Happy New Year

A very Happy New Year

from

Constable Crab, Tanya, Tomasito
and Maggie the Part-time Cat!


...

Mineral CA and the Bodines

Mount Lassen in Snow--December 2008 (Tanya photo)

Mineral, CA. & Les & Muriel Bodine

When I got the job as a pick and shovel expert on the Lassen ski lift project, I enlarged my circle of acquaintances into the next, and slightly larger, town from Mill Creek: Mineral, California.

Mineral had been named about 80 years before by a land shark that thought that he could sell township property to fools if they thought there was gold or silver or something valuable there.

The only mineral in Mineral was dirt, but the pretty view of Mount Lassen and the clean little river (Battle Creek) and the forest is still "pay dirt" for some real-estate people today.

When I knew Mineral the village had a charming little elementary school (three teachers, two teaching assistants, a time-share Principal and a janitor--six paid jobs!), a real service station (not just a gas pump) a real motel (about ten rooms and a restaurant) a post office, General Store and a Laundromat. Maybe 75 people (counting kids) lived there all year round and maybe another hundred were part-time seasonal residents.

Two of the most interesting of the Mineral residents to me in those days were Muriel and Les Bodine.

Les was known as the "Mayor of Mineral", a purely honorary title since the town had no organization, and Muriel was his wife and partner. They were one of those man-and-wife teams, which seem totally inevitable--one plainly could not exist without the other-- and yet Les and Muriel were both quite individual and unique characters on their own.

They lived in a modern three story wooden "cabin" on the last house lot of Mineral town on the way to Lassen Park. There was a rushing, spring-fed stream in their yard––one foot wide and one foot deep––a trout would sometimes pay them a visit swimming up from Battle Creek. In the short high-mountain summers they kept a small vegetable garden with plentiful flowers and summer and winter they flew a large bright American flag from the front second floor balcony when they were at home.

We liked each other very much. Les and Muriel had no children and I was like a grown son to them--later they met my blood parents and were good friends to them too. I was very much free and on the loose at the time––practicing the piano at Mineral School (an old Steinway!) and hiking in the mountains all day long. I would stop by for a chat and a cup of coffee once or twice a week.

When I met them, Les was retired from the Forest Service. He had been a great skier as a young man and once showed me some mementos from when he had been on the Ski Patrol at the Sun Valley Winter Olympics in my father's day.

Muriel was truly Les's Better Half––kind of sour and reserved to his boisterous enthusiasm and she was not so robust as he. When I first met them she was almost blind and she later had an accident that blinded her even more completely.)

A neatly painted sign outside their front door described their house as "the House of Perpetual Commotion", and there were residual traces of that kind of excitement around the place when I knew them, though they had mellowed some with age, I think.

They owned an old-fashioned pedal-pump organ, which I liked to try to play, and they usually had ice cream, since it was Muriel's favorite food, which I also liked to eat.

I did small outdoor chores around their house––the one I especially enjoyed was to paint their outdoor lawn furniture with a turpentine/linseed-oil mixture that I thought would make the wood last longer. I did this every season when I put the chairs out for the short summer and again when I brought them in for their long winter's storage in the attic. Though I was always travelling in those years, I actually did that little painting chore for them several times. They paid me––sometimes with a sandwich and sometimes with a five-dollar bill, but ours was not a boss/employee relationship, but a genuine friendship.

Les was a natural-born teacher. He knew more "natural history" lore than any man I ever met, except one, and he was willing to share everything he knew.

There are lots of springs around Mineral and he knew them all. One of his jobs was to check the water flow level of Battle Creek,––and he did a lot of other odd jobs for the Forest Service, though he was retired, and he would often take me along to help out. He would talk to me all along the way and he was spellbinding. He knew every plant and every stone it seemed, and why they were just the way they were. Yet he was never a boring “know-it-all”. He was sure of himself in his Lassen environment––humble but also proud of his knowledge.

Tomasito, 2008


...

Me Skier

Tomasito Scan

I Become a Skier

Every few years Lassen gets a LOT of snow.

The year the new Lassen Ski Lift opened was one of those snowy years.

By the time the lift opened there was snow piled six to eight feet deep and by the middle of the season there was some forty feet of snow on the ground.

The highway coming into the park as far as the Lassen Chalet and the parking lot were plowed with perfectly vertical walls of snow towering up from the edge of the tarmac.

I absolutely loved being the first human on the mountain every day in the silence of the dawn.

And I soon grew to know and enjoy the customers that used the lift.

Lassen had just the one lift and two or three groomed trails but the closest mountain competing for the skiers of the northern Sacramento valley was way over at Lake Tahoe—so I thought we did pretty well.

