Merry Christmas

 We want to wish everyone a Merry Christmas and a well needed Happy New year.

As you know, this is mainly a research and travel blog, but this year, on Christmas Eve, we thought, perhaps a little fictional short story on the magical wonders of this season may be needed. John wrote the following short story and we want to share it with you.

We hope you enjoy.

A Steady Hand

by

John R. Beyer

 

“Are you going out today?”

The skipper peered out of the Crowne’s front window and nodded his large bushy haired head. “Not much choice. Family gotta eat.”

“Family ain’t gonna eat if you go and get yourself drowned,” the bartender replied while dragging a semi-clean damp cloth across the nicked and stained bar top.

“Family ain’t gonna eat if I don’t neither,” the skipper said. “The squall will lesson up by the time I hit Barney’s Point.”

The bartender whose name was Roger White, but everyone called him Ken. He wiped one more time on the counter before throwing the rag into a small plastic tub by the sink. “Weather man says something different.”

“Ken, when have they ever been right about the weather?”

“Last year when the Nor’easter took out Louie’s Crab Shack. They knew about that didn’t they?”

The skipper, whom everyone called the Skipper, nodded. “Okay, once in a while they get it right but that old restaurant was bound to fall down with the slightest wind and rain.”

“Three goddamn days brought a lot of rain, Skipper,” Ken said. “Lost a lot of crab and lobster pots along the way, too.”

“It’ll blow through by noon.”

Looking up at the clock shaped like a wooden-spoked ship’s wheel, Ken shook his head. “It’s half past two already and it ain’t given up.”

“Better get going then,” Skipper replied while walking from the window and grabbing his oiler from the bent coat rack by the front door of the Crowne. “Put the drinks on my tab, Ken.”

“I wish you’d pay your tab,” Ken griped but then went ahead and scribbled a few new numbers on the Skipper’s ‘owe page’ in a battered old black leather ledger.

Normally it would take less than three minutes for Skipper to walk from the Crowne down to the docks where his Duffy 35 was tied up, but with the wind howling and the rain slanting at a forty-five degree angle into his face, the journey took nearly ten minutes.

“Maybe Ken was right,” said Skipper barely able to hear his own words. The wind was really ripping and the sidewalk was slippery beneath his Wellies as he made his way to the waterside.

Skipper had no family who actually depended on him going out on a day like this, to try to do his best to catch whatever was available this late in the season. Striped bass weren’t probably out on a day like this and the same with the black sea bass or even the Bluefin tuna, which was his favorite because it was the one he could always count on selling to the local restaurants which littered the historic downtown section of this small Maine fishing village.

Rowlings had actually become more of a weekend destination point for the millennials who ventured up the Eastern Seaboard looking for small venues to sip their expensive wine while tossing back plates full of crab, oysters, and any other crustaceans the local fishermen like Skipper could retrieve.

He’d fished all his life and his daddy before him and his granddaddy before him. It was all he knew – well that and the pain of losing the family he had once had years ago. The family he always told others that he was fishing for.

They were dead. Killed on the afternoon of Christmas Eve eleven years earlier while he was out on the water. He had not really been fishing, just out on the water. Lights had been strung around the early 20^th century grey wood-shingled two story house where he had lived the past thirty years. Nineteen of those years had been with his wife Teresa and two small children Anne and Tommy. The old house appeared perpetually ready for the holidays. But though the lights were always up, they were never flicked on. He had never had the emotional energy to ignite the tiny multi-colored lights since the evening he had returned home and saw Frank Sanders’ patrol car in his driveway.

“Skipper – your family was killed while you were out on the water.”

It had been a simple statement from a simple man. Skipper thought nothing of the way the news had been delivered – it was just Frank’s way of saying things. Chief Sanders was a kind, God-fearing man whom Skipper had known all his life. The facts were simple – his wife and two young children had been killed in a car accident just three miles from their home. Seems as though Teresa had a blow-out on the right front tire while navigating a sharp turn, and then overcorrected, sending the Jeep Cherokee first into a tree and then down a sharp embankment into Smyth’s pond. Skipper wasn’t sure if they had been alive when the car went into the water but he hoped they had not – the thought of drowning was the last thing Skipper would have wanted his family to suffer through.

Being a seafaring man, drowning was a constant nightmare with which he lived on a daily basis. It hadn’t been the nightmare for his family but reality

He hoped they hadn’t drowned but the damage on the car was limited so they probably did.

Lifting one heavy right leg over the gunwale Skipper steadied himself on a stay line that he had added years ago from the aft to the cabin door of the small enclosure toward the bow of the power boat. It was his own design, and now some of the fellow fishermen and even some recreational users utilized the idea. Step onto the deck in nasty weather and you could immediately hook up or simply use the plastic coated steel cable to find your way into the cockpit.

Opening the door to the small salon which housed the pilot seat for the thirty-five footer Skipper felt the immediate relief from the wind and rain as he closed the door behind him. The silence was nearly deafening, but within a second or two the ripping winds made their way into his sanctuary. Still, it was much quieter than a few moments ago. Quite enough to think.

It was foolish to go out on a day like this but he was determined to cruise for at least an hour out onto the bay and perhaps out onto the Atlantic itself.

Why?

