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

Ol' Dry Diggins, aka Hangtown in the snow, 1849

 

HANGTOWN TOUGH

We headed for Hangtown in ‘49

But never showed till ‘50.

Between us we had nary a dime.

Suffice it to say, we was thrifty!

The Sierra Nevada's are god-awful high!

And the dang trail rugged at best.

Ma took one look and groaned, “Oh my!

We should have stayed home with the rest!”

The creek ain’t iced up all the time.

August heat is quick to thaw it.

It’s just for wading. That's the crime.

If there’s gold, I never saw it.

The housing in Hangtown leaves much to desire. 

That’s the case everywhere we went.

But there ain’t much Ma and me require,

And we had a luxurious tent!

The tent’s mighty cozy,

Though lacking for room,

With a dirt floor infested with mice

Damp as the dickens and cold as a tomb.

The first year I froze to death twice!

The wood stove was nice if ya sat on the lid.

A bonfire would be better I’m thinkin’.

When it dropped below thirty as often it did,

It froze finials right off of the Franklin!

Flatlanders are welcome despite what you hear. 

You won’t hang. I can’t even conceive it!

We’ve oodles of room

And we’re known for our beer.

Bring plenty of cash, and please leave it.

If you’ve got a hankerin’ for livin’ on beans,

Out west where it’s generally sunny,

Then check out the gold camps and by all means, 

Visit Hangtown and bring lots of money!

Shannon Thomas Casebeer

OBIE, Episode Twenty-nine, SCRAP O’ SCRIPTURE

 

OBIE

Episode Twenty-nine

SCRAP O’ SCRIPTURE

Leaving the equatorial regions in our wake, we sailed at last into the brilliant blue North Pacific. The temperatures moderated, the humidity dropped, and Lidge and I began to sleep out on the deck. One night we were sitting with an old salt at his watch. The night was cool, and the moon had a golden ring. “Do you fellows see that ring?” the seaman asked. “Just count the stars inside that ring, and that’s the number of days until the rain.” “Oh, go on!” says Lidge. Well, this old seaman is solemn as a judge! He’s serious, and he goes on to tell us why. “Those stars,” he says, “are signs and symbols. It says so in the book. Why they’re just as plain as the nose upon your face!”

“Don’t you boys read your Bibles,” this old seaman asks? We both assured him that we do. “Well then,” he says, “You should be familiar with this little scrap of scripture here.” At this point this old seaman reaches into his Pea coat and gets out this miniature, leather bound copy of the Old Testament. He opens the tattered manuscript to Genesis chapter one, verse fourteen, and reads aloud: “Let there be lights in the firmament of heaven, to divide the day from the night; and let them be for signs, and seasons, and for days and years.”

Well, he had us there! “Do you boys see that bright star right up there?” he asks, pointing to the North Star. Well, we’re both familiar with the North Star, so we both shake our heads in affirmation. “Well, that star,” he says, “together with those other bright stars there around it, make up a constellation which is called Ursa Minor, the little bear, or the little dipper. Polaris, the North Star, is at the end of the little bear’s tail. The big dipper over yonder is called Ursa Major, or the big bear. There are twelve major constellations, and Lord only knows how many others. Once you’re familiar with the constellations, you use that information along with the phases of the moon, and all this information together becomes signs. The signs tell you when to plant, when to reap, and a million other affairs of daily living. I don’t even plant a post,” he says, “without first checking on the phase of the moon, and signs.”

Well, to me signs don’t make no more sense than bathing once a week, but these old sailors believe they’re the greatest things since hardboiled eggs! Whether you believe in signs or not, there’s something about sprawling on your back on a cool, clear night, and staring into myriad twinkling lights, that tends to open your heart and clear your mind.

Some nights we’d lay there in the stillness, with the North Pacific rolling beneath the deck, and the only sound you’d hear would be the rhythmic beating of your own heart. You could almost hear the pulsing of your own blood, as it flowed within the channels of your veins. It was as though you sensed the waning of your own life, as the minutes and the seconds of existence ran their course and ticked away.

