.
Multnomah County Sheriff’s Office Search and Rescue (MCSOSAR) is a volunteer organization that has become a key part of the network of the emergency response teams and law enforcement agencies that ensure the safety of our community. We are committed to serving our county, as well as neighboring counties throughout Oregon and Washington, in the event of a missing or injured person out of reach of the standard emergency resources.
MCSOSAR’s excellence is achieved through the rigorous training required to become a certified member of the team. The road to certification is a nine month journey consisting of weekly meetings held at the Sheriff’s Office and monthly outings held in the field. In a typical weekly meeting, certified members and leaders teach required skills through power point presentations, lectures, and demonstrations. Monthly outings are where new members are asked to showcase their classroom knowledge in various practical scenarios that prepare them for potential situations that could be met on an actual search and rescue mission. Outings can range from a twelve mile hike, requiring the demonstration of newly learned land navigation skills and a staged medical assessment and evacuation, to weekend training held entirely in snow requiring the construction of, and overnight stay in, a snow cave.
MCSOSAR is a youth-based organization with members of all ages and initial skill levels. While we were founded as an explorer post of the Boy Scouts of America, we are no longer affiliated with them and are no longer explorer scouts. We report to the Sheriff’s Office but are run through the leadership of volunteers. Under the oversight of a Sergeant and six deputies trained as SAR Coordinators, all training, member communications, and mission deployment are orchestrated through a hierarchy of adult advisors and youth leaders. Advisors are adult members who have been with the unit for over two years and petition to the Advisory Board for the position. They serve a variety of roles, including general administration of the organization, training curriculum development, asset management, and execution of all SAR activities. The youth leadership positions (Officers) are all positions elected by a majority vote of current members in the unit. Any certified member meeting specific requirements is eligible. The President and Vice President manage the group, while a Secretary and Quartermaster manage team equipment and paperwork. The general membership is further broken into five teams, four active member teams, and one reserve team. Each team is led by two elected certified members who ensure complete and proper training, notify each member in the event of a mission or activity, and serve search team leaders in the field during search and rescue missions. When a missing person is reported to the Sheriff’s Office, a SAR Coordinator notifies the Advisory staff which activates an Advisor and Officer paging system. This system is the communication backbone in which Team Leaders use to alert their team of a mission.
In addition to searching for missing people, MCSOSAR provides other vital services. These include conducting evidence searches for law-enforcement agencies, assisting with training exercises for SWAT/ CERT teams, OLCC stings, and various other volunteer activities serving our community. For more information on MCSO SAR, log on to www.mcsosar.com.
MCSOSAR’s mission is to enhance the safety of the public who reside, work, or recreate in the remote areas of Multnomah County by forming partnerships with volunteer organizations dedicated to the prevention of, and prompt response to, emergencies involving lost or injured persons, or created by natural disasters.
Written for the MCSO news letter by Lauren Jones
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Watching Over The City
.
The clear, ice blue sky set an elevated mood for the day. Rays of bright sun floated down, gracefully illuminating even the most unsavory aspects of downtown Portland. Driving down the congested city streets I began my adventure to a part of my city still unfamiliar to me, but an essential part of its history; Pittock Mansion. Seeped in nostalgia and a true showcase of the city’s growth, I was surprised that I had yet to explore it. Slowly letting the sun beat down through my unwashed sunroof, soothingly warming the top of my head, I started to emerge from the part of Portland that I truly called home. Traffic dispersed, the buildings lining the sides of the road began to turn into grand trees, the rays of sun scattered through the branches, as I turned onto Pittock Drive. The dust kicked up, momentarily creating small tan clouds that seemed to freeze in the sun and hang around my already dirty white car. As I turned into the parking lot, the mansion itself was quickly overshadowed by the crowds of people milling around, traveling in large groups, completely unaware of their surroundings.
Cars stopped and started trying to avoid these gaggles of tourists, as well as each other. After finding the last space in the lot, I prepared for the main attraction. I made my way through the congestion of the lot and onto the grounds, and the beauty of the place finally hit me. The massive building appeared delicate but powerful against the back drop of the perfect blue sky. Immense windows glistened, and the flutter and chirps of birds filled the clean air. It truly looked like spring, lush deep green grass surrounded the light grey pathway, the pink of the dogwood highlighted the great trees secluding the building from the rest of the world, and small yellow flower buds had begun to emerge from the well-kept flower beds.