He had no answer so he reached out his right hand toward the instrument-laden console and lit up the Caterpillar diesel which gave the It’s Hard Work its heart. The 1986 Duffy came to life with a roar and rumble and Skipper tightened his oiler a bit more as he once more trudged out of the cabin and into the rain and wind.

He was glad he had installed the stay line, as he called it, on this foul day as he inched up the wet deck toward the bow and slid the rope off the port side cleat. Repeating the same he undid the aft rope and hurried back into the cabin.

With the position of Skippers dock the water was rather calm even with the wind above deck. There was a large wooden fishing commercial building hanging out nearly sixty yards into the small harbor giving most of the slips a comfortable wave resistance.

With the ease of an old experienced hand Skipper sent the dual levers up a titch and the fishing boat made way out of the slip and into the main channel leading to the bay.

No cover from the building gave Skipper an immediate understanding how turbulent the winds and water were. It would be much worse within twenty minutes as he passed the familiar landmarks on the port side. He sat back in his well-padded pilot seat and hung onto the wheel as the small ship wanted to heave portside while he demanded starboard.

The waves crashed up and over the bow so he put out more thrust knowing the boat would level itself even with the roller coaster ride ahead. Within a few moments the boat was handling the rough weather as it always did – like a pro.

A steady seven knots into the head wind made Skipper feel rather confident that he may be able to outride the storm which suddenly looked as though it was running out of steam. The clouds had stopped sending the steady stream of rain and now just a gentle shower was striking the boat as he made his way steadily forward. The waves themselves had lessened within the few short minutes he had been handling the boat and the speed was picking up also without making adjustments to the throttles.

At ten knots the ride was cleaner and his spirits picked up as he suddenly a small rainbow break loose like a shot to the port. A beautiful sight these rainbows. Skipper never got tired of witnessing the multicolor light show from the heavens over the blue of the Atlantic – today was no different.

He pushed himself hard against the Captain’s chair and then relaxed. His lower back muscle suddenly feeling much better and not so tight as it had a few minutes before when he worried so about the weather and if he should be out on a day like this. That’s what happened when the Skipper worried – the muscles in his lower back bunched up causing him hell. He would stretch or like he just did, push against something like the seat as hard as he could and the tension would be gone. He wasn’t a medical doctor but knew what worked in those situations and worked it did.

He felt much better.

Elven knots and the water was relatively calm and no rain was falling. Thirty minutes and he’d be a mile or so out of the bay and in open water where, if he chose, he could drop a line or two. Today wasn’t really commercial time but more Skipper time. He needed to be alone – to be in the solitude of the ocean.

Memories of that Christmas Eve had welled up inside his brain over the past few days and he couldn’t shake the doldrums he was feeling. Of course, he blamed himself for the death of his family.

He hadn’t even fished on that Christmas Eve but simply headed out to the shoals and puttered around – maybe he did drop a line or two but he couldn’t remember. It wasn’t important if he remembered or not – they were dead and he wasn’t.

Or wasn’t he?

He sometimes laughed with the other fishermen around the docks. Sometimes have way too many beers and stagger home rather drunk. Even maybe go out to dinner with the few friends he had and smile and joke but when he made it back home all there was an empty home.

House really now – a home is where the family is and a house is where there is no family.

The sun was doing a peek-a-boo with the clouds and one moment it was sunny the next it wasn’t. Skipper looked out to sea and noticed that some of the waves were starting to grow toward the mouth of the bay. Not a good sign.

Perhaps he should spin the wheel and bring the Duffy back to dock. He increased the speed a bit and headed further out into the building sea.

“You don’t need to do this,” Skipper said aloud as the bow took a direct hit by a crashing wave and then another in the two setter. He almost fell out of his chair but by bracing his legs against the console he was able to hang on.

As far as he could see, the visibility was probably near a mile even in the current weather conditions, he didn’t see another boat.

“No fool would be out on a day like this,” he said. “Then why am I here?”

He had no rational answer but knew that rational thought had no business in his head – he was out there because he was out there.

Just like eleven years ago when he should have been home with his family – perhaps they would all still be alive or perhaps they, including himself, would all be dead. Drowning inside a dark car in a small pond on the outskirts of town.

He would have preferred that over this. He turned the wheel to port to avoid a side stinging high wave and took the punch in the face. The small boat shuddered, shook herself off and plowed ahead into the rest of the oncoming waves.

He was a confident seaman. Hurricane’s and the like frightened him but through decades of battling the devil he had gotten used to them. He trimmed the engines a bit and the Duffy rode a little higher and more stable.

He knew the waters, had been raised on the waters and nothing could dissuade him from the rough waters ahead. But something suddenly punched him in the stomach.

Looking starboard he saw an unexpected guest. A blind wave, many called them rogue waves, but seasoned sailors knew they weren’t rogue but simply there to test a sailors mettle. Skipper’s mettle was tight to the point of breaking but at this last moment he thought of his wife and that’s when the wave hit, cascading over bow and stern with ferocious velocity.  The small boat nearly capsized as he gripped the wheel and the console with all his might.

The heavens still showed mainly blue and clear but Skipper knew that could be deceptive on the open sea. He realized believing in the heavens was a failure of most humans. In reality there was nothing but unexplored stars, constellations and the rest science proclaimed. There was no God waiting for those who believed – those who believed were simply fools on a fantasy wish for a heavenly existence after death.