On these cloudless nights the stars were bright as campfires in the snow and thick as sparks when you stir a fire at night. Sometimes the moon had a golden ring, and if the moon were full, the sea glowed with a green translucence as its teaming fathoms rolled beneath our bow. On more than one occasion as we drifted in calm, we’d float along in the midst of resting whales. You could hear their steady breathing, and once in a while they’d blow, or a whale would roll and a giant leviathan arm, would reach into the moonlight just as though it were in prayer, as if to touch the very face of God.

To be continued?

By Shannon Thomas Casebeer

Copyright © FEBRUARY 14th, 2009

OBIE, Episode Twenty-eight, CROSSING THE EQUATOR

 

OBIE

Episode Twenty-eight

CROSSING THE EQUATOR

The captain’s word was good as gold, and by eleven thirty the ship was stocked, the anchor hove, and we were underway. The captain ordered full sail, and that clipper broke out in canvas quicker than a barn sour mule can breakout in sweat! I’d never seen such a mountain of sails in my life. That old ship had moonrakers, skysails, and topgallants, till a healthy sneeze would have sped her up three knots.

This being July 4th, the captain ordered assembly on the quarterdeck, and he and the mate gave speeches for an hour and a half, and colorful orations they were too! In the full sun, on the hot deck, and ya didn’t dare to take your leave or even try and sit! Speaking of sitting, they’re a lot stricter aboard these peacetime vessels than a body would expect. All the months that I was aboard the Pacific, I never saw an officer or a crewman sitting down on deck. From the captain to the lowliest crewman, month after month after long, tedious month, I rarely saw a single soul sit down. On the few occasions when some poor weary seaman even dared to try, they were on him like a duck on a June bug, with some other trifling task they needed done.

From sunup, till sundown, they were always busy at something, unless it was their watch or their time below. Four hours on, and four hours off, twenty-four hours a day, those seamen toed the line, and you seldom heard a single soul complain. They rested on their Sabbath, and those fellows deserved it if ever a sailor did.

Anyway, as I was saying, they gave some speeches dedicated to the glorious event of our independence, and then they toasted the country, the captain, and the Lord above, with grog. By the time they were finished, a happier bunch of folks you’ve never seen! I have to admit this was one rare occasion, when even the captain took a seat on deck.

Staying on the ship wasn’t going to be a problem from here on out! 6000 miles of uninterrupted ocean lay between us and the California coast. There’d be nothing to disturb our tranquility now, except a sail, a storm, or the San Francisco shore. The captain estimated, barring complications, we should make landfall in San Francisco the end of August, or early September. We seemed to be in pretty good shape as far as supplies. There was a small menagerie of livestock on board. We had pigs and chickens, and even a couple of milk goats. Besides eggs and milk, the ship had a good supply of all the sea cooks essentials. They stocked salt pork and hard tack, beans and bananas, apples and potatoes, canned goods and flour, and cheese by the hundredweight! We might not have a bowel movement for days on end, but there shouldn’t be a soul who went unfed.

Our biggest concern from here on out would be the blasted weather and the wind. About midway between our position and California, lay the equator. The combination of unpredictable currents and the sultry heat of the equator, creates all variety of conditions, some good, some bad, and some unbearable! Part of the trip we’re likely to be blessed by favorable southerly breezes and the trade winds. If the good Lord’s willing and the trade winds blow, this voyage could be over in a snap. If we’re plagued with calms at the equator, and don’t encounter a favorable westerly to blow us east toward land, we could reach the Sandwich Islands before we ever see the California shore.