I sauntered up the walkway to the large oak door, grabbed the smooth, cold, brass handle and stepped inside. Once inside I entered a small, well-lit foyer with a cash register, and quickly paid the clearly labeled volunteer manning the station. I then walked through a small archway and blended into the crowd just beginning the tour. A new kind of dust lightly entered my lungs; unlike the dust thrown angrily into the air by my tires earlier, this dust seemed as old as the house, the kind of musky dust that will always be there. Once out of the foyer, the grandeur returned to the building, opening up into a magnificent marble floored staircase, with a three story high wall of tastefully paneled windows adorning the back side of the house. The tour guide quickly gave a little background information on the house, her voice matching her tiny frame. She softly described that the house was set up as a period style house, each room reflecting a different design period, and then quickly shuffled us away from the staircase and down a hallway leading to the library. The library smelled wonderfully of old books, like walking into Powell’s on a sunny afternoon, but was much smaller than I had expected. Dark wood bookshelves covered the walls, and surrounded a welcoming fire place. Even with the sun shining through the one large window, the room still appeared dark. Through the muffled “oohs” and “ahhs” of the other tour goers, and the cries of children too young to appreciate the excursion, I heard the guide quietly urge us onward to the next room.
The music room was almost blindingly bright in comparison to the library. Half the room was crystal clear windows looking out onto a low, cement patio area, and onto more of the perfectly groomed grass. Picnickers could be clearly seen setting up spots to enjoy lunch in the sun. The room itself was entirely French. Fancy and sophisticated, complete with a harp, and an exceptional Steinway Grand Piano, it was easy to imagine the music that would have spilled from the curved walls of that room, and into the rest of the house. It seemed almost wrong to fill it with the modern chatter of curious tourists. We continued to tour through the rest of the main level of the house, each room allowing me to picture what it would have been like to live there, seeing it full of the people that it was built for.
The examination of the main level lead us back to the amazing staircase, as we stood in awe waiting for our guide’s next set of instructions. After being directed to the second floor, the clacking of shoes began up the marble, as the more fragile group members waited for the old elevator. Even through the stamping of ten pairs of shoes moving quickly up the staircase, you could hear the moaning of the old elevator, working to transport the rest of our group up to the next stage. Finally, with much effort, the elevator door opened, and we were on our way through the rest of the house once again. Our guide, voice cracking with the creaking of the building, took us through the bedrooms, quickly explaining who used to reside between the walls.
The tour ended with a quick walk through the bottom floor. A large empty room, with a sign explaining its availability to be rented for social functions, suddenly reminds me that it is no longer someone’s home. The grand room, that once was the focal point for social gatherings, now holds historical facts behind plexiglass partitions, and local children’s sloppy coloring book pages, further solidifying the fact that it is now just a museum. The bottom floor, which mirrors the floor plan of the main floor above it, echoes with the voices of the unfamiliar tourists, and groans under the weight of our heavy feet. The mansion seems to exist with a hint of beautiful tragedy, and regal sadness.
After the tour I walked back out into the clean fresh air to explore the grounds, and see the mansion the way it was intended to be seen, from the front. The front of the building truly showcases its greatness and looks out over the city, the city that was truly built around it, the city that feels like it was built for it.
The clear, ice blue sky set an elevated mood for the day. Rays of bright sun floated down, gracefully illuminating even the most unsavory aspects of downtown Portland. Driving down the congested city streets I began my adventure to a part of my city still unfamiliar to me, but an essential part of its history; Pittock Mansion. Seeped in nostalgia and a true showcase of the city’s growth, I was surprised that I had yet to explore it. Slowly letting the sun beat down through my unwashed sunroof, soothingly warming the top of my head, I started to emerge from the part of Portland that I truly called home. Traffic dispersed, the buildings lining the sides of the road began to turn into grand trees, the rays of sun scattered through the branches, as I turned onto Pittock Drive. The dust kicked up, momentarily creating small tan clouds that seemed to freeze in the sun and hang around my already dirty white car. As I turned into the parking lot, the mansion itself was quickly overshadowed by the crowds of people milling around, traveling in large groups, completely unaware of their surroundings.
Cars stopped and started trying to avoid these gaggles of tourists, as well as each other. After finding the last space in the lot, I prepared for the main attraction. I made my way through the congestion of the lot and onto the grounds, and the beauty of the place finally hit me. The massive building appeared delicate but powerful against the back drop of the perfect blue sky. Immense windows glistened, and the flutter and chirps of birds filled the clean air. It truly looked like spring, lush deep green grass surrounded the light grey pathway, the pink of the dogwood highlighted the great trees secluding the building from the rest of the world, and small yellow flower buds had begun to emerge from the well-kept flower beds.
I sauntered up the walkway to the large oak door, grabbed the smooth, cold, brass handle and stepped inside. Once inside I entered a small, well-lit foyer with a cash register, and quickly paid the clearly labeled volunteer manning the station. I then walked through a small archway and blended into the crowd just beginning the tour. A new kind of dust lightly entered my lungs; unlike the dust thrown angrily into the air by my tires earlier, this dust seemed as old as the house, the kind of musky dust that will always be there. Once out of the foyer, the grandeur returned to the building, opening up into a magnificent marble floored staircase, with a three story high wall of tastefully paneled windows adorning the back side of the house. The tour guide quickly gave a little background information on the house, her voice matching her tiny frame. She softly described that the house was set up as a period style house, each room reflecting a different design period, and then quickly shuffled us away from the staircase and down a hallway leading to the library. The library smelled wonderfully of old books, like walking into Powell’s on a sunny afternoon, but was much smaller than I had expected. Dark wood bookshelves covered the walls, and surrounded a welcoming fire place. Even with the sun shining through the one large window, the room still appeared dark. Through the muffled “oohs” and “ahhs” of the other tour goers, and the cries of children too young to appreciate the excursion, I heard the guide quietly urge us onward to the next room.
