District.

So LaMalfa would face a challenge from a Democrat, most likely one from the chi-chi population center in the very southwest of this new district, in Sonoma County. Hmmm, who do we know who lives in Healdsburg?

And what happens to Redding? We inherit it! The new Second Congressional District – an absolute marvel of gerrymandering technology – would include all of Marin County, for starters. It then hugs the coast all the way north, dipping west to avoid Santa Rosa and all the towns on the 101 corridor until Humboldt County, at which point it marches east to conquer not only Redding but the vast swath of California east of I-5, all the way to the Nevada border and from Alturas down to the Lassen County line.

So in a congressional district where Democrats lead Republicans by 15 percentage points, Shasta County would be represented by Marin County’s Jared Huffman in the halls of Congress! Never let it be said that Sacramento politicians do not possess a sense of humor.

How do you stand up in the House of Representatives and represent polities so far-flung, both geographically and culturally, as San Rafael and Redding, Bolinas and Alturas, Mill Valley and Dunsmuir? You don’t. But once again, that is not the point. Once again, the point is to disenfranchise our Republican neighbors in response to the Texas Republicans’ disenfranchisement of their Democratic neighbors, lest the Texas Republicans succeed in disenfranchising us all. That’s the world we get to live in now!

So next week the legislature will call a special election for the Election Rigging Response Act, and we’ll all get to vote on whether we want it or not on Nov. 4. Wild times.

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PREVIOUSLY:

• Newsom Ramps Up California Redistricting Threat as Texas Weighs New Republican Maps
• Newsom Wants Voters to Weigh in on New Congressional Districts in November
• Texas Democrats Embrace Newsom’s Redistricting Rebuttal as California Draws New Map

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Wow, it’s been nearly two years since the official corporate announcement that moistened the saliva glands of countless local fast food aficionados: Eureka is getting a Habit Burger & Grill.

Oh. Em. Gee!

While LoCO commenters nobly rushed to the defense of our treasured local burger joints, the debauched appetites of our less civic-minded residents would not be denied. Their excitement was as palpable as a sesame seed bun. But as the Habit-less weeks turned to months, forlorn rumors began to surface: Has Habit Burger backed out? Why has it forsaken us?!

Fear not: The home of the Double Char — recently rechristened as USA Today‘s No. 1 best fast food burger — is still headed our way.

A Eureka location recently materialized on the corporate website, complete with an “Apply Now” button for job seekers, as noted by one of the culinary connoisseurs over on the “Humboldt Foodies” Facebook group (where dreams of Humboldt Olive Gardens and Cheesecake Factories go perennially unfulfilled).

A message sent to Habit’s corporate headquarters requesting an official opening date was not returned by the time this post was published. 

Meanwhile, for those who steadfastly keep your dining dollars local, a business called 707 Smash Burgers recently announced its upcoming opening at 1604 Fourth Street in Eureka, the green-hued former home of Gallagher’s and Shenanigans Pizza.

Promising fish & chips, loaded fries and a wide array of “exotic cereal milkshakes” alongside “the best smash burgers you’ve ever had,” the company is eyeballing an opening date of Aug. 30 with plans to stay open as late as 3 a.m.

We’ve reached out via phone and social media for more information. Stay tuned, burger fans.