As I said, I had zero experience of skiing or the scene so I was content.

I had no experience with the extreme mobs of skiers or the costumes, the racers, bars, hotels, the pros or any of the merchandising hype that is, of course, the only real reason for skiing to exist.

At first I hiked in snowmobile boots down to the lift and would carry a set of bongo drums with me up to the top where I would stay for my workshift in a cozy heated little booth watching for trouble.

I played duifferent drum rhythms through my entire shift—trying to “rhythm entrain” myself musically with the mechanical pulse of the huge loop of moving cable which had been laid out on an exact East/West line (I had checked through the surveyor’s theodolite when they were aligning the towers at the beginning of the project.)

I was trying to send out a message and as a matter of fact the message I was sending out into the cosmos through the entire vibrating cable was “Send Help”, not just for me but for all of us since even back then the “handwriting was on the wall” for the ecological destruction of this planet by we humans.

One of the best privileges of working at the lift was the opportunity of skiing free when not working and on our days off––and we could also borrow boots and skis from the rental shop for free.

The management had set up a “Bunny Slope” rope tow near the Chalet and one of the little girls from the town of Mineral was one of their most enthusiastic customers. She would grab the moving rope and get as ride to the top and slide down and do it all over again all day long.

I borrowed some boots and skis and poles from the lift's new rental shop and the he first chance I had I asked her to teach me to ski––which she was delighted to do.

She showed me how to hold the poles and how to slow and stop by forming a “piece of pie” with the ski tips.

So I rode the Bunny Tow with all the little kids for a few hours.

Then I asked her if she thought I was ready to try the chair lift.

She shared with me this profound Little Kid Wisdom: “If YOU think you’re ready, you’re ready!”

So I slid down the hill to the big new chair lift, actually slid into position to be scooped off my feet by the moving chair and before I knew it–– was riding high over the snow with skis on my feet.

Sliding off the chair and down the groomed hill turned out to be a piece of cake and so, like everyone else, I did it again and again!

It was fun!

The real racers of the new ski lift, sort of as a joke, issued me the #1 ski racing bib and I became a sort of mascot belated skier!

Tomasito, 2008

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I become Top of the Hill Tom

Tomasito at Mill Creek Lodge 2008. (Tanya photo)

I Become Top of the Hill Tom

Snow.

If there is anything more beautiful in nature than the first drifting snowflakes on an early winter morning in the high mountains, I really don’t know what it is––except maybe that perfect sunset at a perfect beach or that perfect rainbow hovering over a perfect waterfall or…

Well, you know what I mean. And the first snowflakes are awfully pretty!

We were making the final touches on the New Lassen ski lift—checking out the machinery and making sure all was safe and sound when the first flakes began to fall in what was to be a long, snowy winter.

We were cleaning up one of the foundation sites in the snow when Little Joe made another impression on me of just plain strength when he picked up a hand-powered cement mixer under one arm and two eighty-pound sacks of concrete under his other arm and carried them uphill for about 30 yards to a waiting pick-up truck. (This really happened.)

On our last morning as a working team, the big boss called us together in the Lassen Chalet parking lot and handed out the last pay envelopes––and he asked those of us who lived nearby if we wanted to work when the lift started operating.

I jumped at the chance to work for pay on the mountain and he hired me to be the “Safety-man” who would sit in a heated glass booth at the top of the lift to make sure the skiers exited the lift and skied away safely.

My job was to push a STOP button which would stop the lift if there was any problem at the top.

This also meant I would be first person up the lift every morning to visually check the shiv trains to make sure they were operational, to sculpt the snow exit ramp for sliding off the lift and other chores and I would be the last one to ride the lift down every evening—unless I wanted to ski down with the ski patrol who checked to make sure no one was left on the mountain after the lift closed.

In just a few week there was enough snow to open so in November of 1982 (I think it was!) I started working full time on the Brand New Lassen Ski Lift and I had never been on skis in my life!

Tomasito, 2008

...

Bestest Christmas

(Tanya photo December 2008)


MERRRRRY CRISSSSMAS!!!

Tomasito, 2008


...

Part Monkey Fred

Part Monkey

The Lassen Ski Lift's work foreman’s name was Fred.

He was a good boss. He knew what to do and how to do it. He knew how to keep all of us workers working too––and working well and happily. Not “Ha, ha.” Happy, but content with the job happy––which takes a certain skill as you probably know.

He was a little better at everything than anyone else was too and that’s not so easy either.

Yet he was a regular guy. Not proud. Not a show-off. Just a nice, regular guy.

