A ruthless bastardization of the truth

Down through the eons of time, empires, dynasties, and eminent civilizations have achieved great heights, and then come down like the salmon leaves of autumn, brought low by the same troublesome human nature that has hobbled mankind since Cain cudgeled Abel. Learned philosophers and renowned historians have devoted their lives to the study of these events, producing ponderous, voluminous anthologies which grace the shelves of celebrated centers of higher learning all over the world. And today, when similar behavior threatens our own aspiring metropolis, we scratch our head and wring our hands and wonder what the hell happened. The modus operandi for these crimes against humanity have changed little through the ages. These failures of civilization are inevitably the result of misinformation, disinformation, and a ruthless bastardization of the truth. SC

PART THREE MIAH ON THE WATERFRONT

 

Jackass Journal & Compendium of Universal Knowledge

Episodes one through 9999, more or less

Unabridged, Unapologetic, Unsolicited,

& Unlikely to continue.

In no particular order

PART THREE

MIAH

ON THE WATERFRONT

Most mornings on the river were remarkably tranquil. I occasionally took my morning coffee in the pilot house with the captain. The captain was a cordial gentleman, and an exceptionally good listener, because, with the exception of shouting occasional orders to the crew, the captain rarely spoke. If I was quiet, he was quiet too.

I’d sit in the luxurious pilot house, high above common civilians and mortal man, delight in the commanding vantage point provided by its towering height and admire the pastel hues of breaking dawn. The majestic river’s stoic undulations would reveal their many unpredictable moods all around me in all variety of eddies, backwaters, and deceptively quiet undercurrents.

At intervals along the way, a lone bullfrog would voice his romantic intentions, or a snowy-white egret would glide effortlessly past on a blustery current of balmy, moist air. Every now and again a debris pile would bob past, commandeered by a drowsing, moss-covered turtle. Waterfowl searched peacefully for breakfast along the shaded and silt-lined shores, and way up ahead in the hazy, shimmering distance, the misty glimmers of daybreak would spread their warm, refreshing rays on a vast and varied rainbow of vibrant greens, announcing the glad arrival of a bright new day.

Other occasions were anything but quiet! 1832 marked the invention of the steam trumpet. Through the years, this remarkably melodious contraption was gradually improved and eventually known by other names, such as the steam calliope.

With the advent of steam power, calliopes became commonplace if not expected onboard riverboats and at circuses, where steam also provided power to steam-driven carousels. A calliope’s brass and copper whistles are tuned to a chromatic scale (anyway, that’s the goal). Since the pitch of the note is greatly affected by the temperature of the steam, which varies tremendously, tuning the thing is almost impossible! With time, the occasionally sour and frequently off-pitch caterwauling of the calliope became part of their wide appeal and universal charm. Our boat had a steam driven calliope!

Stops along riverside communities were frequent and anticipated with fervent delight. These occasions were always an event in the small, isolated river communities. Approaching the waterfront, the captain would blow the whistle, our calliope player would assume his position at the polished brass keyboard, and the river’s typical tranquility would be assaulted by a cacophony of melodious screeching and tinny toots! Our musician was a veritable cornucopia of popular music of the day. If we could hum it, he could peck it out.

Before we reached sight of the docks, the townsfolk would respond to the familiar squeals of the calliope and gather excitedly to greet us. The previously quiet mooring would take on all the serenity of an angry ant’s nest! Our experienced crew would assume their assigned tasks. The gangplank would swing out. Freight would be carted in and out; ropes would secure us to the wharf, and the town’s enchanted children would swarm the docks in the thralls of religious ecstasy. The boys especially; the girls, not so much.

Hannibal was a favorite stop. Here, the lazy river was wide, deep, and as inviting as bathwater. The shouted declaration of “mark twain” indicated that the water’s depth was sufficient to allow for the safe mooring of our craft. The familiar boatman’s term would eventually become the celebrated moniker of America’s master wordsmith, the beloved Samuel Langhorne Clemens, aka Mark Twain.

During my time on the Mississippi, little Sam would have been a number of years shy of sporting whiskers, and already infatuated with steamboats. Sam would grow up on the banks of the Mississippi near Hannibal, Missouri and freely admit to having burned with ambition to become a steamboat pilot. In “Life on The Mississippi”, Mark Twain would write the following:

“When I was a boy, there was but one permanent ambition among my comrades in our village on the west bank of the Mississippi River. That was, to be a steamboatman. We had transient ambitions of other sorts, but they were only transient. When a circus came and went, it left us all burning to become clowns; the first negro minstrel show that came to our section left us all suffering to try that kind of life; now and then we had a hope that if we lived and were good, God would permit us to be pirates. These ambitions faded out, each in its turn; but the ambition to be a steamboatman always remained.”

During a few glorious years, between 1857 and 1861, Sam would realize his boyhood ambition of becoming a riverboat pilot. Then the Civil War would intervene, and Sam’s dream would go the way of many others. But the irresistible lure of the riverboat and its steady grip on youthful fancy would captivate the souls and imaginations of the young and young at heart for as long as the summer sun steals ambition, and the Mississippi flows inexorably toward the sea.