He knew of no afterlife. No god was going to be merciful to him. He would be worm food and nothing more in the future.

The Duffy shuddered again, rocked back and forth but finally settled on a northerly direction and Skipper knew it was time to tack around and head back to port. The clouds were no problem but the waves were pitching way too high for no reason. He grabbed the wheel and spun it in almost a hundred and forty degrees. Port needed to be reached and he was determined to reach it quickly.

Ten minutes later he was headed for the mouth of the bay and realized he had missed a bullet that afternoon.

Then he heard the sound no sailor wants to hear. An aft crashing wave that was not expected but happened.

Skipper spun around in the wheelhouse cursed and was taken over by a wall of water that had to be at least twenty feet tall. The Duffy took the full brunt of the wave in the aft section and Skipper grabbed for the chrome half inch safety grip around the console.

                He didn’t find it.

                With the lunge of a drunken bear Skipper staggered across the small enclosure of the wheelhouse and found himself falling to the deck as the Duffy skittered beneath the impact of the wave.

                “This will hurt,” he heard himself say as the bulkhead reached up to him for a punishing blow.

                There was nothing but silence – dark silence.

                “You shouldn’t have been out at sea today.”

                Skipper felt the wound to the left side of his face and knew that there was a gash which probably needed stitches and he had also heard a statement directed at him.

                He didn’t reply but just laid on the deck in pain and confusion.

                “You were always a quiet sort of guy.”

                Skipper knew the voice.

                “I had to be since you did most of the talking.”

                “You never complained.”

                “Nor would I ever had,” Skipper said from the prone position. “I loved you and loved the sound of your voice.”

                He started to wriggle into a sitting position but stopped when the voice continued.

                “Just lay still while the blood coagulates. You’ll be fine if you just ride out the next wave and then you can head back to dock.”

                “But I want to see you,” he said. “I miss you.”

                “You’ll see me and the children soon enough and we miss you but it is not your time.”

                Skipper laid back as told and breathed easily. He wasn’t scared but happy to hear the voice of his wife. “Why not? I’m ready.”

                “Is that why you went out today with a storm a brewing? You wanted to end it now?”

                “You seem to know things – I’m sure you can tell me what I was thinking.”

                “It’s not like that.”

                “What is it then like?”

                “I don’t really know,” Teresa replied. “I am just here – just now.”

                “Where are you most of the time?”

                “In your heart I presume.”

                Skipper knew that to be the truth. His head strangely didn’t hurt and he could tell the wound had stopped bleeding but he had no desire to stand up. The boat was tossing to the throes of the waves but he was not worried about capsizing – the Duffy could take it. He just wanted to lay on the deck listening to his beautiful wife whom he had missed so much over the past eleven years.

                He just wanted to lay there.

                “You can get up now.”

                “I don’t want to.”

                “The bleeding has stopped and you should probably get back to the wheel and point your bow to the safety of the harbor.”

                “I miss you.”

                “And we miss you – Tommy and Anne talk about you all the time and can’t wait to see you again.”

                “Are they here with you?”

                “No – I’m not sure where they are but they are not here.”

                “You don’t seem to know much about your current status do you?”

                “It’s difficult that much I’ll say,” replied Teresa. “It’s like being somewhere comforting and familiar but not really knowing the exact location. Odd actually.”

                “Sounds like it,” Skipper said while slowly sitting up knowing he should be at the wheel and not lying on the deck spread eagled.

                He pulled himself up by grabbing the rail running along the front side of the console and stopped a moment to catch his breath.

                “Dizzy?”

                “And nauseous.”

                “You banged your head pretty hard when you fell.”

                “You saw it happen? Are you watching me from Heaven?”

                There was a long silence. “No, not exactly but when you fell I saw it and then I was here – well that’s how it happened. I’m not sure I’m in Heaven but some place safe with the children.”

                Skipper thought about that for a moment. “What do you do all day?”

                “I don’t know – there’s really no time where I am, just a presence.”

                “God?” Skipper asked as he regained his balance and sat down behind the wheel. There was no one in the cabin – just Teresa’s voice.

                “I don’t know just a presence of peace and harmony. No pain, no longing, no sadness – just contentment.”

                “And the kids?”

                “Oh, yes they are with me – we’re all together.”

                “In a house or an apartment?”

                Teresa laughed. “Spin the wheel, Skipper – there’s a wave breaking a quarter mile out but you have time to run from it.”

                He did as he was told and the Duffy easily drove back inside the breakwater of the harbor while the wave approaching dwindled. Clouds had given away to sunshine and the sea was very calm at this point. He had no idea how long he had lain on the deck but looking at the hours on the engines knew it had to be at least twenty minutes as the Duffy had made its way back to port with no one at the wheel.

                “Was today a miracle?” Skipper asked, while once again looking around inside the cabin. There was no one.

                “Every day is a miracle, my love. Remember that – each day is to be cherished and fought for. Days are limited but happiness is not. We are happy, and we know that one day we will all be together again.”

                “When is that?” Skipper asked hoping the answer in return would be very soon.