He was rather small and slight in build, but strong enough to do any of the heavy work as well as any of the rest of us—except probably Little Joe, who was a prodigy of strength as I have said.

One of the first days I was on the job one of the contract crew of ski lift workers from the head office said of Fred “that he was part monkey”. I filed that information away since the digging work we were doing for the first few weeks was on the ground and there was no need of any monkey skills.

But when the towers came in and were set up on the mountainside some work developed that was more in the line of circus acrobat stuff.

Someone had to climb the towers and, with the aid of heavy machinery and power tools, fasten rows of heavy wheels, the “shiv trains”, to arms on the tower. One of these towers was 80 feet high and all the rest were way up in the treetops to carry the chairs full of skiers above the heaped snow in the winter.

This was skilled labor--very dangerous--touch and go, work. I couldn’t do it, of course, and wouldn’t do it. It was far too risky. (They never asked me to either!)

But Fred was absolutely in his element. He WAS part monkey!

He was up the towers and running around on the arms of the machinery and bolting the heavy wheels on like he had some spider blood too.

I watched him whenever I was not too busy with my work on the ground with my heart in my mouth. He was taking risks I wouldn’t even think of as a matter of course and with a nonchalance that was, to me, incredible.

I swear this next bit is true.

I was watching from far below one time when he slipped off the cross-arm of the tower and as he fell he grabbed that steel arm, which was square and as big around as your body, whipped himself around it and came up sitting on top of the arm!

He saved his own life and kept right on working without missing a beat.

By golly I REALLY admired that!

Tomasito, 2008

...

Clean Up My Act

Painted Papier Mache mask by Tomasito, 2008

Little Joe Helps Clean Up My Act

This may sound strange or even impossible to modern people like you but when we were growing up, no-one in my family ever swore—that is, used swear words––at all.

Now I live in an apartment in a working class neighborhood and I am sometimes a little bit shocked to hear the language the neighbors shout all day and night at each other.

Even the very young children around here, who learn from their parents, of course––yell foul words at each other.

But I can honestly say I never heard either my father or my mother use a “bad” word. Neither when I was a child nor when I grew up.

Such language simply did not exist for them.

About as uncouth as they could be was “darn”—but I really don’t even remember them even using that word—though we kids did of course.

In those primitive days all male US citizens had to serve a period of time in the service. (Sounds terribly old fashioned doesn’t it?)

I joined the Navy Reserve and had to show up to the Great Lakes Training Center near Chicago and a year later had to show up for a two week cruise from New Orleans. These periods of training were interesting enough for a young fool like me, but I found out quite early that I was suffering from a serious linguistic handicap.

I didn’t swear.

Everything in the Navy was a f***ing this or a f***ing that. And of course all trash was s***, and all waste cans were s*** cans. Etc.

I was not a language purist for moral reasons––foul language was just not my habit.

It took me just a little while and soon I was saying “F***ing s*** !” with the worst of them.

I spent my two years of active duty in Hawaii and when I got out I stayed there––it was about the nicest place I had ever been.

I played rock n roll in the dives on Hotel Street until I graduated from UH and then I taught English at junior and senior high schools.

I gradually lost my swearing ability since it was not needed in the night clubs or in the classrooms, but than I got a teaching position at the brand new Leeward Community College campus of UH.

For some unknown reason, maybe because it was the “seventies” with all the Viet Nam protests and the black power enthusiasms, but all the cool students swore like sailors.

I wanted to be accepted as a cool instructor, so I used the old familiar ripe language from my old Navy days right along with the worst of them.

And I was cool.

Fast forward a few years and I am working on the ski lift at Lassen.

I am a little older than the other laborers but I am as cool as any of them I think. Some of them swear and some of them don’t but I trot out my swearing vocabulary and it’s f***ing this and so forth per the good old days.

One day I am working with a gang that includes young Joe and I am using my best bad language when he casually says to me: “Didn’t you say you used to be an English Teacher?”

His remark absolutely stopped my train.

It shamed me to my shoes.

I remembered myself all the way back to my father’s knee and I was shamed, ashamed and embarrassed.

I stopped my swearing right then and now I am a lot more careful of other people’s ears when I speak.

Tomasito, 2008

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"Little Joe" Arrives

Mill Creek Lodge, 2008. Nothing Changes Very Much. (Tomasito photo)

“Little Joe” Arrives

More equipment and man power was expected from the Salt Lake City home office of the company which was building the Lassen ski lift.

The day the truck was due the foreman told us local yokel laborers to be handy to the parking lot since some materials were going to arrive which needed to be unloaded.

He also said that some new workers were going to accompany the materials and the word was that one of the new workers was Little Joe, “one of the strongest men you’ve ever seen.”