Copyright ©

Shannon Thomas Casebeer

Jackass Journal & Compendium of Universal Knowledge, Episodes one through 9999, more or less Unabridged, Unapologetic, Unsolicited, & Unlikely to continue. In no particular order

PART TWO

HANGTOWN BOUND

MIAH'S ACCOUNT

THE CUMBERLAND ROAD

In March of 1803, Ohio had entered the Union as the 17th state, and with the acquisition that same year of the Louisiana purchase from the French, the country added an additional five hundred and thirty million acres to our fledgling republic. That’s a bunch! Of course, much of that real-estate was already occupied by the country’s increasingly oppressed Native Americans, who had absolutely no intention of relinquishing their claim.

In order to access this acquisition, the country required a road. With most transportation needs at the time being met by canals and rivers, many considered roads an unnecessary luxury, not to mention an exorbitant tax expense. Despite these misgivings, in 1806, congress authorized the Cumberland Road. Stretching eventually from Cumberland, Maryland to Saint Louis, Missouri, it was the first road in our country’s history to be funded by the Federal government and our taxes. President Thomas Jefferson himself promoted the road in his efforts to encourage westward expansion and unify the developing nation.

The route was made possible as the result of a gap, or passage, through the Appalachian Mountain Range. The old trail, having been established long ago by herds of buffalo and the Native Americans who pursued them, was further established in 1775 by Daniel Boone. Mr. Boone had been contracted by the Transylvania Company to widen the path through the gap in order to expedite the settlement of Kentucky, Tennessee, and points west.

Following the battle of Culloden, back home in Scotland, numerous places in the American colonies, such as Cumberland Gap, were named for Prince William, Duke of Cumberland, son of King George II, of Great Britain. The sun never sets on the British Empire.

It was only about a hundred miles from Germantown to Cumberland, Maryland. From there, the Cumberland Road would provide my gateway west. Prior to 1810, its estimated that in excess of 200,000 European-American settlers passed through the gap enroot to Kentucky and the Ohio Valley. Autumn of 1835 found me retracing their steps.

Having set out with my doctor’s bag and a few medical supplies, it was soon apparent that, as an itinerant physician, my fledgling abilities would be a boon to every community I encountered. Having set broken bones and extracted throbbing teeth in a succession of aspiring outposts all along the Cumberland Road, winter found me hold up in the wilds of Illinois.

Founded in 1819, Vandalia, Illinois is a petite but prospering little settlement in Fayette County. Located on the banks of the Kaskaskia River, it’s located in south central Illinois, about 70 miles northeast of St. Louis, Missouri. It was, for a time, the western terminus of The Cumberland Road, aka The National Road. As such, considering its proximity to the frontier, it was a relatively busy and booming metropolis. It has at least one thing in common with every other community I’ve encountered. Almost everyone in the community was suffering from a bad tooth, a busted bone, or a hitch in their get-along. Here, in this isolated but enchanting metropolis, I honed my skills, earned a few bucks, and squirreled away provisions.

Come spring, I once more headed west. Having retired my old horse in Vandalia, I’d been making good time on my new mount for about a week. While at this point in my travels there was nothing that could be considered an improved road, the Indians had long established trails throughout the region. The trails were narrow and occasionally badly overgrown, but all things considered I made good time.

Cresting a hill, there before me, occupying a good deal of the landscape to both the north and south for as far as the eye could see, the wide and characteristically swollen Mississippi glimmered in pastel hues of sunset. Negotiating the rugged terrain and approaching the river, I heard the echoes of numerous axes diligently falling timber and chopping wood. There, at water’s edge, a number of black gentlemen busily loaded this product aboard a steamboat.

This being evening, the fragrance of food preparation wafted ashore, very nearly buckling my knees, and having subsisted for some time on a diet of scorched squirrel and charred grasshoppers, the prospect of life onboard a riverboat was irresistible. Visiting with the congenial black gentlemen, I finagled an invitation to come aboard.

The mere appearance of my medical bag proved to be sufficient to make me welcome everywhere I went. Within an hour, the riverboat’s captain was convinced my services aboard his vessel would be invaluable. My horse was escorted into the hold; my employment secured, the sternwheel began churning rhythmically, and we chugged our way laboriously up the river.

My time spent chugging and churning my way up the Mississippi was a much-needed respite and an opportunity to admire much of the wild and unmolested country from the luxurious comfort of a deck chair. I began most mornings by leisurely ambling the decks at first light, and despite my pious upbringing, I was not averse to sipping a couple of mint juleps in the afternoon. While this vessel was employed mainly in the hauling and disbursement of cargo and freight, no self-respecting riverboat refuses the patronage of paying passengers, and where one finds paying passengers with money, one finds others adept at acquiring it.

Every good riverboat offered a saloon and gambling establishment of some kind, where once the liquor had been applied and judgment sorely impaired, folks counted on luck they rarely enjoyed, to risk funds they didn’t have, in a high-stakes, no-holds-barred, poker misadventure. Occasionally, these games became high-spirited and spiraled downward until someone was inadvertently pierced by a derringer. These un-fortuitous events provided my earliest experience at removing pellets.