                “Not for a while,” Teresa said as her voice started fading a bit making it hard for Skipper to hear it above the slight breeze beyond the glass windows. “Not for a while.”

                “I have to wait?”

                “You must wait until it’s time.”

                “I guess I can wait,” he muttered.

                A small laugh emitted from within the confines of the small cabin. “You have no choice on that matter.”

                Then, once again it was silent.

                “Good-bye, Teresa,” Skipper said as he brought ‘It’s Hard Work’ gliding back to dock.

                The engines off, Skipper sat while the boat bumped against the rubber guards and thought. It only lasted a few minutes until he pushed himself out of the Captain’s seat and went outside to tie the Duffy up.

                Walking home he thought about stopping by the Crowne’s for a beer and tell Ken about his day but no one would believe the story.

It was dark, he was tired and he should probably check on the wound to his head even though it no longer hurt. He’d tend to it anyway.

He walked home, stepped up to the front porch, turned and stared up into the star filled sky. Opening the front door he suddenly flipped on the string of Christmas lights.

Something he had not done in eleven years.

               

 

 

 

 

 

 

Enjoy the unexpected at Christmas

 

The Christmas Season is rapidly approaching with lighting speed. Time to get out and shop, or more likely, to sit on the sofa and order online.

It is still 2020, after all. And remember, no more than zero guests are allowed for any planned holiday festivities. In fact, rumor has it that a new guideline may be out about soon which will outlaw eating alone, so you don’t spread COVID-19 to yourself.

Which brings me to a point I want to share.

One of the most thoughtful and handsome characters is that Yuletide favorite, the Grinch. He who cares so much for the townsfolk of Whoville, that he takes away all their gifts. It’s a teachable moment for those residing in that whacky little town, and the Grinch wants to show them that gifts are not what makes the season. It is what is in the heart that truly matters.

Let me dare – I must, I must – to share what the Grinch is thinking when he looks down at the citizens of Whoville, and sees everyone happy, smiling, and singing (frowned upon now), even though he had snatched all their gifts, including the Christmas trees.

‘Maybe Christmas, he thought, doesn’t come from a store. Maybe Christmas, perhaps, means a little bit more.’

                            Probably, the nicest guy during the Christmas Holidays!

A gift is fine, but a smile, or nod behind a mask may mean more. Someone offering you their parking spot at the mall may mean more. Holding a door open for a stranger may mean more. Tipping a bit higher than usual at an outdoor eating establishment (aren’t they all now?), may mean more. In other words, being polite to each other may mean more.

A gift is fine, but giving or receiving isn’t just about pretty packages wrapped up tightly with ribbons or bows – or arriving in a light brown Amazon box.

It’s those unexpected moments and experiences that truly warm the heart.

What is the point of this article? A moral lesson of the true meaning of Christmas? Nope, but just a gentle reminder that sometimes the best gifts are not always expected, or perhaps not even thought of as gifts.

For example – and yes, we are getting to the article now -- Laureen and I planned a fifteen-mile off-road trip across Christmas Tree Pass in Nevada. It’s an easy off-paved road drive, but you don’t really need a four-wheel drive vehicle, if you keep abreast of weather reports. Being just northwest of Laughlin, the weather is pretty predictable: it will be clear and dry the majority of the year.

The pass is between Nevada Highway 163 and US Highway 93. It wriggle-waggles through some very picturesque scenery in the Newberry Mountains, with views of the Colorado River valley to the east.

Why is it called Christmas Tree Pass? Well, it is a pass through the mountains, but as far as Christmas trees – not so much.

There are lots of tall Juniper bushes, which from a distance, sort of look like Christmas trees. But when pulling up to one, nope, it’s a Juniper bush. Now, some clever people have decided to decorate the bushes with tinsel, ornaments, and such – so, that’s why the pass is known as the Christmas Tree Pass. It’s sort of a kitschy thing to do, drive by a Juniper bush and disguise it as a Christmas tree. No one will notice the difference – that’s the kitschy part.

We drove in from the Highway 163, south of Searchlight, and headed out on the pass toward Highway 93 and Laughlin.

“Looks like a Christmas tree,” Laureen stated, as we drove down a rather steep incline, and saw the first decorated bush.

“It’s a Juniper bush,” I replied. “Where’s the Blue Spruce, or the Noble Fir trees?”

“You know your trees.” She was stating the obvious.

“Not even a Concolor Fir, to be seen,” I replied. Yeah, I know my trees.

Nothing but Juniper bushes pretending to be Christmas trees. Imposters, all of them.

 

An imposter Juniper, disguised as a Christmas Tree

We continued down the dirt road, taking a photo here and there of some pretty amazing rock formations.

“Well, at least it’s a pretty drive.”

I nodded. “Would have nice to see a Christmas tree, since that’s how it is advertised.” Fake news.

And, here comes the part of the joy of an unexpected gift.

About two miles or so from the end of the pass road, we came upon a sign pointing down another dirt road to the west - Grapevine Canyon, Spirit Mountain.

“And what do we have here?” I asked.

Turns out, there is a trail heading into Grapevine Canyon in Spirit Mountain contains over seven hundred petroglyphs. These drawings were created by Native Americans between the years of 1100 and 1900 AD.

