Crystal Clear Fear

                                                       CRYSTAL CLEAR FEAR

                                                        

                                                               By Noel Laflin

                                                              January 30, 2013

                                                                             

“We are now ready to start on our way down the Great Unknown.”

Major John Wesley Powell, August 1869

I am still puzzled, these many years later, as to how I ever became interested in tackling the mighty Colorado of the Grand Canyon as my first rafting trip.  All I do know for sure is that some river itch got hold of me, and powerfully so I might add.  Nothing would do but to scratch it with a white-knuckle, wild-water joyride down that cold, muddy river and see it all the way through the depths of this legendary and foreboding canyon conceived in equal parts of harsh reality, myth and dream. 

It was in a moment of dumb blind faith I suppose, some thirty years ago, that I walked into the first travel agency I found and inquired as to how one went about doing such a thing.  Within the hour I departed this enlightened institution with documents in hand proclaiming me an officially paid member of a Western Rivers Expeditions rafting tour.  I would be departing in late August of 1982 - destination: The Grand Canyon of the West, one of the seven natural wonders of the world!  I would be viewing it from the bottom/up.  My neck was already sore in anticipation of the view.

Now, the first three days within the depths of the canyon were mighty fine indeed.  And I could, without much prodding, bore both young and old alike with tall tales of natural wonders, condors in flight, newly made friends from the likes of Boston and Montreal, torrential monsoon rains, spectacular lightning storms, secret coves, elfin-like waterfalls and alas, but by no means least … the unexpected pleasure of an unplanned canyon romance thrown in for good measure.  But, I won’t go there presently, although some of these events deserve – or perhaps not - a separate telling of their own some day.  Regardless, let’s set all of that aside for the time being instead and jump ahead to just one day of this adventure - one memorable afternoon in particular – the running of Crystal Rapid.

  “The walls now, are more than a mile in height – a vertical distance difficult to appreciate. 

     A thousand feet of this up through crags, then steep slopes and perpendicular cliffs rise,

         one above another, to the summit.  The gorge is black and narrow below, red and gray and flaring above, with crags and angular projections on the walls.”

Major John Wesley Powell, August 1869

If one ever chose to personify the character of a rapid, I think it would be safe to say that Crystal was one nasty looking lady.  In fact, upon first glance, she had that look – as if someone had done her wrong long ago - and she was still pissed off over said offence.

However, to back up just a bit, we paying passengers all had our own first clue as to Crystal’s mood based upon sound alone.  You see, we had already survived the likes of several heavyweight rapids just that very day and were prematurely congratulating ourselves on having conquered some tough whitewater, which in actuality was the color of Colorado mud.

Sure, one of my new Bostonian friends, by the name of Ann, had been violently thrown off of our raft, not once but twice already that day, by the brute force of both Sockdologer and Old Man Hermit Rapid.  But hey, she lived to both tell and laugh about it once we hauled her back into the craft at the end of each run.  However, we suddenly all grew very quiet and attentive as a new far-off sound of angry water grew ever closer and louder.  In fact, this new roar made the aforementioned Sockdolager Rapid sound downright friendly in comparison.  There appeared to be, based upon the increased decimal ratings alone, some serious business up ahead – just around that very next bend.

“Crystal,” our boatman, Bruce, whispered to no one in particular.  The bravado level amongst the passengers paled considerably as we caught the lilt of both respect and fear in his one word pronouncement.  He gradually guided our craft to the left bank of the river so that we could tie up and check out whatever lay ahead.  We all took stock of this new deployment as we had never stopped to scout a rapid up until this point. There would appear to be some serious shit ahead.

The second raft tied up beside us.  Soon, our ragtag group was scrambling up and over large boulders as we followed the boatmen headed down stream.  They sought some elevation for a better view below.  We finally got our own eyeful.

“Holy Jesus!” I cried.  “We’re going through that?” 

As the boatmen conspired amongst themselves, we passengers became more nervous. Several stepped away toward the river in order to deal with a nervous bladder.  I longed for a cigarette, or better yet, a way out of here without going through those infernal raging waters below.  This was truly the first time in my life that I felt deep down, gut-wrenching fear. I wasn’t fond of the potential coward lurking within.

The crew eventually approached us after a time of quiet deliberation amongst themselves.

“Crystal,” the senior boatman began, “used to be a so-so rapid up until the mid-sixties.”  He looked out over the roaring, churning whitecaps not far below us. “That was,” he continued, “until a particularly horrendous amount of rain pounded this area and brought down, by way of Crystal Creek, boulders the size of houses.  Overnight, the storm changed the configuration of this rapid from a class five to a class nine/ten rapid.  I would not liked to have been the first guy through here after that deluge, not prepared for what had changed.”  He paused for thought and continued on.  “Now, as you can see, there are three rather ominous looking holes down there.  We intend to run them all.  Western has never flipped a J-Rig yet, and we don’t intend to now.  But this will be a ride to remember.  We are going to need a lot of weight up front, so I want the regular daredevils to keep their places there and more to come forward, especially on Bruce’s boat.  In fact, Ron, I want you to ride with those guys, as they need more weight.  Bruce, I want your rig to go first.  Enjoy your ride and then wait and watch for us below.  I cannot stress just how tightly you will all need to hold on.  Get your feet deep within the webbing and hug that rubber with your legs for all you’re worth.  And keep low.  Suck rubber.  That water will try to tear you off.  See you at the bottom.”  With that he was done.

