Brantingham Family News

Neto

2008-07-18T19:22:00.000-07:00

Next door to the Albrook Inn is a statue of Paul Bunyon in a shriners hat. The only other one of these fiberglass statues I've seen was in Northern California in the redwoods. They were manufactured in the hundreds as the Muffler Man during the 60's. The one in Panama stands directly in front of a building that housed the old officers club at Albrook Airforce Base, now the Abou Saad Shrine, edificio 13.

The couti mundi looks like a small raccoon with a narrow snout and long striped tail. It feeds off the scraps from the restaurant at the Albrook Inn. The agouti is there nearby but preferring to remain hidden. It's ugly and looks like a small capybara, the worlds largest rodent.

I left the Albrook Inn to catch a plane that would never leave the ground that day. There were exactly 12 of us waiting in a room all morning long. We exchanged stares, than smiles, and laughed at the big screen playing Starsky and Hutch. At noon we were called to the counter and given lunch money because the delay would take us into the afternoon. At 3:30 p.m. they cancelled the flight to Sambu.

I had it easy, but an old man with his granddaughter and one plastic bag was upset and had nowhere to go. He was invited to another house. We were all in the same boat. Next day we exchanged greetings as we met for the 11:00 a.m. scheduled flight. At that time I struck up a friendship with Neto who was traveling with his mother to Sambu in the Darien.

We talked and I asked him questions about school and sports. Then I realized he was a wealth of information about life in Sambu. I had a plastic brochure with pictures of animals in Panama. It listed mammals, reptiles, insects, and birds. We went through each animal and I marked the one's that he had seen. He pointed to Sambu on a map behind glass at the souvenir shop.

Neto walked with the assistance of his mother, hesitantly taking steps, like his equilibrium was out of whack. It wasn't epilepsy. I thought of a brain tumor. I found out that my hunch was correct.

His mom called him aside while I sat studying my books. He didn't come around me and looked out the window. He wouldn't look at me and remained quiet. I liked his friendship and I also wanted to finish our project. I turned and asked his mom if it was ok if I talked to Neto. She said yes and we continued our discussion. He sat across from me during the flight.

When we disembarked, I saw Net in the arms of friends walking away. I went up to his mother and said to say thank you to Neto for talking to me. Days went by.

Late morning Monday, Michael, Lupe and I went to the docks to go fishing. I was just going to watch. The aluminum dock was built by the government but far outside of town in the middle of nowhere. Lupe and Michael were ahead and I lingered back abit just enjoying the jungle that was beginning to enclose us. I saw a couple behind me but didn't pay any attention. Then I heard my name called. It was Neto and his mother Misities. We hugged and she gave me the most fantastic woven basket I had seen since being in Sambu.

The Embera have become expert basket weavers. They use a needle from the chunga (black palm) to sew strands taken from the jagua and nahuaha trees. The baskets and plates are firm and can't be bent. The basket that Misities gave me had a like with a latch and long string for holding. It was a work of art that clearly would have cost me thirty dollars to buy in the village. In the states, $250 minimum.

I walked them back to their house on the other side of the village. Their house was the last house of the village and we were on the complete other side outside the village. The walk probably took an hour. We stopped at an Embera house where I photographed a girl cooking with the mother weaving a bowl. I bought a finished bowl for $7 and turned down the plate for $30. We shared a laugh and continued on. Misities, Neto and I were having a great time and laughter was our bond.

They showed me the jagua fruit from which the pigment came that was used for my tattoo on my arm the night before. They showed me a large Panama tree with its white bark and foliage that exploded into the sky 50 feet above. They laughed when I took pictures crosses from graves scattered around from neglect, and a dog on top of a tomb.

We came across the largest bug I'd ever seen. Misities said they stung and you were best to wipe it off. We identified coffee, and a chocolate tree. I bought five orange sodas for the family when we got to their store. Grandma swung on a hammock. She hasn't been the same since a fall caused her to lose her mind. I met Neto's father, a policeman in Veraguas. I met his uncle, sister and brother.

They live in a group of traditional Embera homes with no walls, a thatched roof, and a tume log for climbing into the house. The houses are near the Sabalo River and are above the ground about six feet.

As I parted I walked backwards, taking pictures of them, then waving. I told Neto that I would be back in a year. He said, "A year? Oh, that's not so bad." But I may have lied. Misities told me that he had been in the hospit

al for two months in Panama City. I asked if he will be alright? She said yes.

Sambu

2008-06-29T15:29:00.000-07:00

This July 2008 trip to Panama will take me into the province of Darien on the country's eastern side. It's Panama's most sparsely populated province and without argument its most notorious. It's also the least visited with one report estimating about 700 visitors annually spending just $300,000.