Copyright ©

Shannon Thomas Casebeer

Jackass Journal & Compendium of Universal Knowledge

 Jackass Journal & Compendium of Universal Knowledge

Episodes one through 9999, more or less

Unabridged, Unapologetic and in no Particular Order

PART ONE

HANGTOWN BOUND

MIAH'S ACCOUNT

In 1824, when I was but eleven years of age, my family and I boarded the good ship Abolis and left Belfast to sail for the storied shores of America. We arrived twenty-seven days later in the fall of that year, in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.

Arriving all but penniless in a strange new land is not something I’d recommend to a friend. The crossing had been tedious and life-altering. We’d encountered numerous storms during which the ship pitched and rolled until very few came through unscathed. Along the way several had succumbed to a variety of maladies, and three weary souls had abandoned their beleaguered robes of flesh which were then sewn up in canvas and lowered into the sea.

Occasionally, a stifling calm would smother the sea breezes which provided our ship’s conveyance, leaving the old schooner rendered immobile for days at a time, with the sea placid as bath water and the canvas sails hanging limp as laundry. The very sight of the celebrated shores of America rendered the majority of passengers and crew prostrate on the old ship’s decks, praising God and weeping with relief.

During the interminably long days and nights at sea, we’d had a fabulous wealth of hours to contemplate our circumstances and try desperately to imagine some solution. None had presented themselves. Once ashore, our situation only grew more perilous. Our fears hadn’t done our grim predicament justice. The docks were crowded with all variety of similarly stunned immigrants, all desperate for some clue as to how to proceed. Once more, providence intervened. Alongside our vessel, equally stunned refugees from Germany were arriving. Unlike us, these weary souls found solace in the immediate intervention of dozens of members of a local church. The church of the brethren was well prepared for this influx of traumatized arrivals from their homeland.

We’d sat traumatized and speechless for some time, watching the proceedings when, for some reason known only to God, having been touched by the stifled lamentations of my bundle-bearing mother and the pitiful laments of my sobbing little sister, several of these compassionate church members gently loaded my traumatized family into a wagonload of their own exhausted brethren and, gently rocking in the crowded wagon, we set out for Germantown.

Arriving at long last in Germantown, after two days hard travel, we were led into the community center where, following some discussion by the church leaders, we were mercifully adopted into one of the German families already well-established in the area. The family consisted of the patriarch (a gentleman of around sixty years of age) his wife, eight children, and an incalculable number of towheaded grandchildren. The family raised crops and livestock on about 40 acres on the outskirts of town.

Communication was initially a challenge. We Scots, of course, spoke no German, and vice versa. Fortunately, several of us spoke a modicum of English. When all else fails, regardless of your location, one facial expression conveys a thousand words.

Fortunately for us, this family could well afford a few additional mouths to feed. As a result of our close proximity to the coast, seafood was plentiful and comparatively inexpensive. Within weeks, we’d settled into a routine and become productive members of our new extended family. The family raised crops and livestock, so there was no shortage of work through which we were able be productive and earn our keep. They had a huge number of pigs. While some abstain from pork for religious reasons, our German hosts had no such reservations; nor did we. Our hosts were big believers in the old saying, “waste not, want not”. When a pig was butchered, very little was discarded but the squeal. What wasn’t carved into ham, bacon, roasts, or chops, was pickled or ground into sausages or bratwurst.

Here, we thrived and passed the time, week by week, month by month, season by season, until half a dozen years had sped pleasantly away. Farm life suited us, and we were soon fat and sassy. We bonded thoroughly with our host family, and that bond strengthened exponentially when my little sister wed one of the grandsons.

Throughout these years, much of our time centered around church life. Much like the Mennonites and Quakers, The Church of the brethren placed their emphasis on nonviolence and benevolence. They took Christ’s teachings seriously, and followed the golden rule religiously, “Do unto others as you’d have them do unto you”.

When I turned 18, I was sent away to medical school. Founded in 1765, The University of Pennsylvania School of Medicine was the first and only medical school in America’s original thirteen colonies. Students enrolled for anatomical lectures and a course on the theory and practice of physics. Here, I spent four blissful years, learning the basics of medicine and thoroughly enjoying the society of fellow students.

Home once again in Germantown following my education, I very much missed the challenge and gratifying camaraderie of school life. Unbeknownst to me at the time, the influence of these early years with the church, in conjunction with my years of medical training in Philadelphia, had set my feet on a path that would determine my course for many years to come.

In the spring of 1835, when I was but 22-two years of age, the cry of northbound geese seized my soul and left me melancholy and strangely ill at ease. In an effort to ease my undiagnosed ache, I determined to attend a barn dance downtown. Arriving at the festivities, my attention was instantly diverted by a Norwegian family whose vibrant apparel stood out in bright contrast to the solemn, black attire of the Germans. The household consisted of the mom, the dad, and a gaggle of petite, towheaded princesses.

Gertrude was a year or two my junior. She was fair, flamboyant, and flirtatious! I was instantly smitten! Summoning all my courage, hat in hand and heart pounding, I asked if she’d care to dance. She allowed as how she’d be absolutely delighted! We took the floor and danced and danced till the band went home and they showed us eventually to the door.