So, on we sailed across the boundless south Pacific. Days begrudgingly turned to weeks, and at last the weary weeks had made one month. Early on the morning of August 2nd, Lidge and I were strolling the decks when ol’ eagle eye Kinney brought my attention to several small spits of land, about twenty minutes away, to our northeast. Borrowing the first mate’s eyeglass, we were busily scrutinizing the far-off islands when the captain joined us on the deck. Noting our curiosity, and evidently not immune himself, the captain called for a course that brought us hard to starboard.

Within fifteen minutes we heard the unmistakable sound of rookeries. Situated on the equator, west of Ecuador, and sharing their name with the 500-pound Tortoise who dines on the island’s succulents and suns his fortress-like hulk along their pristine shores, the Galapagos Islands are one of nature’s curiosities. Formed by comparatively recent volcanic eruptions and blessed with a variety of peculiar creatures found nowhere else in the world, they suggest that creation may be a work in progress. Bringing our vessel to within a couple hundred yards of this uninhabited haven, we gave her a quick once over with the scope, and then the captain suggested that time was money, and we veered hard a port and continued on our way.

Leaving the brief but satisfying diversion in our wake, we proceeded north by northwest and crossed the equator. Crossing the equator is not something I’d recommend to the faint of heart. Besides the fact that it’s hot as Hades, the crew has this little diversion that they plan. It’s evidently become a tradition among many seamen to initiate any unfortunate pilgrim who hasn’t made the club previously, with any number of unpleasant pranks designed to get even for the ones that were pulled on them. On this occasion, they had one poor unseasoned seaman suspended from a yardarm, upside down on a rope.

When you’re already fixing to lose your lunch from the heat and humidity, this treatment is almost guaranteed to make you cuss a streak, turn hemorrhoid blue, and eventually purge your innards! Fortunately for the rest of us, the captain intervened at this point, suggesting for the occasion a double ration of ale. This pacified the most avid prankster, and those not working retired below for a nap.

Sometimes, on a long, calm, leisurely afternoon, Lidge and I would lie on our backs on the decks and point out the shapes we believed we could see in the endless columns of constantly changing clouds. Uncle Mark warned that this kind of behavior might cloud our judgment or even addle our brains. Lidge and I took it all in stride, and Lidge came up with a pretty good comeback too. “My father always said,” says Lidge, “Hold tight to your dreams. Denied your dreams, reality can be toxic. A little taste of fantasy might cloud a fellow’s judgment, but a steady diet of reality could kill a goat!” Well, if you can find fault with wisdom like that, you’re a better man than me.

To be continued?

By Shannon Thomas Casebeer

Copyright © FEBRUARY 14th, 2009

THE HANGTOWN TRILOGY, OBIE, Episode Twenty-seven, VALPARAISO

 

THE HANGTOWN TRILOGY

OBIE

Episode Twenty-seven

VALPARAISO

We’d received a pretty good initiation and gained a whole new confidence in the capabilities of the ship, and that confidence would serve us well as we were treated to a succession of three more gales during the days ahead. On May 27th, we bid a fond farewell to Drake Passage and the dreaded Antarctica, and, thanking God that this leg of the voyage was behind us, we sailed out into the sunny South Pacific. Encountering prevailing winds from the southwest, we sailed cautiously some distance out into the sea, so as to avoid any possibility of being blown up against Patagonia, and then sailed northward up the coast. Although we’d be sailing in close proximity to Juan Fernandez Island, our next port of call would be Valparaiso Chili, in about one month.

During the afternoon of the 28th, a frigate under a cloud of sail approached us from the north. As the ship came within hailing distance, our captain hollered out, “Ahoy there! We be the Pacific, 73 days out from Philadelphia. Who be ye?” The captain of the frigate cupped his hands to his mouth and answered back in a booming voice, “We be the Mermaid, 94 days out of San Francisco, and bound for New York.” “God’s speed!” bellowed our captain over the cry of the gulls, and the Mermaid’s captain benevolently returned the blessing.

