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1. We begin the film in Western Oregon. It is autum time in the Willimatte Valley with the Willimatte River twisting long through the farms. As we move west toward the coastal range, rich with Douglas Fur in the distant mist, the land from what has happened in the turned crop fields and the gardens of women and the orchards with slight slopes coming out of the loam land making streight lines curve running up into the Oak and Madrone hills, is filled with the basic colors liking life to a wine glass of reflection unable to tip but virtue in the crisp stillness under Cascade winds, while the soft and strong cloud shapes shift and change to let light deliver its finest perceptions across the mad clarity of animal breathing. Reality is large. Now we see the Long Tom. A thinner, slower river. Along the west blackberry lined bank a thirty-two year old white man is walking south with his white and black mongrel sheep dog. The man is just less six feet tall, and just less one hundred and sixty pounds. He has a long brade and a heavy beard. Although he is no stranger to the country, in fact a logging mill worker, meat cutter, barn builder, and vegtable grower, his dress is more likened to that of a golfer. As he stops in his stride, we shimmer with the nature of the bottom land; until our focus of his lighting a Camel cigeratte, has us going into his mind viewing those occupations as they pass through his memory.