From that night forward, I thought of little else but my little darling, Gertie. After several weeks of what I believed to be a fledgling courtship, I arrived at her home one evening to find an unfamiliar rig parked in the yard. Inside the rig were Gertie and the son of a local banker. He was older than I, a good head taller, and obviously well off. He had a dandy buggy, a beautiful bay mare, and an attitude.

They were clearly preoccupied. Approaching the buggy, I requested a moment and escorted Gertie aside, intent on voicing my displeasure. Gertie was unmoved by my protestations. Her new suitor eventually dismounted his buggy, gave me a persuasive dusting with his hat, and suggested I bother them no further. Undeterred, I doubled my fist and gave him what I considered to be a pretty convincing thump on the chin. He was decidedly unimpressed. After receiving a good thrashing, I glared up from where I was taking a brief respite in the mud, to see Gertie and her new beau hand in hand and skipping off to meet the parents. Not wishing to humiliate the young couple further, I returned home.

Over the next several weeks, the cries of the migrating geese strengthened their hold on my naïve and youthful wanderlust. Early one morning, I endured a tearful parting with friends and family, collected my doctor’s bag, mounted my faithful steed, and set off to see the world. Suffice it to say, the world saw me coming and was prepared.

Copyright ©

Shannon Thomas Casebeer

THE HANGTOWN TRILOGY CLARA'S BEST Episode Thirty-four WRIGHT’S LAKE

THE HANGTOWN TRILOGY

CLARA'S BEST

Episode Thirty-four

WRIGHT’S LAKE

Lord willing, once or twice each summer, we’d collect Cynthia, Ralph, the in-laws, the grandchildren, and as many of the extended family as could coordinate a week off, and we’d form an invasion force with Wright’s Lake as our intended target.

Wright’s lake is reached via an extended trek out Icehouse Road. It occupies the western edge of the Desolation Wilderness, at an elevation of almost 7,000 feet. Once home to the Washoe and Maidu Indians, it was later settled by the wright family, who established a dairy there in the 1850s. Eventually the area was acquired by the government and became part of the El Dorado National Forest. Back in the day, if you knew somebody who knew someone, you could arrange a 99-year lease on a small plot of property on its banks. During those days, the lake became home to a number of adorable, steeply pitched little cabins. Sadly, we knew no one, but, in 1929, the government established a public campground. Enter the Stancil’s.

It took only one visit in order for the area to firmly establish a death grip on Henry’s heart. From that point on it became an annual event. The small, natural lake is easily walked around in an hour or so. It’s the only lake we walked entirely around on a regular basis. The brilliant, indigo blue waters are only about eight feet deep, but when filled to capacity, it holds all the ice-cold snowmelt one could possibly require to cool off. Nestled quietly in a pristine, evergreen sheltered valley, it’s very possibly the most engaging lake in the entire crystal Basin area. Its popularity will easily vouch for that. At the lower end of the lake, a small, bridge-covered weir bravely leans into the frigid waters, raising the shallow resource several feet in depth. At the upper end, the long, leisurely lifecycle of a mountain lake has resulted in an accumulation of silt and sand. As a result, Gerle Creek snakes and meanders its way through a luxurious, green meadow, dotted with stunted conifers, granite boulders, wildflowers, and Skunk cabbage. From its treelined shores, the sandy, boulder-strewn banks climb quickly over a series of vast, granite-paved expanses, into what may well be God’s most spectacular achievement.

On this particular visit, our ranks formed gradually over one weekend, with the expectation of several of us enjoying the entire week. Arriving at first light, after leaving home in pitch-black in the wee hours of the morning, our little caravan was blessed to arrive to find Henry’s favorite campsite abandoned and inviting. Over the next several hours we set up half a dozen old canvas tents. Henry had built a dandy little teardrop camp trailer for hauling all our family’s gear, and both it and the Packard were packed to the rafters with every conceivable camp gear imaginable, except of course, our pillows which were once again forgotten at home. On the back of the teardrop trailer was a hatch which, when opened, revealed a small food preparation area. Among other camping essentials, there was an oak icebox. Along the way, we stopped off at kyburz and bought a huge, square block of ice which would keep the groceries cool all week. There was also a screen-covered pie safe that Waldo had built to help keep coons and chipmunks out of the cookies.

During the week we hiked and fished and swam to our hearts content. And we enjoyed countless hours of precious family time. Henry’s youthful spirit allowed him to blend seamlessly with the grandkids. With the exception of swimming, which he avoided like a cat, Henry was game for anything. He fascinated the children with his many creations with his pocketknife. He found a willow grove at water’s edge and carved several wooden whistles for the kid’s entertainment. He carved a dead sapling into a walking stick for himself, and on one occasion when the grandchildren collapsed groaning midway through a hike around the lake, he fashioned several dead pine limbs into stick horses which quickly renewed the children’s energies.