Well.

All of us had been working long hours with hand tools, digging and bashing earth and rock and we all felt pretty strong I think, but of course we were all very curious to see this new physical phenomenon.

When the trucks came in and the new men got out, none of them looked any different from the rest of us. The foreman introduced all of us and we shook hands all around.

The new guys all seemed to be healthy and strong––but I never felt that Little Joe, who was one of the new gang, was any different from the rest.

For one thing he was not so tall and not so weighty and he was only about eighteen years old.

Our first task was to unload some big flat cardboard boxes, the chairs for the lift, from the truck.

We gathered on the tarmac beside the truck and Little Joe was the first in line. I was second.

There were two men up on the truck bed and they slid the top box from the pile of boxes over to where Joe could reach it. He took the sliding box onto his head and walked over toward the edge of the pavement where we had been told to stack the materials.

I got ready to take the second box.

The men on the truck slid it over to where I could reach it, but as soon as it started to come into my hands I realized that I was never going to be able put it on my head and walk away like Little Joe had.

In fact I realized that I was going to be squashed like a bug under that package if I didn’t get some help mighty quick!

Some of the other guys had been watching and grabbed the thing and took the weight off me before I got hurt––but, boy did I ever gain a LOT of respect for Little Joe’s strength!

It took two or three or even four men to carry every one of those boxes of steel chairlift seats, but every time Little Joe showed up in the line of carriers, he took the whole thing all by himself!

Tomasito, 2008

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I Become a Medicine Man

Mount Lassen (Tanya photo)

I Become a Medicine Man

The crew dug at the holes steadily until they were finished—then we built some quick concrete forms and placed some bolt templates on top where they belonged and mixed and poured concrete in the easy-to-reach holes.

The whole work day we were surrounded by the most beautiful and fragrant high slopes of the great dormant volcano, Mount Lassen.

What a great place to work!

I even liked sniffing the breeze when the wind came down from The Sulfur Works––one of the noxious steaming hot springs a short distance up the valley from the old Lassen Chalet.

In just a few weeks we had all the foundations ready for installing the towers.

The towers, heavy steel columns pre-manufactured to fit the foundation bolts and numbered for the different heights required by the mountain slope, were delivered to the Lassen Chalet parking lot. They were going to be hoisted into place with the aid of a helicopter.

Concrete for the hard to reach foundation holes was also going to be poured from a big bucket thing dangling from a cable attached to the helicopter.

And there’s a little personal story connected with the helicopter that I will put in here––just don’t make too much of it, OK?

The boss asked us laborers to appear extra early one morning because the helicopter (with pilot of course) was going to fly in that evening, land in the parking lot and be ready to tote and fetch the towers and the concrete in the morning.

This was a very tricky and dangerous operation and all of us were curious and excited about it.

I, of course, as a P&S Expert (Pick and Shovel) was not even a little involved in the helicopter part of the program. My job was going to be to carry a hand-held “stop” sign up the park highway above the parking lot to stop any cars from coming down when the helicopter was busy picking up materials in the parking lot.

Monkey simple.

When I arrived early in the morning, they handed me the stop sign­--but there was a problem. The helicopter could not fly because a very dense fog had dropped into the valley—standing in the parking lot was like standing in the middle of a wet, dark cloud.

The foreman of the labor crew came over to me and said, “Tom we’re in trouble. This fog makes it impossible to fly the towers and that chopper is costing us about a thousand dollars a minute just sitting in the parking lot. I know you’re into mysterious Indian things, could you maybe do a sun dance or something and get rid of the fog?”

He was serious, so I told him I would give it a try.

I put down the stop sign and bummed a cigarette and some matches from one of the smokers--since I was going to try what I imagined might be like an old Indian ceremony and for that I needed some tobacco––then I climbed through the fog up the mountainside to the top tower’s empty foundation hole.

I am not an Indian and I don’t really know any sun or rain dances, but what the hey, yeah? Give it a try. I HAD read about ceremonies and deep down had a feeling that they should work…

So I reached the top tower’s foundation hole all by myself way up above the Chalet parking lot in the silent cold fog.

The big empty hole had a sheet of black plastic down ready for concrete to be dumped in.

I knew from reading the Old Indian stuff that to help the ceremony work the shaman (ME! Cowa-bunga!) should make some sort of sacrifice. I hadn’t intended to make any magic that morning so I didn’t have much of anything to sacrifice, but I was wearing a sort of good luck charm a friend had given me on a plain chain around my neck––a little gold medallion memento from Hawaii with the state seal and motto on it. (“The Life of the Land is Perpetuated in Righteousness”)

What the heck.