We quickly clambered back aboard and fought over seating arrangements. No one wanted to be up front, at least not the very first person up front.  I finally settled for second, behind the aforementioned boatman named Ron. Ann, who had flown through the air twice already, was behind me.  Art, Steve and Beth (more Bostonian friends) sat to our left, on the middle pontoon.  Cynthia, also from Boston and two Englishmen sat on the right pontoon.   Bruce and his girlfriend, Pam, were busy in the back literally lashing down the steadfast elderly sisters, Ruth and Francis, who sat atop the back coolers.  We were finally set.

As we made our approach, Bruce began to shout last minute instructions above the ever-increasing roar of Crystal.

“Remember, there will be three holes,” he bellowed, straining to be heard.  “When we crest that first wave, we will be going straight down.  The next wave will drop us into a deeper hole.  However,” and he paused here for emphasis, “watch out for the last hole, as it will appear to have no bottom!  That is the nastiest one of all.”  We heard no more.  The roar was deafening.  We were making our entry, close to the left side.

Now, to this day, I can’t rightly begin to describe the force of this water.  Nor can I accurately calculate just how high the waves were.  All I do know for sure is that as we crested the top of the first massive wave, I could barely hear Bruce’s voice behind us shouting, “First hole!”  Up and over we went into this muddy, white-capped abyss.  It took all my strength to keep from being sucked from the raft by the force of the water.  But up we rose from that hole, only to see an even bigger wave in front of us.  Up, up, up we climbed again, cresting and falling straight down once more.  “Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God!” I cried, feeling the water ripping at my hands and feet.  I had my head crushed into the back of Ron’s life jacket by now.  I felt Ann grab me by the waist as she lost her grip momentarily on the ropes.  I thought we would both fly away.  And then wave number three rose up to greet us.

Sweet Jesus!  This one was truly colossal.  We climbed until I was quite sure that we would do a back flip.  The nine of us up front looked like we were hugging a rubber totem pole at this point.  And then, over we crested once more and looked straight down into the gut of hole number three.  It truly had no bottom.  All I remember, at this venture of the ride, was just how dark everything appeared to be - mud dark, to be exact.  Additionally, there was this awesome pulling force once more.    It almost felt like a vice grip, trying to rip me from the boat.  I could see nothing, as gritty water filled my eyes.  After what seemed to be an eternity, we blasted to the surface, like a giant blue whale coming up for air.  My eyes cleared and I hooted for joy.  I was alive!  But something was missing in front of me. It turned out to be Ron.

“Holy Smokes,” I cried and jumped shakily to my feet, struggling to keep my balance on the still rocky ride.  “Kill the motor, Bruce!” I hollered and pulled my hand across my throat trying to indicate my fear.  Bruce understood immediately and stopped the engine and pulled the blades out of the water.

“Ron’s gone!” I shouted.  Bruce came bounding between Ruth and Francis, leaping over gear and front-end daredevils.  “He’s gone,” I repeated lamely looking over the front edge of the boat.  About that time, Bruce and I both spotted fingers gripping the web from under the raised pontoons; they were Ron’s fingers to be exact and fortunately Ron was still attached to them as well.  Suddenly a head came bursting to the surface, which, first blasted out a great mouthful of muddy water and then inhaled deeply.  Yep, it was Ron, all right.  Three of us flipped him back on board the boat.  He had a crazed look in his eyes. 

“You OK, buddy?” Bruce was asking him, pounding him on the back.

 “I think I just saw the face of God,” Ron finally gasped.  “Whoa!  What a ride.  Let’s do that again!”

Bruce jumped back to the controls and brought the boat about in the eddy below.  We watched from the relative safety of our eddy as the next raft took the plunge and gyrate through maneuvers similar to our own.  I was glad not to be in their shoes. I think I found God myself down there.  Either that, or it was the devil himself in hole number three.  Gratefully, neither chose not to keep me there. 

With that, we ran the rest of the gem series, including Ruby and Diamond and a few less memorable rapids before calling it a day.  By the time we made camp, we were one hyped-up group.  It was a night of celebration, as the Bostonians and I claimed a cozy, flat, sandy lookout high above the river.  Within short order we were imbibing in some of Mother Nature’s finest weed, pounding down ice cold beer and taking Polaroid’s of ourselves by the light of a very full moon.  We all wore shades in the last group shot, howling at the bright light cresting the rim above.  We were a delirious crowd, the Bostonians and I, stoned beyond belief as we told and retold the running of Crystal - and having the damn good fortune of having lived through it. It was a night to remember – some of which I actually do.

