In Oregon, frustration over federal land rights has been building for years

By Carissa Wolf, Mark Berman and Kevin Sullivan January 4, 2016

The Washington Post

BURNS, Ore. — B.J. Soper has seen the frustration building for years in this rural corner of Oregon.

The federal government owns more than half the land in the state, as it does across much of the West. It used to be routine for ranchers to get permits to graze cattle or cut timber or work mines — a way to make a living from the land.

Then came increasing environmental regulations, and the federal land became more for owls and sage grouse than for local people trying to feed their families, said Soper, 39, who lives 100 miles up the road in Bend.

“What people in Western states are dealing with is the destruction of their way of life,” said Soper, a father of four who was once a professional rodeo rider. “When frustration builds up, people lash out.”

Anger at the federal government boiled over this past weekend, when a small group of people took over a remote federal wildlife refuge east of here. Their specific aim was to support two local ranchers sentenced to prison over arson charges. But the larger issue is a decades-long struggle over federal land rights in the West that often flies under the radar in much of the country...

Playing the Game

By Carissa Wolf

Boise Weekly

"The game" plays out like a ping pong of charges bouncing from one inmate to another.

The women sit facing each other in a circle, and in polite attack, the accusations begin.

"I'm pulling you up for breaking a verbal commitment," one inmate said.

"If it seems little to you, it might be big to others. ... A slip-up could be a sign of relapse," another chimes in.

"I agree, it's a serious matter," one added.

The charges flew as the accused sat in silence. Then the group fell quiet and the condemned spoke:

"Thanks, I'll get on top of that," she said.

The charges, the allegations, the words of blame are spoken daily and, for the most part, remain private matters, kept within the walls of the community, unheard by the world that lives beyond the rolling sage-covered hills that buffer the accused and the accusers from freedom.

The community resides beside a vacant stretch of road that connects a vast desert landscape to the barbed-wire-encased Idaho Maximum Security Prison south of Boise. In the shadows of guard towers and an imposing fence sits a more diminutive building. Out of context, it could pass for a modern church or school. Women mill about the grounds, doing yard work, carrying out chores, passing in and out of the building's doors unbridled by security gates, fences and the fixtures of imprisonment. Sans the drab beige uniforms, the women could pass as cooperative members of a collective--a commune perhaps, or given their quiet rhythm of work and study, a religious community.

Communal living, cooperation, communication and contemplation define this community. Although housed as a part of the Idaho Department of Correction prison complex, the facility is set apart physically from the high-security facility it neighbors and philosophically from conventional institutions of reform. They don't call its surrounding walls a cellblock. They don't even call it a prison. Gone is the vernacular of crime and punishment, and the trappings of imprisonment remain purposefully absent.

This isn't a prison, it's a therapeutic community. This isn't a prison population, it is a "family." And these are not prisoners, they are "sisters."

Prison officials say therapeutic communities have become the preferred way to reform some inmates suffering from co-existing addictions, mental illness and criminal behaviors. They say the programs that aim to re-socialize inmates through cognitive therapy and peer accountability reduce recidivism rates and transform deviant personalities into functional, productive citizens.

But some former sisters say the program does more harm than good. A lawsuit filed against IDOC by a former inmate alleges the program denies prisoners their constitutional rights and subjects participants to false allegations and unwarranted punishment.

read the full story at www.boiseweekly.com

Country Medicine

By Carissa Wolf

Boise Weekly

"It's so important not to get distracted," said Dr. Richard Paris, as he performed the first of many examinations for the day. Quiet fell as Paris surveyed the Cessna parked outside the Hailey hanger: It was the silence of careful concentration.

Paris probed the landing gear. He poked the underside of the wings, filling a vial with clear liquid. He studied the substance then proclaimed the fuel free from contaminants.

Paris surveyed the early September weather patterns sweeping through the Wood River Valley with the dedicated attention you'd expect from a family doctor named the 2005 Physician of the Year by the American Academy of Family Physicians. But Paris didn't mention this or other accolades. He'd rather talk about what his patients give him.

"Right now I have tons of kids that are graduating from high school that I delivered. And now, I see them doing college physicals. I knew them as babies. And their parents say, 'Yes, [Dr. Paris] was the first person who saw you.' The pleasant surprise is how great that would feel over the years."