The number and intricacy of the designs are so impressive, that the area is listed on the National Register of Historic Places. It is one of the most pristine areas in which to view such petroglyphs, and also rock shelters used by the artists.

The hike was only a quarter of mile across a dry, sandy riverbed and is easily accessible for pretty much anyone. And as the trail narrows on the approach to the canyon, the first sight of the dozens and dozens of petroglyphs is amazing.

                                 The wonderful art of a hunting party.

                                       Laureen pointing out some of her favorite glyphs

Since the time span was so long, no one is certain who carved the petroglyphs exactly. According to many sources, the Mojave tribe may be the one responsible for most of the drawings. Though, the area is considered sacred – thus the name Spirit Mountain – or Avi Kwa’ Ame (pronounced as it spelled), by those tribes who spoke Yuman or Numic dialogues. These would include, but not be limited to the Mojave, the Hualapai, and the Maricopa tribes.

The area is actually considered the center of creation for all those tribes who speak Yuman or Numic. It is a sacred locale which is listed as a Traditional Cultural Property – this would be areas that are connected through traditional religious or cultural importance to specific groups, Native Americans, being only one such group.

As we walked through the canyon, marveling at the beauty of the glyphs (that’s what we researchers refer to petroglyphs as), there was sense of awe just standing there. Being in the presence of messages written so long ago, reminded me that we were in a very special place indeed.

  These are ancient peoples, or aliens visiting the desert

There were glyphs portraying people hunting, animals hunting, people sitting, animals sitting, animals running, people running, and some Laureen swore looked like aliens with helmets on.

“I must agree,” I stated. “Saw that one on the Discovery Channel, Ancient Aliens series.”

We met a lone traveler, not space alien, as he claimed to be from Montana.

“I’m on a road trip, and read about this place from the app, AllTrails. It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

I have the same app, but didn’t mention it. Let him believe he was the only one with it, my gift to him. Probably made his day.

Jim, I think that was his name, but it could have been Steve, asked us questions about the place. How old were the drawings? Who made them? And, and so on.

I explained what I knew, and he was impressed. We bade Jim, or Steve a safe journey and explored all the drawings for an hour or more.

A short drive with a great ending.

It’s like that unexpected gift – didn’t know it was coming, but when it did, it was truly appreciated.

As with anywhere, care must be taken not to disturb or destroy these wonderful and priceless memories of past peoples. Go in, look around, take photos, and leave everything as it was.

It is sacred to many people – and should be treated as such.

In 2010, an idiot (can I say that?), decided to use a paintball gun and defaced over thirty petroglyphs. He was caught, spent time in federal prison, and paid ten thousand dollars in restitution. An idiot and criminal too boot. But the damage was done.

I believe, he will always receive coal in his stocking – and rightfully so.

Use a Brain while camping

 

According to the 2017 American Camper Report, nearly 41 million Americans went camping in 2016. That’s about fourteen percent of the population venturing out into nature, having a great time – the other eighty-six percent didn’t have any good times in 2016.

Anyone who has spent time enjoying the great outdoors camping and staring up into the endless, inky dark night sky, knows what I am writing about.

It’s awesome. Being out in nature, which is one of the few pleasures we can indulge in at this time, is a wonderful experience. Fresh air. Sunshine or moonshine (I mean looking up at the moon – not the stuff my uncle used to make in his bathtub). Time with family and friends. Just an overall quiet, good time.

And obviously, with the numbers reported by the American Camper Report, a lot of people enjoy camping on their time off.

We do, and we did recently. Never having spent much time in the Hualapai Mountains, just outside of the city of Kingman, Arizona – we decided to do some rough camping. Rough camping is defined as, not having room service, or any service at all for creature comforts.

No calling down for a bottle of cold bubbly at ten in the evening. No sheets turned down with a little mint waiting on the pillow. No tiny bottles of shampoo, conditioner, and body lotion that seem to disappear at check-out time.

Nope, simply a tent, sleeping bags, propane stove, foldable chairs, and your own personal toiletries. That’s rough camping, baby!

The mountain range in Mohave County, was named after the Hualapai people who once lived there. Their name actually means, people of the tall pines – and there is an abundance of tall pines in these mountains.

If one wants to be an expert, the Hualapai Mountains in the Mohave language is – Amat ‘Avii Kahuwaaly (pronounced as it is spelled). These mountains have five tall peaks which overlook the valley to the north of the city of Kingman.

“You know, the mountains are going to be chilly in the evening,” Laureen noted, as I packed up our vehicle for the trek.

“I’ll build a fire.”

The look, only she can give, had me rethink that last comment. “It’ll be a propane fire.”

In this year, 2020 – yeah, the one we’d like to forget – has seen, according to the National Interagency Fire Center, over 47,277 wild fires in ten states. Arizona alone, had seen more than 1,600 itself as of November 1^st.

With a quick call to the Mohave County Parks Department, I spoke with a very informative person who informed me that no fires of any type were allowed.

“So, my thought of a log fire the size of Kentucky is a no-go,” I mentioned.

 “That would be a no.”

“Understood, how about a self-contained propane fire – a small one?”

“That’s the only type allowed.”

We chit-chatted for a few minutes on how destructive the forest fires have been in Arizona and the rest of the Southwest, as well as the Northwest.

“People-made or nature produced?” I wanted to know.