By midweek, everyone was sunburned, bug-bitten, and exhausted. Following a delicious camp diner, and then coffee, tall tales, and fellowship around the fire, everyone turned in early, with the expectation of sleeping in. About three o’clock in the morning, I was returning to camp after a visit to the facility’s outhouse, when a faint and disconcerting noise began approaching casually from the meadow. Moments later, the quiet solitude reverberated with the hellacious clanking of cowbells as a big, old bull, enroot to greener pastures, led a procession of bony hipped Holsteins right through the middle of camp!

They congregated briefly in order to nose through our sleeping bags and relieve themselves by the fire, before moseying off casually into the darkness, amid the frantic shrieking of terrified children, panicked bursts of unrepeatable language, and the crash and clatter of overturning camp gear. Suffice it to say, nobody slept in. We spent much of the next day swamping out and restoring our camp.

The next night promised to go better. That evening, Ivy brought out chocolate chip cookies, and the kids were determined to frost them with peanut butter. They were mighty tasty if ya managed to warsh ‘em down! The coffee was hot, the mountain air, invigorating, and I sat by the fire with the folks I love most in the world. I’m pretty sure this is how God meant life to be.

Following a long, leisurely evening of fond memories and tomfoolery, the old folks retired to their tents and Henry and I spread our blankets by the light of the moon. We reclined in our sleeping bags, side by side that night, holding hands and watching the stars; eternity before us and around us the jewels of our heart; a picture of contentment, joy, and perfect peace.

The following morning around five o’clock, I was sleeping like a baby, when something cracked me with a vengeance on the head! As I lay there, trying to gather my wits and diagnose my smarting, a resounding clank issued from the graniteware coffee pot. Having retreated into a fetal position, I was fighting desperately to remain unconscious, when something pelted a nearby rock and splattered my face with ice. With this I sat up instantly and scanned the camp! Additional bombardments began peppering the camp, and all at once something landed in my lap. Examining the little intruder, I discovered a hailstone about the size of a marble. Within moments the occasional pelting built to a fever pitch and the deluge threatened to bury us in our bags.

Just as my poor sleep muddled mind was preparing to dictate some action, the camp lit up with a nearby lightning strike; thunder followed instantly, and gale force winds began to ravage the camp! Suddenly the previously peaceful scene took on all the urgency of an angry ant’s nest! Tents began abandoning their posts and threatening to lite off for the territories! The unsecured canvas abruptly abandoned the kid’s, subjecting its unsuspecting inhabitants to the onslaught of hail and a good deal of unrestrained caterwauling!

I sprang to my feet and embedded my toe in a big old slab of granite, and the camp came alive with frantic folks in nightgowns! Springing from his cot in a red cotton nightshirt, Ralph became hopelessly entangled in the tent support, and wet canvas came down around Cynthia’s ears. I struggled to light a lantern, donned a robe, and rushed to assist the kids.

The combination of the children’s unsettling outbursts and the heartening glow of my flickering lantern, quickly drew a number of evacuees to the Packard. Henry fought to secure additional canvas over our refuge as half a dozen soggy grandchildren crowded inside to escape the pummeling hail.

Once our initial fright had subsided, Cynthia became amused and gave a giggle. Henry was the first to give our assembly voice. “Well, Jeez Louise!” He articulated disgustedly, “so much for sleeping in!” And the whole congregation laughed until we cried! Henry and I sat with the little ones in our laps, cowering from the thunder and hugging each other for warmth. Teeth chattered, nightshirts dripped, and we listened to the rain on our canvass-covered Packard.

Thirty minutes later the storm subsided and Cynthia peeked from the canvas and gave the all clear. The unexpected deluge had beaten the collapsed tents flat and covered most everything with half an inch of hail. The campfire was stone-cold, and all our bedding soaked! Ralph set about resuscitating the campfire, and we tied a rope to several trees and hung the soggy bedding out to dry.

The towering thunderheads flashed intermittently as they slowly advanced to the north, and eventually the welcome sun peeked over the ridge. Despite our best efforts, the children could not be reconciled to sleep. I dried their hair and assisted with nature calls, and eventually chaos relented and order returned. The campfire being reconstituted, Henry fed it lavishly with pinecones and pitchy limbs, until at last it responded and produced a spectacular blaze! The dry, pitch-laden fuel cracked and popped intermittently, and the nighty-clad children formed ranks and gathered round. They warmed quickly by the crackling fire, and we tried unsuccessfully to get them to wear their shoes.

Within thirty minutes the full sun had made short work of our accumulation of hail and the temperature gradually warmed back into the seventies. Henry and I led an expedition to bring back additional firewood, and our party returned to the welcome aroma of smoked bacon and heating griddles. Cynthia started the bacon frying and Ivy and I began peeling potatoes.

