Press Agent Always Left A Good Impression, Even In Death

An old friend of mine passed away Sunday night in Horny Hollow on Crooked River Ranch near Bend, Ore.

He keeled over (of an apparent heart attack) while fixing his trailer; he probably died while scheming of new ways to acquire free news attention for the property owners he worked for.

This man who died was Robert Nevin Ward. He was like no other man I ever knew. He was like no man anybody else ever knew. One of a kind.

When I first met Bob Ward he was a crack reporter and feature writer for the old Seattle P-I, circa late '40s.

He gave that up because it bored him and because, as he later told me, ``I was always writing about people who were adventurous and doing things. I was getting my kicks vicariously, so I had to go out and do things myself.''

Ward did plenty before that. In World War II he was a glider pilot as part of the U.S. invasion fleet that landed in occupied France. Later he became a crop duster, a dangerous and precarious way to make a living.

No newspaper city room was equipped to contain him, as this anecdote indicates.

He first got interested in press agentry because he admired a circus flack named Bouncing MacDougall.

As a reporter, he invited Bouncing MacDougall and MacDougall's elephant, name of Rosa, to visit the newspaper. Typically, Ward forgot all about this social date.

Rosa, the elephant, tyrannized reporters and editors. ``It was incumbent on me,'' Ward said later, ``to avoid the paper for a few days. You see, Rosa was not housebroken.''

Only press agentry, a business of quick wit and incandescent imagination, could satisfy Ward. He was too free-wheeling, too fun-loving, too spirited, to be contained by a steady job.

So he promoted for Archie Taft when Taft owned KOL radio. He persuaded Taft to financially back a hydroplane which Ward then re-christened. He called it KOL-Roy and got miles of free publicity from other stations, TV and radio, along with newspapers, on hydro race days.

He worked for Boe Messett at Dag's Hamburgers. He also promoted Tacoma's Winthrop Hotel and entertained town bigwigs with a picnic in the lobby. At this picnic he issued a solemn press release, denying that the historic Winthrop's name would be changed.

Readers may have been puzzled, Ward admitted later, ``since I forgot to spread the name-change rumor before issuing the denial.''

Later he would go to Ocean Shores, when it was little more than a sand spit. Ward's genius appealed to the late Bill MacPherson, who developed the property, and MacPherson allowed Ward a free promotional hand.

And so it was that the world first heard of Cutliffe Sarkvogle, ``a freelance shellfish consultant who lived on a three-goat stump ranch in Grays Harbor.''

Sarkvogle made the news because local bears began tearing the shakes off his cabin. The bears peered through the window at Sarkvogle's TV set, Ward explained. They became miffed because Sarkvogle turned off their favorite program, ``Yogi Bear.''

Cutliffe Sarkvogle became so famous that newspapers and radio stations demanded exclusive interviews with the famous shellfish consultant. Ward had to disappear for a while, since he could not admit that Cutliffe existed only in his imagination.

George Vancouver, a British navy captain, charted most of Washington's coastline. This led to another Ward promotion. It was on April 27, 1792, Ward said, that Capt. George Vancouver sailed HMS Discovery past Ocean Shores without noticing it.

Thus came a famous Ocean Shores festival to draw tourists and potential property buyers. It was called Undiscovery Day.

It is hard to think of a world without Bob Ward in it. His laughter and exuberance were infectious in a way that made the rest of us stop taking ourselves too seriously.

Even a severe stroke some years back failed to slow him down. He went on (still working for MacPherson) to a property development that he instantly named Horny Hollow.

When he instituted the Mule Mile Race, he called the Louisville Courier-Journal to double-check the date of the Kentucky Derby. ``Because I wouldn't want to hurt your publicity by running two big races on the same day.''

The editor was charmed. ``He was so pleased by my courtesy,'' Ward said, ``that he gave us a good story on the Mule Mile.'' And that, kiddies, is true press agentry, as practiced by a master.

Only recently, Ward promoted his ``short fat guys race'' on Crooked River Ranch. Now, this doesn't sound like much, but the fat man's race inspired calls from papers in London and Madrid. It was even featured on Paul Harvey's newscast and as a segment on CNN.

Ward gone?

It seems hard to believe, somehow, but we will have to do without him. There are some things we can't really afford to give up.

Emmett Watson's column appears Sunday, Tuesday and Thursday in the Northwest section of The Times.