Out past the Cascades, past the sagebrush-filled hills of central Oregon, past Pendleton and its roundup, Todd Nash ranches at the foot of the Wallowa Mountains. Today, he's on a property just east of Enterprise. The miles of fence crisscrossing the green landscape aren't holding much these days. Most of his 750-head herd is already out, grazing on private and public lands.

"It used to be, once you got through the winter and turned them out, it was a real relaxing time," he says. "Now, with all the wolves, we have that constantly weighing on us. Are the cattle safe?"

These are the worries that keep him up at night. They also motivate him when he votes.

Like most Oregonians, Nash draws his political views from the place where he lives. Place shapes our values, our lifestyles, often our livelihoods -- and our ballots.

In northeastern Oregon, that generally means electing Republicans -- from former Sen. Gordon Smith to Rep. Greg Walden to the state legislators who go to Salem.

Politics of Place

Where Oregonians live - a Umatilla County ranch, a Bend subdivision, an east Portland apartment - can have a profound effect on their politics. We're traveling the state this year to explore why voters send certain folks to the Legislature, and how their lives and values shape the decisions in Salem that affect the entire state.

Part 1: Northeastern Oregon

Here, the politics of place revolve around natural resources -- the grass the cattle graze, the water that feeds the farms, the timber that can't be touched much anymore. "Social issues," as one farmer put it "are a luxury. You can't eat social issues."

Northeastern Oregon's economy has taken hit after hit. The timber industry wilted. A coal plant in Boardman is

at the end of the decade. Generally, people feel as though the natural resource economy gets ignored in Salem.

So when it's time to pick a representative, folks are looking for somebody who will protect the industries that are left and find ways to replace the ones that have collapsed.

***

Redrawn districts and retirements have shaken up the state House and Senate races in northeastern Oregon this year.

On the Senate side, longtime Sen. David Nelson has declined to run.

, a Umatilla County commissioner, and

, a local business owner, are vying for the Republican nomination, which will send the winner to Salem. No Democrats are running.

In the House,

, the longest serving member, is up for re-election. His district has been significantly rearranged since his last election two years ago. Once relatively compact, it now reaches all the way to Idaho. Nearly 50 percent of the voters he'd represent have never voted for him.

He's drawn three primary challengers, though he's the only one whose campaign signs appear throughout the district, hanging in windows in Pendleton and staked in front of farms between La Grande and Enterprise.

***

On the western edge of the region is the

, 6,000 acres of industrial land filled with box cars, pallets, silver silos and warehouses.

The air smells of onions.

About a mile away is the Port's riverfront center, a modern building surrounded by green grass along the Columbia River.

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Part of the problem, as Dunn and others see it, is a general disconnect between east and west in Oregon, with the west pushing rules on the east without really understanding how things work.

"The people who live and work here, they have to do it sustainably, otherwise they can't live," Dunn says. "It's more than just a job. It's a way of life."

This all creates a contradictory tension. Counties and cities out here depend on the government for subsidies and jobs -- a third of all jobs in Wallowa County and more than a fourth in Umatilla are government sector -- but government regulation isn't much welcome.

Still, the pattern keeps on.

The coal plant in Boardman is set to close by 2020. In a town the 2010 Census shows has just more than 3,000 people, that plant provides some 130 permanent jobs and accounts for about 15 percent of the county's property tax revenues.

Neal, the Port director, says if the plant closes "without some transition and changes." He stops.

"We don't need to make it any more difficult to do business."

***

A key to remaking the economy is higher education. But it, too, is in a hard spot.

In his office overlooking Pendleton, John Turner, president of

, draws a rectangle on a whiteboard. This is Oregon, he says. He marks the higher education choices east of The Dalles -- three.

About 10 years ago, he says, 56 percent of the funding for Blue Mountain came from the state. Now it's closer to 25 percent.

Those cuts hurt no matter what, but they're especially acute in rural Oregon, where the most important programs -- technical training -- cost money.

"These are the very programs that put people to work," Turner says. "They're also the ones most likely to get cut."

Teach someone to take apart and put together an engine, they'll get a job, he says. But you can't do that on the cheap -- and you can't do that over the Internet.

"We're kind of the guy who got in the car wreck and didn't die right away, but slowly bled out. I don't think the state fully realizes how badly wounded we are."

***

About 30 buildings in downtown Pendleton have been redone over the past seven years, all along a similar Old West nostalgic theme.

Here, the issues feel more familiar to an urbanite. Housing is scarce and too many folks have to commute. There's talk about the industrial park, about downtown urban renewal.

Tim Guenther runs one of the revitalization projects Mayor Phillip Houk is so excited about -- a brewpub called

.

The name makes sense once you know Guenther left Pendleton at age 17 for Portland. He wasn't coming back. But 15 years later, his family wanted a safe place to settle down, where his girls could walk to school.

He knows the issues in Portland and the issues here. He gets both sides.

"I tell all my old co-workers and friends, all the stereotypes are true -- if that's what you're looking for, they're here," Guenther says. Issues like wolves, water, "it's easy to dismiss it as a bunch of dumb hicks who don't know what they're doing.

"Well, they're probably smarter than you."

All sorts come to Guenther's bar, so he can't be too political. He doesn't want to scare anyone away. That's another thing about life out here.

Everybody knows just about everybody else.

***

Over the years, the

have worked to grow political capital. They've created hundreds of jobs and mobilized as a voting base. Their endorsement matters.

Though they don't usually endorse in primary elections, they've made an exception this year. They're supporting Hansell, the Umatilla County commissioner, in his bid to take the vacant Senate seat. Losing a longtime senator like Nelson is hard, says Dave Tovey, the executive director. The tribes navigate a complex web of state and federal bureaucracies.

"It takes so long to understand," Tovey says.

"Then off they go," adds Deb Croswell, the deputy executive director.

With Hansell, they wouldn't have to start over.

"We know him. He knows us," says Croswell. "For the most part, he's recognized our sovereignty and always been respectful."

Personal relationships go a long way in rural Oregon.

Back in February, when the Oregon House was looking at wolf-related legislation, Nash, the rancher, spent a while on the phone with Jenson, the representative running for re-election.

Jenson, who doesn't officially represent Nash yet, had already started handing out his cell phone number.

Back near Enterprise, Nash crosses his legs and leans against a metal fence, a pose that, if it weren't so natural, might seem cliche. A horse comes ambling up, stares Nash down. He relents and strokes its face.

Truth is, he says, "we get represented well by just about anybody we put in office."

His friend, Rod Childers, nods.

Even the folks representing Oregon in D.C. are pretty attentive. "We have good access," says Childers, a rancher himself.

They start in about a friend who got bucked off his horse -- and was so stubborn he wouldn't even tell his wife -- then turn back to politics.

You can have good representation, they say, but it will only get you so far in an institution that doesn't understand you. Last legislative session, a single Portland senator killed a wolf bill they'd pushed.

"Our concerns lie with the other side of the state," Nash says. Why they think they know best, he's not sure. "If there is anybody who loves this place, the timber, the grass, the water, it's us.

"We love this place."

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