As expected, it wasn’t long until Lidge and I began to bond with Uncle Mark. He was habitually good-natured, and in that way at least, he reminded me a little bit of Lidge. Lidge beats everything I’d ever seen. He springs out of bed every morning, the moment his eyes are opened, happy as a clam! “Good marnin’ to ya!” he’d say, with that confounded smile. I can’t help it; I’m not a morning person! People who wake up bright and cheerful just get my goat! Lidge and his sister are both like that; it must be an Irish thing.

Uncle Mark spent time each day reading his Bible and keeping a log in his ledgers. “Regardless of what the future holds,” he’d say, “sustained success depends on documentation.” Uncle Mark was prepared. He’d brought along a dandy leather case about the size of a breadbox, and packed snugly away inside, were six new ledgers, a dozen quill pens, and three bottles of Higgins ink with cork stoppers; one black, one blue, and one red. “Barring complications,” he says, “we won’t need the red.”

During the afternoon of July third, the Juan Fernandez Islands came into view off the starboard bow. The captain brought the bow around until we were sailing east by northeast, and as evening approached, we sailed into Valparaiso Bay. From the bay, a mountain range rose up steeply to an altitude of about sixteen hundred feet. Perched precariously along the shore, and nestled into a number of steep rugged, ravines, the whitewashed and red tile roofed houses of Valparaiso caught the last rays of the waning sun.

The area’s rich mineral deposits produce a bright red soil, and this red soil in conjunction with the dry and remarkably clear atmosphere, caused the entire scene to glow eerily in the sunset. Beyond the coastal range, the Aconcagua Volcano rises to an elevation of two thousand feet, and beyond that the snowcapped Andes themselves sparkled majestically in the pristine mountain air. The cool nights, dry summers, and strong southerly winds, result in a sparseness of vegetation. There wasn’t a tree in sight, and with the exception of a few patches of some mighty hardy wildflowers, the only vegetation was an occasional cluster of short, stocky, shrubs. Our ship anchored in the bay, and several longboats prepared to go ashore.

After the memorable experience on our last shore leave, Lidge and I were sorely tempted to just play it safe and stay aboard the boat! The captain indicated that the ship would remain at anchor until around noon of the following day. Uncle Mark was determined to go ashore and see the sights, and eventually the temptation to follow outweighed our concerns.

You know how sometimes right at dusk, the wind stops abruptly for a period of time, just before changing direction? By the time we were aboard the longboat, the wind had entirely abated; there wasn’t a breath of breeze, and the water was every bit as still as glass. The ocean’s surface turned to cobalt blue, and as lamps blinked on from the homes along the shore, the entire scene was captured in a perfect mirror image on the sea. A dog barked in the distance, and the only other sound was the rhythmic stroking of our oars.

A tall, slender Chilean met us as we reached the pier, catching our rope and securing it to a piling. Greetings were exchanged, and we received directions to a visitor center some distance up the hill. Just as we arrived at the center, a commotion broke out across the steep, rut-riddled boulevard. An elderly gentleman was saddling two mares, and a young man was removing the leashes from several long, lean dogs. The man with the dogs looked up as we approached, introductions were exchanged, and we offered assistance. A colt that had been pastured in a nearby meadow was squealing plaintively and evidently under attack. As the young man talked, we heard the mournful wailing for ourselves.

The elder gentleman, who turned out to be the father, overheard our offer of assistance and readily accepted. A third horse was quickly saddled, and the two men each chose a mount. Lidge and I would ride double on the third mount. Within moments we were all mounted and galloping at a good pace up a steep embankment toward a trail. The horses fought desperately for secure footing in the loose shale, rocks flew everywhere, and I leaned forward and I clung tightly to Lidge.

Once we reached the trail, it was only a matter of minutes until we rode down along a rough precipice and arrived at a small pasture in the bottom of a gorge. The four of us quickly dismounted and began listening for some sign of the frightened colt. It was rapidly growing too dark to see, and the only sound was the heavy breathing of our badly winded mounts. Leashing the frantic dogs, the father lit a lamp as he began his decent down a steep embankment, and the three of us fell hurriedly in behind.

