"It's a mild, late-summer afternoon about 4,000 feet up into the central Oregon Cascades. The sun peeks through pale lavender clouds, illuminating red huckleberry bushes and dry stalks of white everlasting and other wildflowers. I pick the tiny, sweet berries and harvest handfuls of sharp-edged beargrass, mindful to pluck the new, innermost clusters and not cut myself in the process.

I am gathering native plant materials with members of the Confederated Tribes of Siletz, a reservation on the Oregon coast. This time of year, weavers harvest and dry beargrass for use in jewelry, grass skirts and basketry. We pick on national forestland where the Siletz can harvest plants for noncommercial use. Robert Kentta, director of cultural programs for the Siletz, invited me along.

My acquaintance with Kentta and the Siletz goes back six years. It's one of those long stories that centers on an unfortunate accident.

First, the good part: the beautiful Indian baskets that came from a grandmother I never knew who taught on the Siletz reservation in 1920-21. I cherished them and enjoyed the connection they gave me to her. I loved their rich, mellow tones of brown, tan and cream; their intricate designs; the skilled craftsmanship. The smaller ones sat on tables and desks and the piano top over the years; the large, barrel-shaped one generally sat on the floor. After a game of charades I often tossed the used pieces of paper into it. Beyond that, its job was simply to give pleasure.

Now, the not-so-good part. There was this dog, Bacchus, our second shelter dog -- large, black, furry and highly spirited. One night at dinner my husband asked me, out of the blue, what the baskets meant to me. He had some unfortunate news: When I wasn't at home some days earlier, the dog had chewed a large hole in the back of the biggest basket. "

Get the Story:
Basket: Few willing to mess with a sacred item (The Oregonian 9/24)