As it turned out to be one of the Canadian’s fiftieth birthday, the crew had baked a large chocolate-marble cake in a Dutch oven and set it aglow with fifty wooden matches.  As everyone was now off eating desert and wishing the man many happy returns, I happened to stumble upon a quiet stretch of the beach.  It was here that I overheard Bruce asking Ron, just what he was thinking while down in the big hole on Crystal hanging on to the tip of the raft by his very fingertips.

Ron looked around, not wanting to be in earshot of passengers. Failing to see me or not caring if I did hear, he reminded Bruce of how he had seen drift wood and large ponderosa trees, brought down from the rim in heavy storms and getting trapped in a hole like Crystal … and never being spit out.  “I had visions of that,” he said. I believe, “scared shitless” was the phrase by which he ended his conversation with Bruce. 

I wandered off, with my slice of cake in hand, back to the private party on the cliff above.

Ron’s last pronouncement pretty well summed it up for me too.  Visions of being stuck in a watery, churning cruncher like Crystal, forever-and-ever, tried to invade upon my good time.  I got back to my friends as quickly as I could.  There were some dreams that I would not allow that night.  Instead, I donned a pair of sunglasses, downed another beer and howled at the full moon with renewed vigor. 

           

 Washing off river mud with some of the Bostonians.

             

             

How Mr. Bradbury Tied It All Together: A Christmas Gift

HOW MR. BRADBURY TIED IT ALL TOGETHER: A CHRISTMAS GIFT

BY Noel Laflin

December 14, 2012

 

 

“Dear boy, strange child, who must have known the years
And reckoned time and smelled sweet death from flowers
In the far churchyard.
It was a message to the future, to myself.
Knowing one day I must arrive, come, seek, return.
From the young one to the old. From the me that was small
And fresh to the me that was large and no longer new.
What did it say that made me weep?

I remember you.
I remember you.”

Closing lines of Ray Bradbury’s poem, “Remembrance”

 

It was the week before Christmas and I was in need of a minor miracle. 

As fate would have it, the sought after intervention arrived in my mailbox disguised in the form of a small brown padded envelope.

All other correspondence was tossed aside once I spied my prize.  Feeling the package – there was something hard and rectangular within.  Upon shaking the envelope – something rattled.  I stared at the handwriting – yes, it was indeed addressed to me - with a return in the upper left corner showing it came from Los Angeles.  I grabbed a knife and carefully sliced the packet open.  A tape cassette in a clear plastic case, wrapped in a single sheet of tan colored paper slid out and into my open palm.  There was something printed on the piece of plain paper now turned wrap.  I carefully unfolded the page and stared in quiet wonder. 

An Old English text header proclaimed: Christmas Wishes 1986.    

Below that was printed “from Maggie & Ray Bradbury.”

And directly beneath their names began a poem composed of thirty-two beautifully crafted lines; the first of which began, “My father ties, I do not tie, my Christmas tie.”

There was a hand-written note printed above the title which simply read: “For Noel Laflin.”  This was followed by a wonderful signature: “Ray Bradbury – Dec. ’86.”

I was speechless.

But, what of the tape cassette? 

There was a handwritten title on side one.  It simply said, “Remembrance.”

The minor miracle suddenly lay in the palm of my hand.

Thank you, Mr. Bradbury.

 

The whole thing started with a sign language assignment – the final project for this mid level class.  You see, I had been living with Jeremy – who was deaf (or hearing impaired, if you please) for the past year.  And, although Jeremy and I were communicating just fine, I could not help but feel that I was lacking in the finer skills needed in the art of American Sign Language (ASL).  And thus the evening classes at Santa Ana College. 

Initially, I joined a beginner’s class, only to be told that I was well beyond the basics of finger spelling, etc.  And, so I suddenly found myself transferred to the next level.  I guess Jeremy had led me well so far.  In fact, I was already dreaming in “sign” most nights and knew instinctively that I was progressing nicely.  But, as I said, there was so much more to learn - and like any foreign language, practice was the key.

So, this final project was to sign along to a piece (which could be a story, poem or song) that would be around five minutes in length.  In other words, each of us was to haul in our own tape recording of said story, poem or song and sign it to the class and instructor as it played.

I knew what I wanted to tackle from the get-go.  The piece in mind had been hanging framed upon my bedroom wall for a dozen years: “Remembrance” – by Ray Bradbury. 

A copy of this poem was first given to me by my mother.  In fact, it arrived in a letter she sent to me when I was a kid working at summer camp.  One can still see the crease marks by which it was neatly folded before being placed in the letter.  Mom had carefully clipped the full page poem from a magazine that highlighted this new piece in a fanciful blue border featuring woodcut engravings of leaves, bees, birds and squirrels – images from the poem itself.

 

 I was blown away upon the first reading as I had never known that my favorite author even attempted poetry – not to mention that it was so damn good!  I must have re-read “Remembrance” a dozen times that week – constantly finding new joy with each review.  I memorized the opening and closing paragraphs and can recite them to this day.  In fact there was a time when I could recite the entire poem – but that was a dozen years in the future.