I knew that in Northern California in August, a rare dry lightning storm had caused over one thousand separate ground fires. I hadn’t heard of any event of that magnitude in the state of Arizona, but was curious.

“People caused.”

“Dumb people?” I asked.

“Who else would start fires when the forest is as dry as it is?”

So, we packed up and drove off to the Hualapais for a little rough camping. I did bring some little mints for the sleeping bags though. That’s just the thoughtful kind of guy I am. I hope my wife appreciates how lucky she is. Maybe one of my readers will write in and tell her how good she’s got it. But I digress.

Hualapai Mountain Park, where the campground is located, was actually constructed in the 1930s by the Civilian Conservation Corps for the crews working on the Davis Dam, located near the town of Bullhead City, Arizona.

                                                  Beautiful area to spend some time

It seemed that while the huge construction project was under way, the workers felt a little overwhelmed, after sweltering in summer temperatures that rivaled that of the surface of the sun.

“It’s really hot, boss.”

“Hey, it’s not that hot. Only my nose melted off today, not my whole face. Now get back to work!”

So, the camp was built in the Hualapai Mountains, where the summer average temperature is quite cool compared to where the dam was being built, perhaps by thirty degrees. Here, the workers could cool off in the mountain air, while listening to the soft breezes whistling through the tall pines, instead of the constant cacophony of construction equipment.

It was a peaceful setting, and only about 45 miles from the construction site. The park still has rock cabins from those days, that visitors can rent by the day, the week, or the month. Right near the campsite we stayed, there is a rock bridge over a creek built by those same workers who constructed the Davis Dam.

                                           John standing on original 1930's rock bridge

History permeates the park. It is truly fascinating, and shows the determination of those who built the dam, to make a nice, comfortable, and soothing place to escape when not working in the heat of the desert by the Colorado River.

We pitched camp around two in the afternoon and just sat in a couple of chairs, enjoying the coolness of the mountains.

“This is lovely,” Laureen observed.

“I can’t hear you over the soft breeze through the pine trees,” I replied.

                               Laureen, enjoying a warm dinner, cold wine and propane fire

At that moment, a Park Ranger’s truck pulled up in front of our campsite. Ranger Gino stepped out and advised us that no wood fires were allowed.

“Got the propane one ready,” I replied.

He was, as many people I meet along the byways – a fount of knowledge. It was actually he, who informed us of how the campground was created back in the 1930s. Ranger Gino was just a guy who loved his job and stopped by each campsite explaining the do’s and don’ts that would be accepted on his turf.

“You know, where you’re camped is the highway for our elk.”

He then explained that all sorts of wildlife visit the campground, depending on the season. There were the elk, he had mentioned, as well as bear, mountain lions, deer, and other animals. “Just don’t feed them.”

“I only brought enough food for the two of us,” I reassured Ranger Gino.

It seems, like many parks through-out the nation have witnessed, visitors believe it’s kind to feed the wildlife, which then don’t behave like wildlife. The animals become dependent on hand-outs from human visitors, and when they don’t receive a freebie snack, they often become demanding and aggressive.

“We’re all actually trying to retrain guests how to interact with the wildlife. They are, after all, wild animals.”

Ranger Gino left and fifteen minutes later a six-foot-tall elk walked by our camp. It stopped, looked at us and then moseyed on her way into the forest to bed down for the evening.

It was a beautifully majestic sight within a few feet of us.

Then it happened.

New campers came and started to set up camp two spots down from us. I say, started to since within minutes of being there, one of the campers decided that starting a huge bonfire was a great idea in a dry forest.

Ranger Gino, arrived like a superhero with radar, and leaped from his truck.

“Oh, no – no – no,” he yelled, as the female fire starter looked at him in surprise.

“You can’t have an open fire,” he stated. “There’re signs everywhere forbidding it.”

“It’s not an open fire; it’s on the ground,” she responded.

Ranger Gino looked a bit perplexed at that statement.

I smiled at Laureen, “She is a dumb human, I think.”

She was, and our big ears picked up that she and her friends were being booted from camping here for the remainder of the year. Ranger Gino didn’t even issue a fine as he could have – gave them a break. What a nice guy!

Other than that, the camping was wonderful and peaceful – but one thing to remember is to always follow the rules when out in the great outdoors.

And don’t be dumb. It’s embarrassing for the rest of us who have to share this Earth.

 

 

 

 

Orphan Trains

 

It's that time of year for the Hallmark Chanel, and all their sappy holiday love stories. Turn on the television, grab some popcorn, and don't forget the tissues. Oh yes, if you happen to watch one of these movies, primarily filmed in Canada, by the way, you will usually shed a tear or two.

Hate to admit, but John has been seen reaching for the box of Kleenex, once or twice during these holiday films.

The plots are all the same. Woman meets man of her dreams, they fall in love, and then something comes between them, leaving her to wonder if he is truly the man of her dreams. Finally, the last ten minutes of the show - the couple realizes that they are meant to be together.

Of course, the plot can vary. It can be a man who meets the woman of his dreams - same scenario and same results. Just didn't want to be gender biased here.

So, we were watching one of these tissue grabbing films not long ago - this being the season and all, when suddenly the phrase orphan train was used.