I placed the “sacrifice” under a fold in the black plastic sheet––lit the cigarette and blew smoke in the four directions and asked the weather gods or whatever was in charge of the fog to bring out the sun so the chopper could fly. Then I scrambled back down the mountain to the parking lot and--you may not believe this--but when I got to the tarmac the fog was lifting and the helicopter was revving up to fly.

When the big boss—who didn’t know that the foreman had sent me on a “mission”––saw me, he shouted: “Hey slacker! You’re getting paid to work! Get your sign and run up that road and get busy!”

The foreman looked sort of funny at me but didn’t tell anyone about our conversation and that was how I became a very beginner medicine man on Mount Lassen.

Tomasito, 2008

...

Lassen Ski Lift

Tanya on Mill Creek Ped Bridge, 2008. (Tomasito photo)

Lassen Ski Lift

I drove the eight or so miles by the back road from Mill Creek to the town of Mineral and located the boss of the ski lift project.

I knew absolutely nothing about ski lifts or skiing, but I was in pretty good shape from tossing firewood so the big boss hired me on the spot.

In the morning I joined the dozen or so laborers up at the Lassen Chalet parking lot and we hiked down into the meadow and started digging.

What I soon found out about ski lifts is that they are just a row of towers which go up a mountainside at higher and higher elevations. There is a big wheel at the bottom called a bull wheel and another at the top tower and a traveling cable links them. Clamped to the cable every few feet are chairs which swing high in the air over the snow—since this was to be a chair ski lift.

I found out later there are also gondola things for carrying a lot of people at a time up a mountain and there are also simple “rope tows” with a moving rope strung between wheels which you grab and hang on to as the rope pulls you up the hill––then you let go at the top and slide back down.

In fact, the whole idea of downhill skiing, as I discovered, is to ride some kind of towing device to the upper part of a snow covered hill or mountain and then slide back down on your skis and then ride up again and slide down again all day long.

No kidding.

That’s what it’s all about and people spend thousands of dollars to do it wearing the latest style of skiing clothes and the latest style of skis! They also need expensive four-wheel drive vehicles to get them to the ski slopes and they need fine hotel rooms and restaurants and bars and so forth nearby. Indeed, what fools we mortals be! This expensive sport absolutely limits the participants to the idle rich and their servants.

Well, what the heck! That’s pretty much life, innit?

But I’m kind of getting ahead of myself because the Lassen ski lift hadn’t even been built yet!

What I had been hired to do was to help dig big holes to fill with concrete for bolt-setting foundations for the towers that carried the rows of wheels (shiv trains) that in turn carried the moving cable—one huge loop of steel cable––up the mountain!

We had shovels to dig with of course, and the ground in the valley was soft but as we went up the mountainside for the higher towers the digging got harder until we were finally digging through solid rock. For this job we switched to “rock bars”— six foot steel bars with a chisel point. You use this tool to bash at the rock and every few blows you get some chips to fly off.

We did this eight hours a day and when I got back to my camper the first night after using the rock bar, I went to eat a sandwich and found I couldn’t open or close my hand! My fingers were stuck in the rock bar grip position! Lucky I could still move my hand close to the bread until I slid a slice between my fingers and managed to eat that yummy poor man’s delight, peanut butter and jelly on white bread!

But there were some rocks we couldn’t dent and for these they had hired a dynamite expert—a kind of hippy looking guy. His tools were a heavy duty pneumatic rock drill—like the things they break concrete with on road work––and dynamite. He would drill a hole with this rock drill––a heavy steel pointed thing--and the odd thing about his work was that all he wore were flip-flop rubber sandals on his bare feet while this dangerous drill was pounding away boring a hole in the solid rock right between his feet!

I asked him once why he did it that way and he told me that by going almost barefoot he was twice as cautious with the drill. Maybe so.

I wore steel capped safety boots myself.

When he had his hole drilled, this technician warned us civilians away, stuffed dynamite into the hole he’d dug, shouted “Fire in the hole” and there was a bang and a lot of gravel sized bits rained down on us for a few seconds. That broke the rock enough so we could attack it again with our rock bars.

Once he shouted “Fire in the hole!” and there was no bang.

He came over where we were cowering behind some rocks and said “I hate it when it does this!” Then he had to go fish the dud dynamite charge out of the drilled hole and start all over again.

But he was getting paid more than the rest of us.

Tomasito, 2008

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Firewood and Fishing

Mount Lassen from the North (Tanya photo)

Firewood and Fishing

I had arrived in Mill Creek in May from the coast expecting the winter to be over–– and it was at the altitude of the town of Mill Creek-- but Mount Lassen still had lots of snow on its upper slopes so I couldn’t climb around on it like I wanted to.