 

Now, I had always been a fan of the man since I’d first had the privilege of escorting him across the Fullerton Junior College campus for a lecture way back in 1972. How I was chosen to lead and chat with the short, stocky legend in thick-as-Coke-bottle-horn-rimmed glasses, I do not know.  All I do know for certain is that I have never forgotten the honor.  A year later, as fate would have it, I very nearly bumped into Mr. Bradbury and his wife at Cal State Fullerton.  (Why were we always meeting on college campuses?)  I was hoping to catch the opening night performance of “Dandelion Wine.”  I was too late, however – the place was sold out.  As my date and I dejectedly headed back to the parking lot, I could see another couple heading directly our way on the narrow pathway.  Even in the dark, his thick glasses gave him away.

“Mr. Bradbury!” I offered in greeting, as we clumsily tried to pass one another on the narrow sidewalk; “Your play is sold out!  I don’t suppose you could sneak us in the back door perhaps?”  It might have been lame, but I was trying to think very quickly on my feet.

“I’m awfully sorry, son – but I don’t think I could pull that off.  Wish I could.  As we are running a little late, I bid you both good night.” 

And with that, the famous author/playwright/poet/screenwriter and his wife continued on.

“Well,” I told my friend, “it was worth a shot.  Nice guy though, huh?”

My date concurred.  Although we had missed the performance, we did get to meet the man privately, albeit briefly, and exchange a pleasant word.  It was, after all, of some consolation and still makes for a fine memory four decades later.

 In between these two unplanned meetings I made it my mission in life to read everything – or so I naively thought at the time - that he had published.  Obviously I had not discovered the poetry as yet.  However, when it came to his fiction, I had given away at least a dozen copies of my personal favorites over Christmas; they included “Dandelion Wine,” “Something Wicked This Way Comes” and various collections of his vast array of short stories to friends and family. 

Now, the problem with the sign language class assignment all these years later, however, was the fact that there were no known recordings of “Remembrance.”  I had either called or visited a half dozen libraries inquiring after the matter.  It simply did not exist.  At this point I could have moved on with a new piece to work with or contact Bradbury’s publisher directly to see if I was overlooking a recorded source of some sort.  As I have always been a sucker for long-shots, I sent off a written request to New York outlining my dilemma.  It was early November.  I waited for some sort of official answer.  Nothing came that month.  December was barreling its way through pretty rapidly as well before the unexpected packet showed up on December 18^th, the very day the assignment was due.  And although a poor back-up plan had already been made – a recording of me reading the poem – I now potentially had the real deal, not to mention a great story at hand.

Having popped the cassette into my own portable tape player, I sat back and nervously waited while the initial static hissed during the first few seconds of play.  Then the audible sound of another cassette player clicked on.  A distinct sound of shuffled papers could be heard – along with the faint chirping of a sparrow drifting through an open window.   And then, the most welcomed voice of all commenced.  Mr. Bradbury began: “Early December, 1986 – “Remembrance.” 

“And this is where we went, I thought,
Now here, now there, upon the grass
Some forty years ago.
I had returned and walked along the streets
And saw the house where I was born
And grown and had my endless days.”

I sat rapture-bound for the next five minutes.  My class was to begin in one hour.  I packed up my treasure and drove to school.  I played the newly arrived gift in the old truck’s cassette player all the way there and for just a bit more while I sat in the parking lot – all the while trying to sort it out.  I finally wiped away an errant tear, smiled and finally laughed with relief while I grabbed the tape and player.  I headed across yet one more college campus with the voice of Mr. Bradbury at my waiting fingertips.  It was a good sign.

There rests upon my old bedroom wall two framed poems.  One is positioned just above the other.  They have been in the same location for twenty-six years now.  They are dear to me.  Both are gifts from ghosts of Christmas past.  And there is a strange, yet wonderful tie that binds them.

 

 

Marilyn Takes a Stand

DENNIS STREET MEMOIRS – MARILYN TAKES A STAND

By Noel Laflin

12-8-12

 

It was Marilyn’s shrill shrieks and expletives that brought both Tom and me out of a deep slumber that warm Saturday morning way back in the summer of 1978.  I thought it to be a vivid dream at first – until I heard the guttural, loud barking of dogs and our roommate’s defiant screams and curses.  Somewhere in all the commotion a cat’s hissing added to the cacophony as well.

Realizing that is was not a dream after all, we both jumped out of bed, each grabbing a pair of ragged shorts and ran down the long hallway and through the kitchen to the attached garage from whence the noise was coming.

And there stood a sight to behold. 

A very naked tanned blonde woman, with a four-foot plank of wood in hand, was swinging it for all she was worth at two giant black Rottweilers pacing the garage floor.  Behind her and perched atop the dryer was her old cat; the ancient feline’s rear end was arched and backed up against the wall like there was no tomorrow.  She hissed and spat defiantly as her human benefactor and champion stood between her and certain dismemberment.

You see, this was not the first time that the rouge Rottweilers had caused trouble.  They had been roaming the streets for weeks, scaring kids and adults alike, tearing into trashcans, leaving giant stinking piles of Rottweiler excrement on front yards as well as breaking into the our neighbor’s back yard and demolishing their rabbit hutch – not to mention all the bunnies within.  The two strays had somehow evaded the dog catcher’s net all summer. 