The film, actually a series, was called 'Love Comes Softly.' It was sappy, but at the same time pretty entertaining and had a great moral. Don't all Hallmark films - as well as their cards?

The setting was the old west and the phrase was something neither one of us had heard before.

"Orphan train?" Laureen questioned.

"I could make something up, but never heard the term."

Obviously, research was afoot - thanks, Sherlock.

Turns out that the term was not widely used during this time, but caught on later. It seems around 1830, the numbers of homeless children in the eastern part of the United States were growing at an alarming rate.

Typhus, yellow fever, and the flu were running rapidly through neighborhoods, taking parents and grandparents in its path. Medicine wasn't what it is today, so the children were often left to fend for themselves when their entire households would succumb to whatever disease landed on their doorstep.

Also, many children were deserted due to poverty or perhaps a parent's addiction. In other words, no one was looking out for the most vulnerable in society.

Stealing from Dickens' term street urchin, as an explanation for these hordes of children wandering the streets in search of sustenance. 

The Children's Aid Society was founded in 1853, by Charles Loring Brace. Room and board was offered to homeless boys as a way to provide temporary housing. The plan was to find jobs for these homeless youth but soon, the society was overwhelmed with the unfortunate children with nowhere to turn.

With the nation developing westward, Brace came up with the idea of perhaps offering these boys, and girls up for adoption. He had hopes that with the country expanding, families may be interested in adopting a healthy young child to help around the farm. Brace's hope was that good solid families would jump at the chance to embrace a child as their very own. This way, the children would be able to leave the crowded cities that left them often as victims of terrible and immoral crimes - they would have the chance of a better life with families who loved them.

The system worked in Connecticut, Pennsylvania, and rural New York. Now, Brace decided to expand to the Midwest which was flourishing with pioneers heading out to make their own destiny.

In 1854, the plan expanded with the use of trains, to transport children across the nation. Brace felt that 'his' children would find the nurturing they would need to grow into independent and useful citizens for a growing nation.

The actual term, Orphan Train, wasn't actually used until after the program ended in 1929. Terms like, Mercy Trains, Baby Trains and the like were the more common description of these trains heading west with their precious cargoes.

In fact, less that half of the children who ever rode one of these trains were actually orphans. Twenty-five percent were just children abandoned by their parents on the streets of New York, New Jersey, and other eastern cities. The others, were boys and girls who just wanted a life away from the crime and sadness of those same cities, believing there may be a brighter life awaiting them out west.

Some of the children found a better life, but some were no better off than slaves. People would come to local courthouses, and the children would be paraded up the steps of the courthouse so those interested could get a good look at them.

In fact, the phrase 'up for adoption' is derived from this practice of having the children up on the steps of the courthouses.

Some interested parties would come up to the children, check their teeth to ensure there wasn't gum disease, pinch their cheeks to see if a healthy color would return, and other degrading physical intrusions.

The idea seemed like a wonderful way for children to escape the horrors of life on the streets, but there were many detractors who believed it was a perverted way to exploit these children.

Babies were easy to place in homes, but when a child was in their teens, many potential 'parents' thought they would be too set in their ways and be more than a handful.

So, the jury is still out if this practice served its purpose of helping those children in need. In her best selling novel, orphan train, Christina Baker Kline weaves a fictional tale about one of these children who lived this life. There were good times, as well as bad times for these children of the trains.

The last train left New York City on May 31st, 1929 for the state of Texas. This was during the Great Depression and the horrendous Dust Bowl, overtaking the Midwest.  After a seventy-six year run, the trains were finally halted for this venture. Public opinion had changed about orphans, and poor people in the United States. Families, no matter how poor, should stay intact, and there were other government avenues for these folks to approach, instead of just abandoning their child to the streets or crowded trains.

An interesting fact - according to the New England Historical Society, one out of every twenty-five Americans has a personal connection to an Orphan Train rider. 

So, next time you settle in for the evening with a Hallmark film, look for those things that are new and get to researching. It's great when we learn something new - especially for the old grey matter.

  Laureen and I recently visited the Agua Mansa Cemetery in the city of Colton. It is supposedly one of the most haunted locations in Southern California. What better place to encounter other worldly spirits?

The cemetery is the only reminder of what was once part of the thriving community of Agua Mansa. Established in 1845, in what was then Alta California, a town of non-native settlers located against the flowing waters of the Santa Ana River. Agua Mansa, actually means – gentle water. It was here folks established a home and it soon became the largest settlement in San Bernardino County.

A church had been built across the river in the town of La Placita, that was later destroyed in 1852, sinking in quicksand. A new church was built in Agua Mansa in 1853, so both towns had a place to worship together.

But in 1862, strong rains came to the area, causing the Santa Ana River to dangerously flood into both towns, destroying the majority of the houses and businesses. People tried to rebuild what they once had, but to no avail. Prosperity never did return, and like many places, both towns were pretty much abandoned.

But the cemetery survived – strange way to put that. The first burial, was in 1852, which could make this cemetery the oldest in Southern California. Though, others make that claim, like the Evergreen Cemetery in Los Angeles, which was built in 1877. Math, was never my favorite subject, but something built twenty-five years earlier, would make this one older. 