Waldo had brought along his big graniteware coffee pot. Once it was boiling; he prepared to add the coffee. Rolling up his sleeves, he reached into the burlap bag and meticulously brought out three handfuls, as he counted, “That’s one for me, and one for you, and one more for the pot.” Then he brought out his pocket watch and noted the time. “Three minutes ought to do it.” He said, carefully winding his timepiece, “peel an eye and holler if she starts to boil over.” Leaving me to observe the pot, he walked to the tailgate where Ivy was cracking eggs. He selected several pieces of eggshell, eyed them approvingly and returned to the boiling pot. “Has it been three minutes?” he enquired, checking his timepiece. Hearing no reply, he glanced at his watch and suggested that was close enough. Removing the pot and observing the swirling froth in the top, he set it to rest and allow the grounds to settle. After a moment he lifted the lid and dropped in the handful of shells. “That’ll help settle the grounds.” He says, “Don’t ask me why, but it always worked for Dad.”

By this time, we had the batter prepared; Ivy poured it on the griddle, and the aroma in camp was enough to drive me wild! Once Waldo’s mother had produced several healthy stacks of pancakes, Ivy cooked the remaining batter, producing animal-shaped cakes for all the kids. Golden brown with melted butter and awash in maple syrup, you can’t beat pancakes eaten by a crackling fire. I’ll remember that breakfast till the good Lord calls me home! We had hotcakes & bacon with scrambled eggs, a huge pan of hash-browned potatoes, and I don’t believe I’ve ever enjoyed coffee more! The smell of the campfire, the melodious call of Steller’s jays, and the invigorating mountain air, all left an impression embedded in my soul.

During the remaining week, we went hiking and swimming, took afternoon naps, and enjoyed a snipe hunt that the kids won’t soon forget, but looking back, I treasure the fellowship most. That week with my family and the jewels of my heart, produced memories of loved ones I’ll treasure for the rest of my days. When I make it to Heaven and the Lord sees me in and asks how my best days were spent, I’ll remind him of the week that we spent up at Loon, when we camped in that old canvas tent.

Copyright ©

Shannon T. Casebeer

THE HANGTOWN TRILOGY, CLARA'S BEST, TAHOE & LAKE VALLEY

 

THE HANGTOWN TRILOGY

CLARA'S BEST

TAHOE & LAKE VALLEY

Is there any wonder Lake Tahoe steals our hearts? One Friday morning, just as the stars blinked out and the eastern horizon assumed a rosy hue, we boarded the old Packard, bound for the Lake. Cynthia brought along her terrier. I packed a loaded picnic basket. Ralph packed his appetite, and Henry provided a thermos of coffee and a sunny disposition.

Leaving Smith Flat and veering hard to port, we pulled onto highway 50 and headed up the grade. The Packard is a wide-open touring car. Suffice it to say, the morning air was invigorating! The Packard easily took the grade at a cruising speed of 60 MPH! In twenty minutes, we were sailing past Camino. Moments later, Pollock pines disappeared in our rearview mirror. “Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead!”

U.S. Route 50 runs east from West Sacramento to the Nevada state line in South Lake Tahoe. Leaving Smith Flat, the highway proceeds past Pollock Pines and continues eastward to the canyon of the South Fork of the American River at Riverton. It then climbs along and out of the canyon, over Echo Summit, and down into the Lake Tahoe basin. The corridor is a historic one, used by many 49ers who came to California during the Gold Rush. In 1895, part of the present-day route was designated as California's first state highway.

If one leaves Highway 50 and turns hard left at Riverton, Icehouse Road begins a steep climb up the mountain into El Dorado National Forest’s Crystal Basin and Silver Fork. It’s a long, steep grade with numerous switchbacks! Henry’s little Ford was generally overheated and puffing by the time we were halfway up the mountain. Icehouse Reservoir gleamed like a blue emerald, mounted in a setting of glorious, pristine granite, at an elevation of around fifty-five hundred feet. Before reaching that elevation, the little Ford generally began boiling and hissing and insisted on taking a breather and having her radiator topped off.

Crystal Basin is a fisherman’s paradise! There’s Icehouse Reservoir, Wright’s Lake, Loon Lake, Gerle Creek, and, if you have the nerve, the rugged, granite lined trek to the little outpost at Wentworth Springs is an adventure in itself. Wentworth Springs was another of Henry’s favorites. He almost always felt obliged to take time to descend into the little meadow to pay homage to the gurgling spring and sample its eyewatering vintage. There was an ancient, gray graniteware dipper on hand for just that purpose. I sampled it once myself. Dipping up a generous ladleful, I briefly inhaled its boiled-egg-like aroma and gallantly gulped ‘er down! Suffice it to say, I would not recommend this to a friend! If you’re absolutely determined to try this delicate bouquet for yourself, by all means, DO NOT INHALE!

Beyond this odiferous little mineral spring, Gerle Creek gurgles, splashes and meanders lazily from its snow-fed headwaters, high in a desolate but awe-inspiring landscape of granite peaks, snow-packed crevasses, stunted conifers, and a hardy little perennial lovingly referred to as mountain misery.

Staying on the highway and leaving Riverton, the road clings to the north side of the river. From Icehouse Road to the crest of the Sierras, it rises steadily into the high Sierras. Several hairpin-turns take the highway up a steep grade east of Strawberry, after which US 50 continues east alongside the river to its source at Echo Summit.