But now, they had met their match in the form of the slim and very attractive, five-foot-five , naked-as-a-jaybird and very pissed off twenty-two-year old Mensa grad student from UCI – AKA, Marilyn Mitchell – our beloved landlord and roommate.  She too had been awakened from a pleasant summer morning snooze when the four-legged would-be cat murderers had chased the old feline from the front yard into the open garage, lunging, barking and crashing into the dryer repeatedly.  Unlike Tom and me, Marilyn had not taken the time to dress.  Her motherly instincts had taken precedence over modesty.  Mama bear ferocity had taken over completely when she charged out of her room, grabbed the first weapon at hand – which just happened to be that old two-by-four and jumped into the fray.

“GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE!” she screamed, taking another swipe at one of the dogs. 

WHACK!

She made contact with the snout of the closest four-legged-fiend trying to lunge past her and nail the petrified kitty - who was by now -  trying to squirm into a giant box of Tide.

The dog howled in pain and made a short retreat.

By then, Tom and I, who were at least semi-clad, jumped into the fray, screaming and waving our arms in the air.  The two Rots could see that the jig was up.  There would be no feline brunch after all.  They both turned tail and beat it down the driveway and trotted off. 

A sweating, but otherwise visibly calm Lady Godiva-like figure walked out onto the driveway and on to the sidewalk, still holding the two-by-four.  She glanced down the street where the four-legged pair had vanished. 

She waved to the Samoan family across the street, which was digging another giant roasting pit in their front yard.  They were preparing for a large family cookout.  It was a regular occurrence – the tantalizing aroma of a roasting suckling pig would soon fill the neighborhood.  The neighbors shyly returned the wave and resumed the dig.

Marilyn then turned and came back into the garage.  She tossed the two-by-four against a wall, reached up on tippy toe, grabbed the edge of the heavy wooden garage door and gently pulled it shut. She  then went to retrieve her old cat from the box of detergent; only the tail was visible. The cat wouldn’t budge from its refuge, so Marilyn just picked up the entire container, with the frightened feline still within, and carried it off to her bedroom.  She turned, before leaving, and nodded in thanks at Tom and me.  It was ten in the morning - just another interesting start to a typical day on Dennis Street.

 

 

 

 

 

Ahwahnee Hit Parade of '68

Ahwahnee Hit Parade of ‘68

By Noel Laflin

August 2004

Greg Richards leading the troops up the old Cherokee trail, July 4, 1968

 

Liberation

“Shout it from the mountain on out to the sea (out to the sea)

No two ways about it, people have to be free

Ask me my opinion, my opinion will be

Nat'ral situation for a man to be free”

The Rascals, “People Got To Be Free,” No. 3 hit from 1968.  

I was not supposed to work the entire summer of 1968.  By some fluke, however, my initial three-week offer of membership on the Ahwahnee staff was lengthened to nine weeks - and with pay at that.  My honorarium would be five dollars a week.  I took the offer and planned my escape.  You see, the year was already proving to be a sad and tumultuous one - what, with the assassinations of both Martin Luther King and then Bobby Kennedy. The lure of a mountain get-away sounded pretty appealing to this recently deflated and yet still idealistic fifteen-year-old.  With more trouble coming later that summer in far away Vietnam, Czechoslovakia, and even Chicago, I felt damn lucky to be away from the daily television barrage of Russian tanks, continued body counts and bloody skirmishes between protesters and the Windy City’s Finest.

Like so many young men trying to establish his own identity at fifteen, I needed to blow off some steam, having felt pent up in school for the past nine months. I had also been recently freed from a heavy leg cast that had greatly limited my movements for thirteen weeks that spring.  I had really just learned how to walk once again when the call came from Jack Moulton, the camp director, offering me full-time work that summer.  No wonder I jumped - limped, was more like it - at the chance.  I packed my bags and had my folks drive me out of the city smog and up the mountain once more.  I was finally going to be a full-fledged Ahwahnee Staff Man.  The only regret I had at the time was leaving behind my first girl friend.  But, she was true to her word and wrote me that summer.  I was almost starting to feel all grown up.It had been two years since I had been to camp, as summer school took precedence over the prior season.  My friend and fellow cohort from the 1966 staff, Scott Mac Donald, kept me up-to-date with Ahwahnee goings-on as he did work camp in 1967 and skipped out on summer school.  It turned out that he missed the acting class and I missed the camp drama.  So, we traded information.  It proved to be a fair swap.  Now, a year later, I was more than happy to make my escape up the magical highway.  Little did I know that I would be seeking such liberation on old Highway 30 for the next nine years.

Hell Week
"I'm gonna raise a fuss, I'm gonna raise a holler

About a workin' all summer just to try to earn a dollar

Every time I call my baby, and ask to get a date

My boss says, "No dice son, you gotta work late"

Sometimes I wonder what I'm a gonna do

But there ain't no cure for the summertime blues”

Blue Cheer, “Summer Time Blues,” Hit No. 84 from 1968

 

Staff week at Ahwahnee amounted to every football jock’s version of hell week, minus the padding.