It's something few people get to experience: Not many serve generations of families and treat patients "from the cradle to the grave," as Paris likes to say. Even fewer prepare to make their rounds by checking the fluid levels of a small engine aircraft.

While medical officials, researchers and policymakers went about debating how best to boost the number of physicians in Idaho during the last legislative session, Paris was taking care of his usual business: pulling long hours and triple-duty as a physician, pilot and educator in order to deliver medical care to Idaho's remote and underserved patients.

Lawmakers want to see more doctors like Paris treating Idaho patients. The rarity of the rural family physician hurts not just remote country dwellers, but everyone who sets foot in Idaho, practitioners say. As part of lawmakers' efforts to boost the state's doctor to patient ratio, they're digging into research that could help remedy Idaho's physician shortage. That research points toward a number of educational options that could help attract doctors to the state and push some to consider the feasibility of an Idaho medical school. But physicians say it takes more than a medical school to rear the Idaho doctor. It takes a combination of intellect, dedication to service and a thirst for adventure to leave metropolitan medical hubs and the lucrative careers that come with them to open practice in a largely remote state. And that will to serve cannot be taught in any classroom.

read the full article at www.boiseweekly.com

Away with the Whey

By Carissa Wolf

Boise Weekly

Mike and Deb Courtnay can count miles between their neighbors' homes east of Hollister, where nameless, numbered roads stretch straight and remain off the GPS grid. On some days the only sighting of life near the Courtnays' Southern Idaho farmstead comes in the form of deer that wander down the South Hills toward fields of wheat and alfalfa. For five generations, the Courtnay family relished the peace and quiet in what Deb calls the "suburbs" of Hollister.

Then, Chobani moved in.

"Suddenly, we had trucks going day and night," Deb said of the usually desolate sage- and scrub-lined roads, which last spring were filled with tanker trucks on the half-hour trek southwest from the Twin Falls Chobani plant to the outskirts of Hollister.

The trucks hauled the Greek yogurt industry's biggest quandary and a smelly secret: gallons and gallons of acid whey-spiked wash water.

read the entire article at: http://www.boiseweekly.com

Crimes of Hate: The Stark Reality of Hate Crimes Against the LGBT Community

By Carissa Wolf

Boise Weekly

Words punctuated the kicks and punches.

"If you guys are going to dress like dudes, then we are going to hit you like dudes," Annie remembers hearing between two rounds of assaults and a final crash to the pavement that shattered her knee.

Annie stood in the parking lot of Addie's restaurant on Fifth and Main streets with friends in the wee hours of a late April morning when a kick to the back of the knee, followed by anti-gay slurs and punches ended her carefree night in downtown Boise.

read the entire article at: http://www.boiseweekly.com

Graduating into the Unknown

Estevan Barrera has found a security net at school, but it's a net the 21-year-old will soon lose.

It's one of those rare, quiet moments at Estevan Barrera's school. Barrera's classmates have left for the day and he has his teacher, Eric Lichte, or simply Mr. Eric, as Barrera calls him, all to himself. Lichte and Barrera's parents sit around a classroom table discussing the four years of strides Barrera has made in Lichte's class and what the future holds after Barrera graduates in June.

The meeting isn't part of Barrera's usual routine. He asks when he can go home. And he circles around the activity table where Lichte and his parents are conferencing. Voices talk about the future, plans and the unknown. Barrera circles again then pauses for a moment. He stands above his seated stepfather, bends his neck and quietly kisses his stepfather's balding head.

Barrera moves around the table and pulls out a chair he neatly lined up earlier that day next to Lichte. He sits down.

"You're cute!" Barrera tells Lichte.

"Thank you, Barrera. But we don't tell boys they're cute. What do we tell them?" Lichte's gentle voice redirects Barrera to find the best way to pay a compliment to a fellow gentleman.

Barrera's parents count the days until that gentle, guiding voice will no longer be a part of Barrera's routine. The date stands as a milestone on most parents' calendars, but Graduation Day 2012 marks unchartered territory for the Millers.

Barrera, 21, shares his coming-of-age story with a boom of cohorts that joined the swelling number of children diagnosed with autism in the 1990s and 2000s. Many have grown up under public education and Medicaid-funded supports that either disappear around the age of 21 or have fallen victim to recent budget guts. That leaves advocates wondering if the state and local communities can build the village needed to support the anticipated surge of autistic adolescents slated to transition into adulthood.

read the full article at www.boiseweekly.com