Anyway, one of the most observed, or imagined hauntings at Agua Mansa Cemetery, is the legend of La Llorona'. It is a sad story about a woman who got rid of her children, won’t go into any more detail here, since it breaks the heart. After what she did, according to legend, she walks the cemetery looking for her children. Her screams can be heard above the whistling winds streaking across the crumbling tombstones.

                                          La Llorona', with her children before killing them

Besides, La Llorona', there are supposed to be ghosts wandering around the place like crowds lining up at Starbucks. Ghosts with no heads, ghosts with no limbs, ghosts with lanterns, ghosts walking dogs, and ghosts reading my novels.

                                                                   Not a bad novel 

I made that up, well, not all of it. Many people claim to have seen ghosts as I mentioned above, with the exception of the ones reading my novels. But, it could happen.

I have no idea what is seen at this cemetery, since it was closed. The cemetery is getting so popular with ghost hunters, that the county has the five acre parcel completely fenced off, including topped with barbed wire. There are hours listed on the high front gate – we were there when it was supposed to be open, but it was not.

Perhaps it has to do with COVID-19 - doesn’t everything now? But maybe, the place is getting too many visitors and those visitors are not respecting that it is an actual cemetery and its history. Not just a place to search for ghosts.

We were there to experience that history, research and investigate, but that ended at the front entrance.

“Now what?” Laureen asked.

“Peek through the chain link, and see if there’s someone walking a dog with no head,” I responded.

“Don’t tell me if you do.”

I didn’t see anything except acres of dry grass, bushes, trees, and tombstones. Nearly two thousand people are interred at Agua Mansa Cemetery. It is truly, hallowed ground.

                                              Just a deserted old cemetery - no ghosts

A sad note – of the two thousand, only about fourteen hundred people have been identified. Maybe, it is the unknown resting there that are so restless, wanting others to know who they are.

Peering even deeper into the fenced off grounds, I didn’t see anything moving about. Snapping a few shots on my camera, I knew this adventure was pretty much over.

“What do you think?”

 “It’s nearly noon, so I believe a lunch at Victoria Garden, and some shopping are in order.”

“Let’s be professional. Did you see any ghosts? How about that lady looking for her kids, or the guy walking his dog?”

Laureen closed her eyes. “I see my husband buying a nice lunch, and a couple of shops.”

That was haunting enough.

But, we weren’t over with our searching just yet.

Turns out, there is a house in the city of Fontana that may be haunted by none other than the infamous gangster, Alphonse Gabriel Capone. Yes, the very Al Capone who was known as Scarface, due to a large scar running down his left cheek. Of course, no one called him Scarface to his face – or head. 

“Whatsa madder with you? Calling me Scarface to my scarred face! Have this mutt thrown into the river, with a pair of nice matching cement loafers.”

Nope, you didn’t call the boss of the Chicago Outfit, anything but Mr. Capone.

                                                              Mr. Al 'Scarface' Capone

Our friend, Paul Bakas, who grew up in Fontana, once told me about Al Capone owning a house in his home town. For whatever reason, I never bothered researching to determine if the mobster actually had lived in the area. But today, it seemed like a good time to see if Laureen and I could find it.

Sure enough, dozens of sites list the address of the home, its history, and all the great rumors about the residence. 

The home is located at – wait, no address will be given, since it is privately owned, and I’m sure those folks don’t want a bunch of looky-loos driving around in their neighborhood.

So, just Google – Al Capone’s house in Fontana, and see what you will see. There – no address given, I feel so much better.

According to Inside the Inland Empire, in an article written by Ghostpainer (how apropos for this article) on May 3rd, 2007 – you knew it was the house owned by Capone, because it had a large ‘C’ on the exterior of one of the fireplaces.

That was enough for me. Forget lunch for the moment – we were off to see the Capone house.

“What if the people who built the house, were named the Carpenters?” Laureen asked.

“Why would a singing act build a house in Fontana?”

Within twenty minutes we were looking at the house, definitely built in the early twentieth century. The style of the house, from its rounded entryway, tiled roof, large iron double gates, tennis court, and large property just told me this was Capone’s west coast hideaway.

                                                    Now, that's a gangster's house

There are other articles, stating closets lead to escape hallways. Tunnels beneath the property to another street, where a getaway would be certain. Rumors after rumors.

But is the place haunted?

Capone was supposed to be terrified during his prison stay at Alcatraz, in the San Francisco Bay. Guards and other inmates recalled that Capone would scream all night at someone named Jimmy.

“Jimmy, leave me alone!” the prisoner would yell from his tiny cell.

This made sense – perhaps the house in Fontana wasn’t haunted, but only Capone himself, from his lifetime of misdeeds.

The terrible St. Valentine’s Day Massacre, on February 14, 1929, orchestrated by Capone to wipe out a rival gang, had an Albert Kachellek (alias, James “Jimmy” Clark) as one of the murder victims. 

Could it be this ‘Jimmy’ that tormented the sadistic killer while on the Rock? 

Don’t know and don’t really care. But, we were at the house and took some photos. That’s all one can do, unless you know the owner, and we didn’t.

“Well, that was interesting,” I stated.

“And a little creepy.” Laureen agreed. “Now, how about that lunch?”

“Of course.”

“Then shopping,” Laureen replied.

And that, is my true spectre this day – shopping.