The music room was almost blindingly bright in comparison to the library. Half the room was crystal clear windows looking out onto a low, cement patio area, and onto more of the perfectly groomed grass. Picnickers could be clearly seen setting up spots to enjoy lunch in the sun. The room itself was entirely French. Fancy and sophisticated, complete with a harp, and an exceptional Steinway Grand Piano, it was easy to imagine the music that would have spilled from the curved walls of that room, and into the rest of the house. It seemed almost wrong to fill it with the modern chatter of curious tourists. We continued to tour through the rest of the main level of the house, each room allowing me to picture what it would have been like to live there, seeing it full of the people that it was built for.
The examination of the main level lead us back to the amazing staircase, as we stood in awe waiting for our guide’s next set of instructions. After being directed to the second floor, the clacking of shoes began up the marble, as the more fragile group members waited for the old elevator. Even through the stamping of ten pairs of shoes moving quickly up the staircase, you could hear the moaning of the old elevator, working to transport the rest of our group up to the next stage. Finally, with much effort, the elevator door opened, and we were on our way through the rest of the house once again. Our guide, voice cracking with the creaking of the building, took us through the bedrooms, quickly explaining who used to reside between the walls.
The tour ended with a quick walk through the bottom floor. A large empty room, with a sign explaining its availability to be rented for social functions, suddenly reminds me that it is no longer someone’s home. The grand room, that once was the focal point for social gatherings, now holds historical facts behind plexiglass partitions, and local children’s sloppy coloring book pages, further solidifying the fact that it is now just a museum. The bottom floor, which mirrors the floor plan of the main floor above it, echoes with the voices of the unfamiliar tourists, and groans under the weight of our heavy feet. The mansion seems to exist with a hint of beautiful tragedy, and regal sadness.
After the tour I walked back out into the clean fresh air to explore the grounds, and see the mansion the way it was intended to be seen, from the front. The front of the building truly showcases its greatness and looks out over the city, the city that was truly built around it, the city that feels like it was built for it.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Skank: The New Trend in High School Fashion
Dear High School Girls,
After living your entire life next door to a high school you start to compare and contrast the generations of students that use your lawn as a gateway in and out of the large brick building that, for four years, is their universe. While I have only really started to pay attention to the trends that preceded and followed my short stint at Grant High School, what I observe passing by my windows becomes more and more unsettling with each day.
High school has always been so much more than a learning institution; actually, in most cases the learning falls second to the social aspect of those critical four years. High school is about defining the kind of person you want to be, this process is different for everyone, but almost always manifests itself through a series of choices. Fashion, for high school students, tends to be one of the most easily controlled aspects of defining yourself, and one of the easy choices to really run with. Therefore fashion has always been a huge component of the whole “coming into your own” process.
The problem is that the “coming into your own” process has become more of a “cumming into your own” process. The first thing that you think when you see a group of 16 year old girls on their way to school should not be “I wonder whose bed she just rolled out of?” And while we all love a little attention from an older man, when you’re 16 you should not be showing enough skin to make your friends’ dads seriously consider jail time. The whole “bar whore” look only really works once you’re old enough to actually get into a bar. It appears as if these girls are participating in some eternal, group walk of shame, not on their way to first year Spanish.
My years at Grant were plagued by sweat pants, designer jeans, and whatever name brand item you could find on sale at the Rack. Today, I look out the window and all I can see is high-waisted leather mini skirts, which have to be only centimeters away from peaking ass cheeks, four inch stilettos, and cleavage provided by Victoria’s Secret. Today’s girls must reside in a world where nip slips and vag flashes are a daily occurrence; a world where instead of showing your status through the latest handbag, you show it through your most recent bikini wax. (I hear the popular girls are sporting Brazilians these days!) While I am all for the occasional wardrobe “slip” on the weekends or even at the homecoming dance, and have always been a believer in cleavage, ladies, let’s put the kitty away during school hours.
While this look may be acceptable at community college, let’s remind ourselves that you are all still children. This is not a “what have kids today come to” kind of note, honestly, I’m just a little annoyed I have to see a parade of teen lady bits every time I look out my front window. We all understand that you have really hit puberty, and we all understand that you’re not a virgin, you don’t have to show us your breast buds or your lack of hymen to prove it.
Sincerely,
Lauren Elisabeth
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