I'll be arriving into Panama at Tocumen International Airport and the next day taking off from Marcos A. Gelabert Airport, formerly Albrook Air Force Base, on an Air Panama prop job. I'll arrive into the Darien town Sambu mid-day on the fourth-of-July and meet my host(s). The Bed & Breakfast I'll be staying at is just a few hundred yards from the air strip in the town of Sambu also known as Sabalo.

Sambu is named after the Rio Sambu and located on the southeaster portion of the province, more towards the Pacific Side. The river runs east to west and empties into the Pacific Ocean at the Bay of San Miguel where Balboa is said to have looked upon when he discovered the Pacific Ocean. Before reaching the bay the river meanders back and forth like a snake and from the air it's a spectacular sight.

Along the Rio Sambu are the villages of the Embera-Wounaan, an indiginous group who are said to have migrated from Columbia and for many years called the Choco. They run the area like the Kuna run the San Blas in established comarcas (regions). Carmacas are similar to Indian reservations in the U.S.. The Comarca De Kuna Yala was created in 1938 after a short but bloody rebellion in 1925. The Embera and Wounan comarca was established in 1983. I do not need permission to enter or may have it be default by being the guest of Michael Harrington.

Michael and his manager Mabel will be my host. He's an American who has lived between Panama City and the Darien for twenty years. He married a Darienista - a black descendant of slaves brought in by the Spanish to work the gold mines. Sambu has mostly Darienistas. Proper terminology and identification will come later.

Michael is a somewhat gruff but enterprising middle-aged man who built Sambu Hause after getting permission from the chief and flying in every scrap of material. The finished work is beautiful. If he is there, and I hope he is, we'll talk business about a second location.

I feel confident that I'll be far and away from the dangers emanating from Columbia. The Sambu region is really off the beaten track and arrival is by plane or boat. Compare that with Yaviza at the end of the Panamerican Highway, an area that has seen heavy deforestation and is rife with criminal activity. The highway and Yaviza straddle the center of the province and leads right into Darien National Park. By contrast where I'm going is a more preserved and less trafficked. Satellite pictures show it appearing to be more lush in vegetation. At least this is what I imagine.

I'll fly back to Panama in lieu of a commercial boat that comes and goes monthly - but wouldn't that be a blast? Then visit Ma. Together we'll hangout and maybe travel to Chitre in the Herrera province.

Goodbye to the Candle Light Motel

2008-06-21T19:51:00.000-07:00

The Candle Light Motel in Camarillo is under new ownership with plans to turn the old gal into a "boutique hotel" called the Courtyard Inn. My friend David is gone along with his extend family from India. Lost will be a cheap stay where David gave me a cut rate deal and always had a room ready even when technically they were booked solid. But all the power to the new owner Cathy Russell who I met on my most recent stay.

She owned a high-end hotel in Napa prior to her purchasing of the Candle Light. "When I first walked into the courtyard I thought, this is so quaint," she said gazing down from the second floor railing. Her plans go beyond renovation into complete overhaul. There will be scant resemblance to the former motel and the seedy reputation that it earned over the

years under less attentive management. To break from the past she has to create a whole new identity. "I don't want to run a motel," she said.

Her plan is to reopen as the Courtyard Inn, but only once the last detail is completed. Until then, she's operating a motel and dealing with all the problems associated with the present inhabitants.

"How would you like to be woken up at midnight by the police?" she says, "And then have to go in there with protective gloves?" Slowly, as each room gets the makeover and the rate increased, she will eliminate the undesirables. Personally, I never had a problem there and have seen many family types coming and going.

Cathy freely talks about her plans and it's easy to catch her vision. The motel is a diamond in the rough with a unique layout like a horseshoe enclosing a courtyard which will remain the parking area. The location is ideally situated on a well-manicured street with diagonal parking which reminds me of Coast Village Road. Bandits Grille and Bar is nearby as is a sushi house, an Italian restaurant, and countless small but well maintained shops. Unfortunately, the gas station next door looks abandoned with weeds growing up through the cracks in the pavement.

She says the city has been wonderful and she's received enthusiastic support from the police. Her plans include a re-do of each room; most of which are rather small, so she has to make due with the alloted space. I stayed in one of the older rooms one night and a renovated room the next and the difference is like night and day. The new doorway has upgraded framework and a small tiled foyer at the entrance. She's added custom made wooden shutters and the bulky old TV has been replaced by a flatscreen mounted on the wall. The bathroom has been completely redone and amenities like a wall-mounted hair dryer added.

Most all of the old furniture is gone and a wardrobe added along with a new microwave, clock, and coffee maker. A writing desk and Wi-Fi are on order.

The renovated hotel will be family friendly and completely nonsmoking. Some of the larger rooms will be expanded into suites and cribs made available. The existing balcony overlooking the street will be extended out and new balconies added if the city approves.

Back at the courtyard the posts will be replaced and clinging vines will run up and spread to the grill work on the second floor. Hanging flowers will dangle under the eaves giving this inner sanctum a garden feel. In the corners will be circular terraces with table and chairs.

