A salute to our weather guy

Every four hours for years now, Cliff Harris had an important appointment. Blazing heat, freezing rain, deep snow, howling winds - the worse the weather was, the greater the need for his appointment to be kept.

Every four hours, Harris would visit the weather station in the backyard of his home near Coeur d'Alene's public golf course. Like clockwork, he'd gather the region's most accurate weather data six times a day and then share it with readers of The Press.

That's the passion and dedication that have made Cliff a beloved fixture in The Press for a quarter of a century. And maybe it's the passion and the dedication that have worn him down somewhat. Even if he wouldn't admit it for himself, we'd challenge you: Try never getting more than four hours sleep at a time and see how that goes.

Cliff is also 73 years old and, as his farewell column Monday stated, he's got plenty more to do on the spiritual front. We wish him the very best in those pursuits.

Meteorologist Randy Mann, who has worked with Harris for many years, now takes over the weekly weather column. Where Cliff ventured into the political and/or religion-influenced realms of chemtrails and global warming, Mann is going to stick rigorously to important but perhaps less controversial weather-related topics. The column will be written to inform, not necessarily to influence.

There's much we'll miss about Cliff Harris, though. He was always not only willing but seemed to enjoy talking to reporters anytime a big weather event was headed our way or had done so and needed a full debriefing. As our reporters fully understood, Cliff Harris is a good quote just waiting to happen.

We'll also miss him each March or so when he starts to pine for the North Idaho Fair and Rodeo - a rapturous event in the Harris household every August. We're not quite sure how much we'll miss two of his references to longtime Press columnist Sholeh Patrick. Cliff and Sharon Harris named one of their poodles after Sholeh, and of course, "Sholeh days" were Cliff's way of noting days when the thermometer reached 90 or higher. Sure, she's hot, but are we supposed to say that in print?

Maybe most of all, we'll miss one of Cliff's trademark slogans that could be heard on those rare occasions when he muffed a forecast: "Hey," he'd say, "don't blame me. I'm in sales, not production."

Happy trails, Cliff. May they lead you not just onward, but upward.