When I had discovered what a good place this little town of Mill Creek was, I decided to hang around there for a while even if there was no work available.

Then I heard there was a very remote fishing camp maybe ten miles further into the wilds downstream from the town called “Hole in the Ground”.

My good old Ford pick-up made it down to the camp and I found it was a very lovely, quiet, and best of all, free Forest Service camp with parking places, tables and fire pits right on Mill Creek. One lonely fisherman was already there with his camper but he had his own camp and minded his own business. . I didn’t fish. I didn’t have a license or any tackle.

About the second morning I was there, a tanker truck arrived and the driver started transferring nice big trout from the opened top of the tank to the river with a long-handled fishing net.

This was something new for me. There were more fish than I could imagine slipping into the river right at my feet. One big trout leapt out of the net and landed at the feet of the fisherman. He grabbed it with his bare hands and tossed it into the river with its buddies.

“Man, you had that fish!” I exclaimed. “You caught it fair and square––why’d you throw it in the river?”

“Aw, that’s no fun.” He said.

I stayed on a few more days. No one else showed up and every day the fisherman would give me a couple of trout for breakfast so he wouldn’t go over his limit.

So you see, I imagined Hole in the Ground to be a perfect quiet fishing place.


My firewood boss Harry kept a very neat firewood cutter’s camp.

He was very proud of the neat cords of wood he carefully stacked before we loaded them into the old truck he rented to carry the firewood down to Chico. He also loved to fish and when he wasn’t taking care of his camp like a Boy Scout he was off fishing in the narrow deep brooks of the meadows.

I was getting stronger and more agile tossing two split pieces of firewood at a time into the big truck and rolling the big “rounds” of cut wood to the pickup truck and hoisting them in.

I didn’t do much cutting because the chainsaws were expensive and I never bought one––but there was more than enough other hard work

Harry told me we would take the Fourth of July off which was OK with me!

Then he asked me if I knew of any good fishing holes nearby where he could indulge his passion. I told him about The Hole in the Ground and offered to guide him there.

So early next morning, which was the Fourth of July, Harry picked me up at my camp in Mill Creek and I showed him the dirt road that led down to my quiet fishing hole.

But when we arrived-- Holy Mackerel!-- there must have been two hundred fishermen with their wives and children all over the camp––wall to wall trucks and campers, tents and smoky campfires reeking of hot-dogs––unbelievable!

So Harry tossed his line in with all the rest of the fishermen and took it all with good humor. I wasn’t faking my astonishment!

But just after the fourth of July Harry told me that the area of trees his license allowed him to cut was about finished and he was packing up his camp and heading back to Chico to his regular job as a bartender. I would have to find other work.

I wanted to stay in the Lassen area very much—I discovered that I really liked it!
But there was nothing much for me to do to earn money––even at the humble subsistence level I required.
But I learned that there was a big construction project just starting for the Lassen Volcanic National Park late that summer.

The Forest Service had signed a permit to allow a ski lift to be built on a high slope in the Park. Visions of wealth and employment excited the few people who actually lived in the nearby mountain towns scratching a living from the land in any way they could (state highway maintenance, gas station operator, school teacher, cafe waitress, bar owner, motel people, truckers and my people, the firewood trade scavengers).

(continued tomorrow)

Tomasito, 2008


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Mill Creek Yarn intro

Winterized Tomasito in Redding, CA, Dec. 2008 (Tanya photo).

Mill Creek, CA an Introduction

I am going to recount a few yarns about some experiences I had and some people I met in the mountain towns near Mount Lassen in northern California.

…

More than a few years ago I wanted to work in the high mountains.

I lived on the coast in California but planned to go to the highlands of Ecuador to find a suitable place to work on a project I had in mind––I'll tell you about that later, if I have the time––and I wanted to get accustomed to living and working at a high altitude.

A friend told me about Mill Creek, a pretty, tiny mountain town near Lassen National Park which she had discovered way, way, way off the beaten track––a town so small it didn't even have a center stripe painted down the paved street going through it to separate the lanes of traffic––and in California that means a VERY small town.

I was living in a "camper" at the time––a little portable house on the bed of an old Ford pick-up truck, so I could live pretty much wherever there was a road and I needed practically no money to survive. I was enjoying the freedom.