Echo Summit is the highest elevation U.S. Route 50 reaches in California at 7,377 feet. From Echo Summit down to the Lake Tahoe Basin, the roadway slowly snakes downward, hugging the side of a steep hill; it then curves northeast to its south junction with SR 89 (which heads south to Luther Pass) and then turns northward near the city of South Lake Tahoe, where it splits at an intersection known as "The Y". There, the former turns east on Lake Tahoe Boulevard, which it follows along the scenic south shore of Lake Tahoe until it reluctantly enters the state of Nevada.

The distance from Smith Flat to Lake Tahoe is right around sixty miles. When you cruise at a mile a minute, it doesn’t take long to get there. Unless you stop almost everywhere! We stopped at Bridal Veil Falls for a coffee break. We stopped at Meyer’s Station for lunch. We stopped at Twin Bridges for a photo op., we stopped at Strawberry just because, and we stopped at Echo summit to admire the view and marvel at the substantial snowbank stretching skyward on each side of the road. The temperature at the summit was an invigorating forty-two degrees! Fortunately, before leaving home, we’d filled the entire Packard with luxurious quilts!

The only thing I know of that’s a bigger rush than cruising in the Phaeton, is cruising in the Phaeton around Lake Tahoe! The road conditions left something to be desired. Even the potholes had potholes! In places, it was difficult to tell if the road was paved. But the views were spectacular and the traffic, intermittent. We stopped often to admire the lake views and breathe in the invigorating, pine scented air. I truly wish you could have been there with us.

Long before the white man arrived at Tahoe, the lake teamed with native silver and cutthroat trout. The old growth forests of virgin sugar pine boasted large numbers of deer, bear, and all variety of wildlife which roamed unmolested by any, other than the Washoe and Paiute Indians, who established their encampments here during the long luxurious summer months when the snowpack allowed.

In February of 1844, Captain John C. Freemont recorded the first sighting of the lake by a white man. He christened the vast expanse of brilliant indigo blue waters, Lake Bonpland, in honor of a French botanist. In 1848, John C. “Cock Eye” Johnson, blazed a trail over Echo summit from Hangtown. The majestic basin soon became known as Lake Valley. The first stagecoach lumbered over the Johnson’s cutoff in 1857. During this time Lake Bonpland was briefly renamed Lake Bigler, in honor of California’s governor, John Bigler. John Bigler was California’s governor from 1852 to 1856. He was an early advocate of the Chinese exclusion act of 1893 and 1902, one of the most unconscionable acts of racism ever perpetrated on the American public and passed by congress.

It was not until years later that the name Tahoe became official, chosen in deference to the Washoe Indians, in whose dialect Tahoe means Big Water, or Grasshopper Soup, if you prefer Mark Twain’s translation.

In 1859, the discovery of silver in Nevada’s Comstock Lode, prompted a migration of men, animals, stagecoaches, and freighters over Johnson’s cut-off that has been described as the greatest mass movement of men, wagons, animals, and materials know to history. This traffic was eventually eased by the construction of the Central Pacific Railroad over Donner Pass in 1868.

During the 1860s, agriculture came to Lake Valley. Early pioneers began plowing its fertile soils for the planting of hayfields and pastures. The dairy industry flourished, and a melancholy chorus of cowbells filled the air. Eventually, the mouth of the upper Truckee River became known far and wide for a trout fishing industry that harvested hundreds of tons of native trout from its pristine waters annually.

Also, during the 1860s, steamboats first appeared on Tahoe, providing an indispensable freight service for mail, freight, and passengers, not to mention spectacular sightseeing, to points all around the lake’s seventy-two miles of picturesque shoreline, about two-thirds of which is in California, with the remainder gracing Nevada.

During Mark Twain’s time at Lake Tahoe in the 1860s, he described his personal fascination with Tahoe’s awe-inspiring beauty and serenity. “I thought it must surely be the fairest picture the whole earth affords.” Also, during his time at Tahoe, Mr. Twain tried his hand as a lumber jack. His efforts produced little more than blisters and a terrible conflagration, when his poorly supervised campfire lit out for the territory’s, eventually blackening several acres of old growth timber before burning itself out, but he writes with incredible fondness of his time at the lake.

While the Comstock was busily tunneling its way beneath Virginia City, the demand for timber to shore up the miles of meandering chasms and shafts was insatiable. Entire forests were leveled as old growth pines were felled and discharged into the lake, to be towed to the mills at Glenbrook. By the turn of the century the forests were sufficiently depleted that by 1900 large scale logging operations were suspended. Small scale operations continued as demand grew for lumber for construction of resorts, cabins, and summer homes. Accommodations with such names as Valhalla, Lucky Baldwin’s Tallac Hotel, Fallen Leaf Lodge, Camp Richardson, and Vikings Holm became favorite vacation destinations for Lake Valleys many admirers from all over the world.

During the early years, Lake Tahoe was occupied mainly by summer guests and caretakers of its large estates. Few people remained at the high elevations during the winter months, when snowpack measured in the tens of feet rendered Lake Valley inaccessible to even the hardy Paiutes, who retreated to Nevada’s lower elevations and comparatively balmy temperatures.

