In Memorial – Gregory Monroe Riley, 1953-2024
Brother, Brother-In-Law, Father, Uncle
My wife’s brother died unexpectedly in late May. He was a man of many talents yet completely human, and thus subject to some of the faults incumbent with humanity.
Greg’s strength was creative problem solving through engineering of materials. In other words, he could rig up a solution, fabricate parts, he assembled ideas into physical objects. WHAT? He made a cargo rack for his bicycle out of teak. He was the engineering brains behind the construction of a coat rack made of two pair of ancient snow skis for the Truckee house. He wired up an outdoor light that I mounted on a faux-stone pillar.
His weakness was alcohol, but for the past dozen years he appeared to be sober, and even able to consume modest quantities of beer without going off the rails. And then there was his cigarette habit. Marlboros, baby.
I prefer to remember the good times, the positive features, and with Greg I can recall numerous humorous shenanigans. He was an avid fisherman, and he fished many of the waters of Oregon, where he remained after his parents and Shivon moved to California. The three of us on a great salmon fishing trip south of Bend, Oregon. The lake was manmade, cluttered with dead trees that still stood, evidence of the artificiality of the body of water. We were going to “limit-out,” Greg insisted. Shivon caught our only fish, a barely legal, skinny little lake salmon thing.
Another time Greg and his wife Carla joined Shivon and I at the Metolius River Lodges in Camp Sherman.
The Metolius River pops out at what is called The Head of the Metolius, at the end of a short trail, Camp Sherman.
A trip to the Camp Sherman Store and Fly Fishing Outfitter brought us in contact with a fishing guide who shall go nameless. He told us that ducks were in season and flying into nearby Suttle Lake. How much would an out-of-state hunting license cost, I wondered. Oh, you don’t need a license there, there’s never a game warden around. Duh, okay, I said.
Using the guide’s beautiful over-under shotgun, a Perazzi, I downed a duck with an amazing shot, a crossing shot through the tree branches at about 30 yards. Then the guide and Greg went off with Greg’s yellow Labrador Scooter to try to hit a few birds around the lake. I sat on a milk crate a shotgun leaning up against a tree in the freezing cold. A crunching noise to my left made me jump. It wasn’t a bear, but a Smoky Bear, an Oregon State Police. Someone had called to complain that there were gunshots coming from the lake area.
The duck cost me $110 in the form of a citation, despite my inaccurate statements made to the officers (statute of limitations has expired, breh) but they let me keep the duck! Greg had shot one as well, and we slow-cooked them in the tiny kitchenettes of the cabin. How was the duck, Bob Riley asked. Delicious, I replied. It should be, Greg said, it was $55 a pound! Then he laughed heartily as we finished off the white wine that perfectly complimented the poached duck, pun intended.
With Carla Greg fathered two absolutely wonderful children – Brian and Andrea. Brian manages a produce department in Safeway and Andrea is a registered nurse specializing in oncology. Brian is an ultra-dependable gentleman, married to Kara, and Andrea has her spare time devoted to her dog, Jones, and cat who I think is named Hissy. Andrea, Brian, and Kara are a main reason for the Meblins migration to Oregon.
Greg joined the Navy after high school, and served on the USS Midway during the Vietnam conflict. On the Midway he armed the ordnance mounted on A-6 Intruder aircraft. After leaving the Navy Greg worked at Tektronix in Beaverton, and at the same facility that was bought out by a company who’s name is impossible for me to spell.
I remember going out to Meadow Lake with Greg and his dad, Robert Riley. Meadow Lake lies about ten miles north of Truckee, but is only reachable by driving for 30 minutes on paved roads, and then another 35 minutes on some annoyingly bumpy dirt roads. The most direct route is on the Fordyce trail, which is nearly impassible except for in a properly engineered rock crawler.
Mike S. drives Baby Girl on the Fordyce Trail in 2010, or thereabouts. Not recommended for Priuses.
We drove the long way in the 1999 Suburban, carrying a deep-walled wheelbarrow. Large boulders were transported in the following manner:
1. Lay the deep-walled wheelbarrow on its side with the rim just touching the desired stone.
2. Flip the stone into the wheelbarrow, so it lays on the metal of the side.
3. Go around to the opposite side of the wheelbarrow.
4. With two hands on the opposite side rim, and one foot blocking the wheel, use your body weight to leverage the wheelbarrow upright.
5. Wheel it away.
Greg helped diligently as we loaded boulders into the back of the SUV. We had a 2x12 plank for a ramp, and Greg would stabilize one side of the barrow as I transited the plank. The Suburban had barn-doors on the back so no tailgate interfered with that process. We were near where people camped, and Greg – always the beer hound – discovered a six-pack of Coors Light someone had hidden within the tangles of a Manzanita bush. Despite the time the cans had spent in an unrefrigerated environment as hinted at by the faded tinting of the Coors graphics, Greg felt compelled to sample the “aged” beer. I cannot recall any statement summarizing the quality. We continued gathering notable boulders in mild Sierra weather, finding and removing stones with glacier scrapes, and mineralization on the faces of fractured granite.
Bob Riley, with Holly Berry. The two of them comforted each other during times of stress.
About that time Bob, who was developing Alzheimer’s, began to worry about our ability to navigate the forest roads home. Greg artfully assured his father that I did know the way home, and that he shouldn’t worry. Well done, Greg.
As we left Meadow Lake, this said “Goodbye.”
While I helped with the removal of Greg’s property I noticed a small collection of river-washed stones he had apparently gathered. I took those out of his apartment and created a small memorial rock garden in his memory. I added a piece of petrified wood given to me by his dad, and a large chunk of obsidian, from Davis Creek in northeastern California. I figured Greg would appreciate the small gesture.