I found the town and it was as nice as my friend had described it: one general store with a cafe and gas pump and a post office and that was about it. There were thirty or so very old privately owned summer cottages in the village since this had been a deer hunter's paradise in my grandparent's day. That pioneer generation had wiped out most of the deer, of course, and had also eliminated most of the native fish and all of the native people (Ishi's tribe) and cut down the saleable trees. But the forest had made a comeback in the sixty or seventy years since this had been a flourishing hunting camp, there were a few new deer left for today's generation of sportsmen to shoot, fish were put in the river from state fish farms for today's fisherfolk to catch; and though the native people were extinct, Euro-American people had arrived in sufficient quantities that the "town" still rated the closet-sized post office and had not totally disappeared.

In the days I am talking about there was a free campground back in the trees and I was its only user except on hot holiday weekends when a few other campers from the blistering Sacramento River valley far below would come up to stay in the cool for a night or two.

I heard about a man called Harry who had a firewood cutting contract with the Forest Service over near Child’s Meadows––just off Highway 36. I found him and got a job–– hand loading firewood onto a two-and-a-half-ton truck. The pay was lower than the legal minimum--when I got paid at all-- (Sometimes I got paid in firewood, which I could sell, or trade.) but it was fun and very educational.

I love working outdoors and the men and the women who follow the firewood trade are curiosities to say the least.

For example, one of Harry’s sawyers had cut a window-sized hole in one of the tree trunks near Harry’s camp and he delighted to open his “window” to peer at us from behind the tree. The same guy loved to toss his empty beer cans around where we were working in the deep forest. I scolded him once about littering and he told me “I want people to know I’ve been working out here––that’s why I leave the cans!” To show there were no hard feelings he let me use his chain saw a bit so he could call me “Tom Sawyer”.

We were all dirt poor. One day the grandson of one of the old-time sawyers showed up with his new teenage bride to work with us since there was no work down in the valley (Sacramento, Chico, Red Bluff, Etc.)

When I came out of the woods later that day, I found that the new man had accidentally swung his hand too close to a running chain saw and cut off the ends of a couple of his fingers––and this was before he had even picked up a single piece of firewood!

None of the other workers in the camp had enough gasoline in their trucks to carry him to the doctor in Chester so they wrapped his fingers in a handkerchief and he and his bride hitchhiked out for help. The doc in Chester fixed him up and they hitchhiked back and spent the rest of the summer working with us.

Tomasito, 2008

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Stones and Flag

(Tomasito photo)

Stones and Flag

It gives me no pleasure to write this, but it is increasingly clear to me that we American citizens, in the main, have allowed ourselves to become degenerate--and so the Old American Dream is changing, fading…

And so--it seems the brief period of American world leadership is over–– just more history--like the British Empire.

Tomasito, 2008


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The Council of Elders

The Council of Elders

I was on my way as a pilgrim to Holy Mountain in Greece.

The "old lady's" bicycle I had received as a gift in Germany and ridden for several months had finally worn itself out near Florence and I had been given another old bicycle to ride.

On this antiquated machine I had slowly made my way across Italy and was crossing Yugoslavia. The wheels on this bike were comically small and it had no gears to shift-just one fixed " peddle-push-to-wheel-turn" ratio--but on pilgrimage, speed is not a consideration: you have the rest of your life. A spiffy look is not important. A pilgrim is not concerned with appearances, clothing nor equipment .

The incipient Yugoslav civil war was not a special problem to me either since a pilgrim is stepping out in faith anyway--or is "in God's pocket", as I used to say. But my friends, who had never been on pilgrimage and worried as friends might about my safety, gave me several detailed road maps illustrating the terrain I would probably cover, but I soon lost the maps, and continued on my accustomed way by pilgrim's instinct, so I don't know exactly where I was when the events described in this note occurred, but it was several days slow bike journey into the mountains of Yugoslavia.

At this time in my pilgrimage I was taking a weekly "Sabbath"-one day in seven in which I would not walk, ride, write, eat or drink. I would rest, sometimes read if I had anything "spiritually uplifting"-but mainly I would just sleep and rest. I was always outdoors. It was summer and besides, I had no money for lodging. I stayed away from villages and people so I wouldn't have to talk or buy anything.

This kind of Sabbath is very good for a pilgrim. I think.

It was getting dark as I passed through a small village. I was looking for a quiet place to sleep and to keep the Sabbath the next day.

A few hundred yards beyond the village I turned into a disused road and peddled for a few minutes into the forest. I could hear the village dogs barking, but they were not interested in me, though I have discovered that dogs have an uncanny sense of when someone is around even if the person is not at all near. I think the village dogs knew I was there but also knew I was no threat.

I ate some bread and drank some water, made a kind of shelter with my plastic sheet, rolled up in a blanket and went to sleep. In the night it started to rain--first a sprinkle, then a good, hard rain. I tried to adjust the plastic sheet, but couldn't do much-the rain kept coming and soon I was soaked and cold. Of course this was not new to me.