Our newly assembled group of sixty were assigned quarters, fed three mess hall meals a day and expected to rebuild a winter-ravaged camp within one week.  This involved the preparation of twelve troop campsites, campfire arenas, kitchen & mess hall, warehouse, pool & shower facilities, archery & rifle ranges, nature, camp craft & handicraft lodges, Scoutmaster’s lounge, trading post, doctor & general staff quarters, outhouse (KYBO) placement or replacement, road  & trail repair, assembly area revitalization and anything else needing a quick spit-and-a-promise.

Additionally, we had to learn our individual roles for the summer as well as how we all could function as one cohesive family throughout a nine-week period.  You had new guys learning from the old timers.  Our ages ranged anywhere from thirteen to sixty.  In 1968, there was little ethnic diversity, as most of us tended to be from lily white, middle class Orange County families.  In short, the family thing was not much of a stretch as most of us were in our teens.  Brotherly bonding occurred from day one.

Each area of camp took primary responsibility for their immediate concerns; i.e. the aquatic staff (Jeff Sherwood, Jim Hirsch and an aide) had to get the pool heater functioning, clean out the dead squirrels, mice and what have you from the stale, green swamp of a pool, which had frozen and thawed several times over the winter and spring.  Additionally, they had to get their merit badge and swimmer safety game plan together.  The same routines held true for every division of camp: get your site together and plan your program. 

Where we all had to pull together, however, was in the refurbishing of the twelve campsites.  This involved the rebuilding of the tent platforms campers would call home for the week, as well as the hauling in of heavy tent canvas, tent poles, army surplus metal cots (with busted springs and all) and ancient, dusty, stained mattresses, which had been stored in the shower area all winter.  There were over two hundred tents, cots and mattresses needing relocation.  It was a daunting chore, especially when it came to hauling these bulky items up a steep dusty trail (like Tielroy), as it had no road leading into it. Every site needed rakes, shovels and fifty-gallon drums for trash.  Pine needles then had to be raked out of the immediate vicinity in order to meet U.S. Forestry fire regulations; pathways were in dire need of repair, as were broken water lines, plugged up outhouse outlets, etc.  The physical work was long, hard, dusty and tedious.  Cold showers were then usually in order as the heaters at the pool took some time to repair, let alone fire up that first week.  The food was either plain or somewhat questionable, depending upon the cooks’ disposition, the condition of the kitchen and just how green the mess staff might be.  All in all, it was sort of like being in the army, I suppose.  At least those who had already served in that noble profession kept referring to the similarities.  

After the daytime physical maneuvering of inanimate objects, evenings were then turned over to the senior camp staff who instructed us in everything from first aid classes to song leading and campfire skit preparation. It never seemed to end.  People fell into their bunks dead tired every night, too tired to party.  Daylight would come all too early and the heavy, dusty work would soon resume.  For a few of us, new trails were also on the horizon.

 Trailblazers

"Do you know the way to San Jose?

I've been away so long. I may go wrong and lose my way.

Do you know the way to San Jose? 

I'm going back to find some peace of mind in San Jose.”

Dionne Warwick, “Do You Know The Way To San Jose,” No. 79 hit from 1968.

I have in my possession an old grid section (Keller Peak quadrangle) of a topographic map of  the San Bernardino Mountains, dated 1953.  The communities of Arrowbear and Running Springs are  noted, as are various summer camps, including Arrowbear Music Camp, Camp Cedar Crest and the YMCA camp in Little Green Valley.    Interestingly enough there is no Camp Helendade, Wintaka or Ahwahnee shown here.  Where Ahwahnee would someday take its place was Larry’s Boys Camp instead, established sometime in the 40’s and later sold to the Boy Scouts in the mid fifties.  There are hand marked dotted trails surrounding Larry’s Boys Camp, coded as the Red, Blue, Orange, Green, Rainbow and Deep Creek trails.  And as it turned out, this was the most up-to-date map three of us had to lead our way across unfamiliar territory back in late June of  1968. 

Now, legend has it, that when asked if he had ever been lost, Daniel Boone is reported to have replied: “No, not lost, but at times just a mite bewildered.”  Like Boone, Scott, Steve and I were also a mite bewildered for a day or two during that first week of camp.

The commissioner  staff  was assigned the task of remarking two of the hiking trails in camp: the Red Trail and Deep Creek’s Yellow Trail. Scott Mac Donald was volunteered for the job of trailblazer by his boss, Wally Simmons.  I was asked to represent the Grand Canyon Commissioner Area by my commissioner, Bill Herzberg.  It turned out that Steve Sundquist did not have an assistant as yet and so had to volunteer himself.

It’s still unclear to me who was responsible for the marking of the other four trails in camp.  Perhaps it fell to Mike Barnett and his Senior Patrol Leaders.  This seems to make sense as Mike would hike every new batch of kids the entire length of all the trails, connecting one to the other.  And this they did weekly, with full backpacks, covering God-only-knows how many miles in a two-day period.  I guess someone must have known the way.

