Farewell to Zach

Typewriter Tales

By Jennifer McBride

If you've ever had the misfortune to wander near my desk (a.k.a. "the gate to chaos") and you've survived the experience, you may possibly have noticed "the shrine." Photographs, columns, and other miscellaneous newspaper pieces slather the two walls around his workspace, our sports editor's intimidating homage to art and sports.

The shrine will disappear soon, however, because our sports editor, Zach Urness, is leaving for greener pastures. Well, wetter, anyway. He's abandoning the frigid winters of Montana for the endless rain of western Oregon — which I find ironic, since I made the reverse trek six months ago. Zach has gotten a job in Grants Pass with a daily newspaper with a higher circulation, leaving behind empty walls and emptier hearts.

Though Zach has always preferred writing, I've always loved his photography. He has a gift for capturing motion and emotion in a single frame. There's some wonderful art in the way Zach captured a baseball played with his hands over his groin, screaming in pain after a rather unfortunate throw.

But more than the awesome articles, I'll miss the man himself. You've probably gotten a taste of his humor from his columns. He has a gift with expression and nuance that can send me rolling across the newsroom floor, laughing and clutching my sides.

That humor always lifted me up during a dull workday. When papers made his way from his desk to mine during the fall sports season and I compared them to illegal immigrants rushing the phone book fence I'd made between our cubical border, Zach officially announced that his desk had seceded from the union.

The new, sovereign country's name? "The Republic of Zachland."

Though Zach pretends apathy, I've seen incredible passion in his sports profiles, in the way he deals with coaches and students. He keeps some of his best pictures ready on his computer desktop, just in case excited parents want copies. He tackles difficult interviews and assignments with good humor, and without the melodrama that other, lesser mortals like myself cling to. When every newspaper in the valley copied one of his articles on a boy and his boat, he didn't say a word. He also hasn't kicked apart his computer, which lives just to spite him.

One Tuesday, after already logging eight hours in layout hell, Zach slogged, on foot, out into the cold and the rain to take pictures of a car accident. He stayed out for two hours dressed only in a wind breaker. When he finally came back, pale and shaking, he refused a cup of coffee and went right back to proofreading articles for another four hours. That's the kind of dedication Zach brought to his newspaper and his community. He was the one who proposed dedicating special sections to the Mission Valley Mariners state baseball championship, and he put together the special section we did on the Charlo Lady Vikings near-perfect basketball season last winter.

I also remember another Tuesday night, Zach and I alone in the newsroom at midnight. Ethan was on vacation, and though we had looked at every page and I was ready to throw up my hands and go home, Zach insisted on looking through the entire thing, story by story, picture by picture.

As a journalist, making friends quickly and losing them is something you're supposed to get used to. Most beginning reporters stay in their jobs two or three years at most before moving on. It's one thing to know that, another to watch your best friend in the newsroom walk out the door. He didn't always understand my odd sense of humor, but he tried, which is about the best anyone can ask. It's hard for me to realize that Zach won't ever be there anymore. I won't be able to complain to him about Word on the Street or share office gossip, and he won't be there to correct my pronunciation of "Dicksonian" or discuss our shared favorite books.

So, even though you'll probably miss Glacier more than you'll miss me, Zach, (Zach is an intrepid outdoorsman), I've decided to do you a favor and give you some tips on handling my home state. In Oregon, make sure to remember:

? Not to laugh when they talk about their "big" mountains and their "cold" winters;

? Not to try to pump your own gas, unless you want to be tackled to the ground by overly enthusiastic station attendants;

? It's pronounced "Or-uh-gun" not "Or-eee-gone." Say the state's name wrong, and my fellow Oregonians will probably start pummeling you with our recycled aluminum cans. Or we will try to charge you sales tax, which is almost as bad. (Also: "Willamette" rhymes with "damn it," with emphasis on the "am.");

? Umbrellas are for Californians;

? "Tree hugging" is not meant to be literal. Most of the time;

? Nike's secret police are always watching, because Phil Knight owned your soul as soon as you crossed the border;

? If you go participate in our nude bike races, don't forget to pad the seat;

? Boring is actually a city, not just what you're going to be without us.

Editor's note: Good sports editors are hard to find, and harder to keep. We wish Zach well as he makes the jump to the world of the daily newspaper, and we will introduce our new sports editor, Trent Makela, to you next week.