I had been rained on before and knew it was just an experience, like every other experience--just something else to live through. "This too shall pass", as they say.

It rained the rest of the night and was still raining in the morning. It was the Sabbath for me, so I stayed where I was as wet as I was. I tried to arrange the plastic sheet a little better but that was hopeless so I just rested and even slept as the rain fell, as it did on and off all day, evening and night. The next morning it was still raining.

I broke my fast with some bread. Everything was a cold, muddy mess. Riding a bike in that kind of rain is silly so I stayed where I was. I had a dry change of clothing in plastic bags, but I wanted to save something dry so I just sat or lay and soaked. It rained much of the day, but in the evening the rain stopped and it became very still.

I was cold and wet but not particularly miserable. I was repeating the "Jesus prayer" as usual on this pilgrimage--I can't say I was happy but I wasn't unhappy either. Everything seemed OK.

It didn't rain any more so the next morning as soon as there was light I packed up and pushed my bike back to the road and started to ride. I rode until afternoon and then came to another disused road leading into the forest.

My internal "pilgrimage director" suggested I turn off the road to follow the track.

The ruts soon ended but a path continued farther into the woods.

I left my bike and walked a few minutes on the path, which ended at an overgrown earth embankment no higher than a man. When I climbed the embankment I was standing over a grassy ring perhaps twenty meters across.

The flat, circular area enclosed by the embankment was covered with grass and flowers--no bushes or trees--while surrounding this strange clearing was thick forest.

The place looked just right to me. In fact it seemed perfect somehow.

I sat down and gazed across the ring in the bright sunshine.

Perfect.

Then I had the weirdest feeling that I was not alone there-that I had somehow been brought to this place to attend a meeting of a "council of elders' who were invisible to my eyes but who were nonetheless seated solemnly around the ring.

I had a feeling that they were discussing me--were pleased with me--that I was doing the right thing--that even if what I was doing was difficult, sometimes stupid or even crazy--it was indeed what I should be doing at this time in my life.

Tomasito, 2008


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Black Elk's Hoop

Acrylic painted papier mache relief, 36" diameter, Tomasito, December 2008.

The Hoop from Black Elk's Vision

Black Elk, an Oglala Sioux holy man, had a vision for his people long ago.

He recounted his life story, including the vision, to a European American, John G. Neihardt, who wrote the tale in English and published it in his book Black Elk Speaks in 1932.

There is a good new paperback edition of this beautiful book published by the University of Nebraska Press which I hope you will read.

Black Elk, whose native American people suffered so much in the Indian Wars of long ago, recommended that people should want reconciliation, not victory.

This idea is well worth considering right now.

As I understand it, the central image of his vision is a hoop of peoples, a circle including and enclosing the nations. Crossing this hoop are two roads—one from North to South being a “good road” and one from East to West, being a “bad road”. In the center—where these roads cross—blooms a holy stick that is a tree.

The image at the head of today's blog is a papier mache representation of this central image which I made to honor the memory of Black Elk, John Neihardt and all those who are peace.

With this reminder: There ARE no foreign wars—no “us” or “them”--there is only “us”--the people of the earth.

Tomasito, 2008

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Professional Natives

Cliff dwelling, Bandelier National Park, New Mexico (Tanya Photo)

Professional natives

Professional Natives are similar to other professionals except instead of learning a craft or skill such as a “doctor” or “teacher”, they exploit their race or heritage.

Professional natives pretend to “protect” ruins or perform “ancient” dances or speak disappearing languages, but the main connection with the past that they exploit is often simple proximity: they are born near some interesting ruins or some touristic attraction. Sometimes they are also members of a dying race speaking a defunct language: these are their credentials for the exploitation of others--sometimes other native-studying professionals such as anthropologists.

Since the professional natives are the last ones standing they are the people around to tell the stories (and sell the tee-shirts). Fake artifacts from the past are their stock in trade and they would sell their grandmother’s bones for a profit except that then they would have no “treasures” to display to a new generation of the curious.

I think of the post card hustlers at the pyramids, the blow-gun salesmen on the Amazon, the hula girls at the night spots in Hawaii, the “Native American” turquoise jewelry sharks in the “Indian trading posts” of New Mexico. Sometimes these charlatans will even rise to become high-salaried bureaucrats such as museum directors or “living history” actors.

Well, everyone has a right to earn a living if they can and sometimes being a professional native is the only way to survive.

They serve their pathetic function well.

But they really are only the monkeys which inhabit the ruins after the spirit and the creators have gone.

Tomasito, 2008

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