Carefully negotiating a dry wash, I was suddenly horrified when an enormous form lunged toward us from an outcropping of rock, not a dozen feet away. I fell to my knees, expecting the ravenous predator to land momentarily, on whomever the creature had chosen as its prey. To my amazement, it didn’t land at all, but rose in ever-widening circles into the night sky.

Our hurried steps had disturbed a giant condor from its roost. This magnificent vulture had a wingspan of at least twelve feet, and it instilled in me a whole new respect for buzzards. It rose quickly into the darkness and was gone. The four of us regained our composure and continued our search. Moments later, around the next bend, the brush shook violently and the darkness reverberated with a hair-raising squall which sounded to me like a women’s hysterical scream. I broke out in goose bumps and my heart skipped several beats.

Within seconds of the terrifying scream, a large cat sprang from the bushes. Its snarling teeth gleamed for an instant in the lamplight, and then it screamed again and leapt into the night. My comrades took several steps forward, raised the lamp, and there on the ground were the tattered remains of the unfortunate colt.

Well, we’d done the best we could. Evidently pumas, as they call them here, are not at all uncommon in this area, and the scarcity of large game, due to the sparse habitat, occasionally forces them to attack the local livestock. The scarcity of any wild game in the area is responsible for the almost entirely vegetarian diet of the human population. Turning into herbivores is not an option for the puma population, so they improvise and do the best they can.

There was nothing to be done here, so we collected our horses and headed back toward the port. The moon was no more than a sliver, and you couldn’t see your hand in front of your face. A chilling north wind swept down from the Andes, the atmosphere was pristine, and the stars were bright as polished brass and seemed the size of lemons. The complete darkness and treacherous terrain necessitated a mighty leisurely pace. By the time we arrived back at their home, a crowd had gathered along with Uncle Mark. We put up the horses and related the tale of the puma and the colt.

I introduced Uncle Mark to our new Chilean acquaintances, and they invited the three of us to stay for supper. Unk, having made other arrangements, thanked them kindly for their offer and suggested that Lidge and I stay and accept their hospitality. We gratefully took them up on their kind offer, and the crowd dispersed. Upon entering their home, we found the mother and daughter preparing the evening meal. Both smiled politely, but neither said a word. The father seated us at small table in an austerely furnished lean-to off the kitchen.

The home consisted of three rooms and a small, low loft. Within twenty minutes, we were each served a steaming bowl of boiled beans, along with a plate of roasted grains and fresh bread. The daughter eyed Lidge coyly as she poured our tea, and then the women adjourned to an adjacent room and the father and son each joined us at our table. Both were cordial, unassuming, and quiet. After several attempts at conversation, Lidge and I finally just sat quietly and finished our meal.

Twenty minutes later the mother returned briefly to the kitchen, and then approached our table with what was evidently considered a very special treat. Lidge and I eyed the concoction suspiciously, and at last the father pointed to the dish and said, “duff, eat!” I’d heard of duff before, but I’d never had an opportunity to sample the dish myself. Duff is a pretty basic pudding, consisting simply of flour boiled in water. The young man removed a small decanter of a sweet, syrupy condiment of some kind and applied it very liberally over his bowl. Lidge and I both hesitantly followed suit. Noting our hesitance, the father had another idea. Reaching into a cabinet under the shelf, he grinned enthusiastically, and brought out a jug of rum. Lidge and I had been down this road before! We waved our hands and shook our heads, and indicated we’d really rather not! This is the first time we’ve seen this ol’ guy smile. He popped the cork, poured a generous amount of the 90-proof condiment over his duff, and each of us grabbed a wooden spoon and advanced on our pasty treat. Thank God we were hungry or we’d never have gotten it down. Its consistency was a little like cobbler’s paste, and the flavor smacked of kerosene and goats!