Copyright ©

Shannon T. Casebeer

A MOMENT’S HESITATION (As told by Clara)

 

THE HANGTOWN TRILOGY

CLARA'S BEST

Episode Thirty-five

A MOMENT’S HESITATION (As told by Clara)

In May of 1938, Henry and I each turned 70. Quite an achievement, if I do say so myself. I look at least 70. And I feel at least 70. And I darned sure act at least 70. But It’s still mighty hard to believe that I’m 70! Ralph and Sylvia haven’t aged a day. Oops! I mean Cynthia. One weekend, Ralph and Cynthia surprised us with a birthday extravaganza! They’d arranged a room for all four of us at Camp Richardson at Tahoe, following a sunset dinner cruise on a sternwheeler.

Bright and early one afternoon, around three o’clock, we all boarded the Packard and headed for the lake. None of us had ever been aboard a steamboat. She was a dandy vessel! We strolled the decks feeling quite Twainesque. We took a tour of the boiler room and then stood at the stern, listening to the gentle chugging of the engine and refreshing ourselves in the spray from the churning paddlewheel. She did a wide lap around Emerald Bay and then chugged a tighter circle around the Island and the elegant tea house.

Dinner was served on the upper deck, under the starry sky. We arrived early to be certain of getting a good table. To Henry’s delight, this evening’s menu featured the Hangtown Fry. We enjoyed a bottle of wine, not expensive, but more than adequate, and then settled in to admire the view and prepare our growling stomachs for a treat.

While awaiting our meal, we gathered at the railing and marveled at Tahoe and the majestic snowcapped Sierras. And, high on the mountainside, Ralph pointed out the snow-filled, cross-shaped crevasse known as Tallac, which, In the Washoe dialect, means big mountain. As the sun slipped silently into a crimson haze, the moon began a leisurely climb into a cloudless sky.

Peering over the railing, Cynthia marveled at the clarity of the water and the dizzying twenty-five-foot drop. Tahoe’s frigid snowmelt is renowned for creating a clarity of water which allows a glimpse of the stony bottom to a depth of thirty feet. As we gazed down from the top deck, the distance to the water, and the depth we could see into the water, combined to make it seem like we were flying! Beneath us a procession of gigantic granite boulders passed by as if on parade, occasionally looming up from the depths until it seemed as though they’d surely bump the boat.

Once we were some distance out on the lake, they shut down the engine, so that the steamer drifted motionless in the moonlight. The wind, which had been significant much of the afternoon, became dead calm, and the surface was still as glass. The majestic snowcapped Sierra’s glimmered in the dusk, and the velvet black water cast a perfect mirror image of the moon and its shimmering light.

Between our table and the railing was another table, with a young couple and three children. We briefly exchanged pleasantries as they took their seats. The mother and father sat with their backs to us, with the children across the table against the railing. The boys were quiet and went largely unnoticed. The little girl was probably four years old. She was extravagantly dressed in a frilly white frock. Her shoulder length hair was red as roses, and all done up in ringlets. And her eyes were a dazzling green. Cynthia was immediately smitten!

While we ate, Cynthia and the little redhead flirted. The Hangtown Fry was scrumptious, although I have to admit to picking out my oysters. Ralph eyed them admiringly until I offered them to him. The girl’s mother sat directly between her and Cynthia, so, periodically the little child would pop up so that Cynthia could see her, and then she’d grin and giggle and plop back down.

During the evening, this behavior became routine. Eventually the father became a little annoyed. On several occasions he asked her to please sit still. Just as our desserts were being served. The little redhead, having popped up several times unnoticed by Cynthia, craned her neck and stood straight up in her seat. The chair tipped back against the railing, and the little girl went head over heels and disappeared over the side.

We all sat speechless for a second, until we heard the splash, and then the mother let out a lion-like scream and we all jumped up and rushed to the railing. The little sweetheart floated momentarily, face up and eyes wide open, just below the surface, and then spiraled slowly downward into the depths.

Horrified as we were, no one in their right mind would consider jumping overboard from this height. Enter Cynthia. Without a moment’s hesitation, Cynthia sprang up on the railing, kicked off her shoes, tore away her favorite dress, and performed a dive that would have made Johnny Weissmuller proud! She entered the water without the slightest splash and disappeared immediately into the darkness.

Seconds passed while we all stood dumfounded and speechless, peering into the moonlit depths, and then, suddenly, here the two came, streaking for the surface amidst a mass of bubbles. By this time, several men on the lower deck had donned lifejackets and leapt into the water. By the time we’d managed the stairs and assembled near the gangway, they were bringing Cynthia and the little girl aboard. Both were blue-lipped and shivering, but otherwise unscathed.

The tiny, towel-wrapped bundle was passed tenderly to her mother, and Ralph held Cynthia close and wrapped her in a blanket. Before rejoining his family, the girl’s father approached me with tears of gratitude streaming down his face. I introduced Ralph as Cynthia’s husband. The father ignored Ralph’s offer of a handshake, insisting instead on a hug. “I commend you on your choice of wives, Sir.” He told Ralph, patting him affectionately on the back, and Ralph sleeve-groomed his teary cheeks and beamed with pride.

Copyright ©

Shannon T. Casebeer