Clark: Harry’s got his bearings, even without a lighthouse

So there I was, sipping on a cold root beer and soaking up the hot Friday noon rays with my new best bud, Harry Merrick.

What made it even better is where we were parked.

Namely in a couple of canvas chairs my 81-year-old host had unfolded after we climbed to the observation deck of the 32-foot lighthouse Merrick built on the pine-lined outskirts of Chattaroy.

“Good times,” he beamed, tapping the edge of his root beer can onto mine for emphasis.

One of the great things about my job is that there are still surprises.

Take the journey that led me to this backwoods vista. It all began two days earlier with an envelope that arrived in my newsroom mail slot.

“Hi Douglas,” began the enclosed letter, “just writing to see if you’d like to have a beer with an old man …

“I mean a really old man.”

OK. That sounded a bit creepy.

But I read on. The typed letter instructed me to “open the little envelope” wedged in with the letter.

I did and found myself looking at a small photograph of what appeared to be a towering red-and-white- striped lighthouse.

A lighthouse?

I checked the envelope’s address.

In Chattaroy?

I called Merrick to let him know I’d be coming Friday morning.

It was 25 miles give or take. But the letter’s author was waiting for me when I pulled my old Jag off Pend Oreille Road and into his driveway.

It had to be him. Whoever wrote me was a total character, and this aged, wiry guy in an orange hat, red shirt, blue jeans and brown boots filled that bill.

The seven-acre Merrick compound includes a number of Harry-built wonders. There’s a lovely ranch-style earth home, a 52-foot covered bridge, a red barn with an unusual cantilevered roof, a hexagon-shaped storage shed, a woodstove-equipped gazebo and, of course, that amazing lighthouse.

“I figured Eastern Washington needed a lighthouse,” Merrick said before ducking back into his house to add a bright blue vest to his ensemble.

Quick-witted. Articulate. Energetic. Animated.

What we have here is a rambunctious kid trapped in an octogenarian’s skin.

“You and I are weird people,” Merrick explained when I asked what had prompted his unusual invitation.

“I read every single column you write. So I knew that I’ve got some things out here that a young, weird man would like to see.”

Harry gave me the grand tour and kept me laughing. Any man who calls me young is a friend for life.

On the patio outside his home, for example, he pointed to a large stump.

“You know what they call that?” he asked.

“Uh, a stump?”

“Naw,” he quipped. “That’s a Priest Lake coffee table.”

Merrick is one of those natural, self-taught builders. He’s fearless when it comes to tackling any project that might pop into his head.

That covered bridge? Merrick was 79 when he built it.

“My gal friend says it’s a bridge to nowhere,” he said as we slowly walked its length. “I say, ‘No. It connects two things: north and south.’ ”

Merrick stopped. “You know who connected the north with the south?”

When I paused, he pointed to a photograph hanging on one of the beams.

Abraham Lincoln stared back me.

Connecting north and south – I get it.

The bridge led us to the aforementioned gazebo. Behind that stands a field of young trees Merrick calls his “Patriots Grove.”

Merrick’s tone became reverential.

“Can you believe the people who put this nation together? Can you believe the genius?”

Finally we arrived at the base of Merrick’s lighthouse, the monolith that drew me.

“I built it all myself,” he said with pride. “Myself. Nobody had a hand in this.”

We stepped inside to confront another testament to Merrick’s love of country: the photocopied images of Thomas Jefferson and the Declaration of Independence.

“Yeah, that’s my man,” said Merrick.

No elevator leads to the lighthouse loft. There is but one way to ascend and that is by climbing an ingenious, but narrow, stepladder/staircase that Merrick actually invented and once attempted to market.

It wasn’t a success story. Merrick said he lost upward of $100,000 on the venture. Even so, the steps held my considerable bulk just fine.

I had other worries besides falling off a ladder.

As we reached the second floor the air was filled with flying, flitting objects.

“Um, Harry,” I muttered. “Do you know you have a wasp’s nest up here?”

Merrick seemed unconcerned.

“I’m a biologist,” he said. “They are my friends.”

Maybe so. But if Harry reads all my columns like he said he does, he’d know that I got nailed by yellow jackets this summer.

THREE TIMES!!

As the Donner Party’s leader said just before the grub ran out, “We’ve come too far to turn back now.”

I ignored the winged beasties and climbed on, finally squeezing through the tight top hatch and stepping onto the observation area.

The view in front of me was a postcard panorama, the forests and fields that surround the Merrick estate.

Considering the early hour, we had opted for root beer over real brewskies.

And so we sat and discussed the life and times of Harry Merrick, his growing up in Southern Idaho, his operating tanks for the U.S. Army, his love of adventure, his 30-year career as an educator in Spokane, his patriotism, his travels, his writing, his family …

“Life is so incredibly good,” he said, pausing to add, “I’m lucky to be here, big guy.”

Harry’s right. Good times.