After a while this ol’ guy loosened up, and he and his son begin to spin some yarns. Before long the kid got to doctoring his duff too, and the more they apply their tongue loosener, the more colorful their anecdotes become! They tell stories that would cause the saltiest ol’ seadog to blush. Lidge and I just kept real quiet and took it all in. While in Rome sometimes it’s best to keep still and humor the Romans.

Next thing you know, it’s after midnight, and we need a place to crash and get some rest! Lidge yawned real big, and the father pointed to a ladder that leads up to the loft. Come to find out, we’re sleeping up there with the son. Well, it’s too late to back water now. There’s no way back to the ship at this late hour. Lidge and I smiled and resigned ourselves to our fate. The three of us climbed the ladder and crawled on our hands and knees into this cramped, unheated loft. It’s about 25 degrees outside, and the draft from the eaves would chill a wooden Indian.

Now don’t get me wrong, we appreciate their hospitality and all, and these folks are just as sweet as they can be, but within ten minutes this kid begins to snore! And I’m not talking about your everyday, garden-variety, snort and rattle either. This kid’s snoring loosens plaster and rattles windows! Lidge and I buried our heads in the straw and jammed our ears with knuckles.

Next thing you know, the atmosphere in this place goes raunchier than the bilge water in the boat! Something this kid has eaten is leaking out in fumes! It gets so bad that we can’t even breathe! Lidge headed out first and I followed on his heels. Leaving the ladder, we both took a seat on the bench. “Well, now what do ya want to do?” It’s about one thirty in the morning now. There’s no way back to the ship, it’s way too cold to sleep outside, and we’re concerned we’ll hurt their feelings if we leave.

So, we’re sitting there hanging our heads, and here comes the daughter. This little gal is probably about fourteen years old; cute as a speckled pup, and she’s not wearing nothing but a floor length nightshirt and some goose bumps. She smiles real sweet and slides up alongside Lidge. Well, you talk about somebody sucking wind; Lidge turned white as a sheet, folded his hands in his lap, and for at least a minute poor Lidge don’t even breathe! This little sweetheart is adorned with a white variegated flower in her hair, and this flower is so fragrant, that after a minute, I’m beginning to feel puny myself!

So now what? Well, there clearly ain’t but one-way of getting out of this jam alive. Faster than greased lightning; we’re up that ladder and thanking the Lord for that cozy little loft! It don’t smell near as perty as that little gal, but the smell ain’t likely to kill us, and we’re not sure that’s true of that little darling’s dad. We toughed it out until first light, and as soon as the stars winked out, we bounded down the ladder and made a mad dash for the wood range. The mom was heating water for tea, and she smiled pleasantly as we entered the room. We stood quietly by the range until the dad arrived. The old boy was a little under the weather this morning. His eyes were red as beats, and he was evidently suffering from too much hot rum duff! After a table blessing, the mother removed a loaf of fresh baked wheat bread from the oven, and served it up warm with hot tea and some nice fresh figs. It really was a very pleasant meal. We visited briefly with the entire family, and all the while Lidge was making a point of keeping me between himself and that sweet young thing.

After breakfast I offered the father a couple of coins, which he readily stuck in his pocket, and then we thanked them all kindly, gathered our gear, and ran like the dickens for the pier. There were longboats coming and going regularly now, and we grabbed the next boat and high-tailed it back to the ship. Take me for a silly lout and question my sporting blood, but from this point on, I’m staying on the boat!

Uncle Mark had a real good belly laugh at our expense, as we related the gut-wrenching details of our ill-fated Chilean adventure. “You boys beat all!” he says, shaking his head and finger grooming his whiskers, “scared half to death by a bowl of rum duff and a helpless little girl.” Well, that’s easy for him to say, but he didn’t see the longing look in the soulful eyes of that desperate sweetheart’s face!

To be continued?

By Shannon Thomas Casebeer

Copyright © FEBRUARY 14th, 2009