Now, I know that Steve and I had never hiked either of our assigned paths - and in looking back on those two days it’s doubtful that Scott had much experience with red or yellow trails either; it was evident from the amount of time we spent roaming the woods searching out our way. 

Armed with a backpack of wooden markers (arrow-shaped), a hammer, nails, brushes, and red and yellow paint cans we were told to follow our ancient map, vintage 1953, and remark the trails in advance of the troops, which, would arrive the very next week.  So, we followed the old paths, scouting out old trail markers and when found giving them a new coat of florescent paint (red or yellow).  Each trail was approximately five miles in length.  At the rate we crisscrossed the forest searching out hidden or non-existent markers I believe that we probably doubled the length of each trail.  I am not even sure the paint was dry on most of those old markers by the time we finally emerged from the woods and those first campers tried to follow our wooden directions.  And I never understood why we used florescent red and yellow paint.  That was, not until the next week on July 4^th, the night Greg Richards decided the entire camp would hike the Red Trail at night, so that we could view the fireworks being shot off over Lake Arrowhead.  It turned out that our trail markers held up just fine.  Our Program Director’s timing was rather off, however.

It was a special campfire we put on that Wednesday night, July 4, 1968.  And  it was at the end of it, that Greg proposed  we all follow him up the Red Trail, grab a rock  for a chair and await the splendid fireworks, which would commence at precisely nine that evening.  And like believing children, we followed the man out of the fire arena, crossed the highway and up the steep switchbacks, searching out red florescent markers from many an old tree, stump and painted boulder.

It looked like a scene from an old Frankenstein movie - you know the part where the villagers are approaching the old castle with torches ablaze.  Well, our torches were merely flashlights and it was hardly a castle we were storming - just the top of the mountain, which stood a good eight hundred feet above camp. But it would have the best view in the area of the fireworks, or so Greg said.  And so, we continued up the dark, dusty trail, all two hundred of us.

We all made it to the top with a good twenty minutes to spare before the polytechnics would begin.  So, we waited.  Nine o’clock came and went and we still waited.  Maybe the time had been moved to nine-thirty or ten, Greg advised us and so we waited some more.  Once ten o’clock had come and gone, so were we. There were no fireworks that night.  Turned out, they had been shot off the night before for some unknown reason.  Greg came to breakfast in disguise the next morning and had changed his name to Rudy Begonia.  But at least the trail markers had not led us astray.

Over the course of that summer, along with so many to follow, I would come to know some of the trails in camp very well.  Not a week went by in 1968 that I was not leading one group of kids or another either up the Red Trail or down the Deep Creek Trail.  The Red Trail had the advantage of being all downhill on the return trip, with a pretty view of the surrounding country at the top.  Deep Creek was all downhill to start with and had the advantage of a great swim once we reached the bottom.  The bummer was coming back up the switchbacks.  I bet I have done that hike at least a hundred times over my life, and not regretted it once.  Well, perhaps regretted it a couple of times when I had to endure stumbling amongst the giant boulders and icy water late at night.

Those evening hikes were not planned, but occurred when kids were reported as “lost,” and the staff  went on a search.  I can recall being assigned (or was I stupid enough to volunteer?) to the Yellow Trail on at least two search party expeditions.  I guess my knowledge of the path put me front and center.  Of course, they both commenced sometime around nine or ten in the evening.  I tell you now, it was spooky covering those five miles in the dark, not to mention menacing, as one was jumping from boulder to boulder by way of moonlight or flashlight.  As it turned out, on both occasions, the lost kid was found somewhere close to camp while those of us down in Deep Creek were still calling out his name.  Somewhere around midnight, scratched, bruised and hoarse, we would emerge from the edge of Inspiration Point, having reached the top of the trail, only to be told of the boy’s safe return.  Well, shit-fire, another fun night in the woods, we would tell ourselves.  But it was a good feeling to know that we had tried and hadn’t required a search party of our own.

Today I still dream of hidden trails in Ahwahnee.  Like many dreams the landscape is a bit bizarre and the paths are never quite what they were in reality.  But I instinctively know that I am at Ahwahnee and the trail always seems somewhat familiar.  I guess it’s the stuff dreams are made of - especially when an old Rascals’ song  lulls me off to sleep.

           



Running With Eagles

RUNNING WITH EAGLES

By Noel Laflin

July 2004

Topo Map of this sector - vintage 1966

On the night of the raid we prepared by emptying our pockets of all personal items and applying ground charcoal to our faces.  As we did so, my mind wandered back to the campfire earlier in the evening; Jeff Sherwood had fumbled my name and introduced me to the entire camp as Neal Nauflin. A fellow newbie to the group and friend from school, Scott MacDonald, was still howling about that one.  He would henceforth refer to me as Nauflin, for the rest of our lives. So much for my first day on the Ahwahnee staff  - along my newly acquired name.  It was the summer of 1966 – I was thirteen years old.

Now, I don’t believe this was actually intended to be a so-called panty raid, even if the intended target was the staff quarters of the neighboring Camp Fire Girls’ camp.  And the fact that no one actually came back with so much as a sock, let alone a pair of underwear definitely put it out of league with the usual fraternity prank.  But for my pal, Scott, and me it was simply the thrill of being allowed to run wild with the older guys that appealed to our most basic youthful instincts.

At a predetermined late night hour, staff men gathered around the cabin of Dennis Banowitz, our quiet, soft-spoken rifle range instructor.  He appeared to be the ringleader.   His plan was this: we were going to creep into the woods above the Staff Hill and make our way up to the nearby water tower.  From here we would cross the  highway in pairs, avoiding detection from any stray late night traffic.   After crossing safely we would reenter the forest and go right, toward Camp Wintaka. It would not be far from this point.  We would follow the signs within the camp itself to their staff quarters and once inside look for things to “borrow” and bring back as proof of having been there.

We were admonished to wear dark clothes only and carry no identification in case of capture.  Ahwahnee’s name was not to be said aloud, nor was the name of any other staff member.  And if caught, we were duty bound to try and escape.  In retrospect it all sounded pretty corny.  At the time, Scott and I, along with everyone else took it dead seriously.  I remember wondering if my mom had labeled  the inside of any of my clothes.

Once properly attired and inspected, we were off creeping through the woods toward the water tower and highway.  Scott and I stayed together and eventually hitched on to one of the older guys who seemed to know where he was going, as we certainly did not. Our trio did not rush things, but cautiously made our way along, ducking at the sound of anything remotely suspicious. The other guys were well ahead of us.  Finally, all points were safely reached when we suddenly found ourselves within the property limits of Wintaka itself; the well lit sign facing the road was proof enough.  We stayed in the shadows of the trees trying to determine our next move.

It was about then that we heard all of the commotion and saw many of our fellow staff members come barreling back our way.  Lights were flickering on within the camp, voices were raised and there was the sound of a truck and the glare of headlights heading our way.  I guess we had been detected.  We did not stick around to determine the truth to this; the three of us  hightailed it back for camp for all we were worth.  By then the forest was alive with dark clad figures scurrying for cover and trying to make it across the road and back to Ahwahnee property.

When we finally gathered back on Staff Hill, it was a carnival atmosphere.  People excitedly talked about how Wintaka had come to life when a little too much noise was detected as our folks were attempting to pry off everything in sight. The guy in the truck was the ranger apparently and he must have sounded the alarm.  That’s when pandemonium set in and everyone made a run for the woods.

Guys were now proudly displaying their loot.  It was mostly in the form of wooden signs “borrowed” from the girl’s camp.  In fact, it looked as though our ambush team had taken down or uprooted half of the postings in Wintaka.  The group photo later showed our gang displaying their plunder, some which read, “Staff Quarters,” “Pool Area,” “Kitchen,” “Camp Store,” and of course the most exotic of all “Rest Rooms.”  I believe someone had even uprooted a STOP sign.

By morning, however, the gig was up.  I guess the Wintaka ranger had figured out in quick order just who the culprits were and had contacted the Ahwahnee brass.  A deal was brokered;  just return the signs, pronto.

Dennis came clean as one of the instigators and accepted responsibility for the gathering  and return of the loot.  It filled the back of the Wintaka ranger’s pickup.  Dennis thought for sure that he’d be fired and sent down the hill because of the stunt and mentally began to prepare himself for such.  I believe that all staff members’ ‘nights off’ were cancelled for the rest of us that week as well.  Meanwhile, the camp leadership kept poor Dennis in limbo for the next three days, telling him that they were reviewing their options as to his punishment.

Finally, on Thursday night, the entire camp staff was told to report to a remote campfire ring for a mandatory meeting.  We were all a little nervous, Dennis especially, as he was specifically told to dress sharp and be on time.  He truly believed he was to be drummed out of camp that night.

When Dennis entered the campfire area, decked out in his cleanest uniform (complete with merit badge sash even)  there were lit torches at the entrance and a fire already burning in the rock lined ring.  Staff were respectfully seated on the old terraced logs  along with camp officials and big wigs (professional Scouters) from the council office.  Dennis’ parents and even his girlfriend were in attendance.   Oh, this looked bad, he told us all later; not only was his dismissal to be public, his parents and girlfriend were there to drive him home.

The meeting was gravely called to order by one of the top council brass and it was then announced that we were all gathered to witness the bestowing of Scouting’s highest award on one of our very own.  It was Dennis’ Eagle Court of Honor.

Dennis looked baffled, surprised, proud and relieved simultaneously.

The roust was complete.  The ceremony had been in the works for weeks, unbeknownst to the nerve-wracked Dennis.  Management figured that they would just string the poor guy along, following the Wintaka stunt, while they had the chance; punishment enough they figured.

It was the first Eagle Court of Honor that I had ever attended and to this day, one of the best kept surprises that I have ever witnessed.  And like all Courts of Honor, there was cake and punch afterward.