Guests will also enjoy a massage on the second floor above the indoor pool which will be converted to a bistro of sorts. The new hotel will have a small exercise room and laundry facilities.

Much of the renovation is still in the planning stage and Cathy's mind works as hard as her hands. She looks over the courtyard wondering how to create that red cobblestone look without having to lay brick. And how do you keep engine oil from staining it?

With Cathy's business acumen and vision of mind she's very capable of pulling the venture off and seeing a profit in short time. But the project is not without its risks. Camarillo is an agricultural community where migrants work in the fields with their hands. Tourists just don't come here. But workers on temporary assignment do, and wedding parties need accommodations. Keeping the hotel full should not be a problem. But most importantly, there is a beauty to the region and she plans to capture it in matted framed photographs that will adorn the walls in each room. She'll romanticize the region through pictures. Tourists looking for that special place will come.

Some have asked her to keep the name because it and the motel are local landmarks. But that is impossible she says, and the new hotel must emerge from the old. Within a years time, the Candle Light Motel will be no more.

Tucson by way of Center of the World

2008-06-07T11:34:00.000-07:00

The family comes voluntarily wherever I ask them to go. Often they don't know where that is. They have no idea what's in store for them. On this trip they thought the goal was to stay at the nice hotel with the swimming pool. But the actual destination came the next morning with a trip to Colossal Cave outside of Tucson.

We did over 1,000 miles that short weekend, starting with a visit to Plank Road. I wouldn't expect anyone to know what this is unless you lived in these parts or have an interest in old highways. This highway is old and precedes Old US 80 by 20 years. It was built at the turn of the century to allow automobile passage over the sand dunes between Yuma, Arizona and El Centro, California. They called it the Plank Road because it was made completely of wood. Only a portion of it is left and preserved for the few visitors who venture here.

Not much further east we came to Felicita aka Center of the World. Whether Jacques Andre Istel really thought this lonely spot in Imperial Valley was the center of the world or not is questionable. I've heard it both ways. Either way he bought land and tried to build a city he called Felicity after his wife Felicia. There are residents living there which is the reason we were barred from going in which was disappointing. I wanted to see the stairs to nowhere and the pyramid that marks the exact center of the world. We respected their sign to keep out and kept going.

At Tucson we stayed at the upscale Embassy Suites Tucson Paloma Village thanks to Priceline, and swam into the night. I like the Tucson area and the southwestern style of houses with flat roof and desert landscaping. In the nicer areas the houses are well spaced apart and the natural features of plants and hills provides ample privacy and yardage. Outside of town is a disaster with tract home neighborhoods all looking the same.

The growth of Tucson and urban sprawl has reached right up to Colossal Cave. Last time I was here it was out in the middle of nowhere. Now you hang a left to the suburbs of Tucson and a right to Colossal Cave. The cave area is being engulfed. But this was our destination and the kids were going to get a treat.

The cave was formerly used by the Hohokam Indians as a shelter and explorations turned up two bodies from this group. The bodies were not touched and the side cave in which they were found was sealed off. Other items were found in the cave telling of the time when it was used as a hideout for bandits. Otherwise there isn't much use for a cave except to give tours and explore. The tour takes about an hour and wouldn't exist at all if it wasn't for the work of the Civilian Conservation Corp (CCC) during The Great Depression. I believe they labored for about four years laying the path the tour follows. During that time if one of them wanted to get married, they set up a chapel in one of the side caves.

The Colossal Cave area includes a campground, horseriding, and a museum about the CCC. The kids went on a treasure hunt that led to a little prize at the end and we were given free water. If you look carefully at the pictures of the seguaro you will notice that they are blooming. That flower is the state flower of Arizona.

We left Tucson and headed west through Tohono O'odham reservation country and stopped in at Mission San Xavier del Bac. At over 200 years old the church is still being used and was packed on the Sunday we visited.

If you want to avoid the interstate out of Tucson I recommend Highway 86. This is a rural road that leads to Gila and passes through some great desert country and a small community by the name of Why.

Take Old US 80 to Salvation Mountain

2008-05-01T17:39:00.000-07:00

Searching the Thomas Bros. map of Southern California I noticed a series of towns I'd never visited. They're strung along a road running east to west. The names were Seeley, Meloland, and Holtville, farm towns of the first order. The road I recognized as Old US 80 which became defunct back about 1964. I'd been meaning to explore Old US 80 for some time so I packed the family and off we went. But I didn't tell them our destination would be Slab City in Niland.

Starting at the town of Ocotillo on the Old US 80 we made our way east through desert than farm country of the Imperial Valley. We stopped only to photograph stretches of road, old neon signs, and delapidated structures left to the elements. I wanted to capture some of the economic decline that occurred once Interstate 8 was finished which resigned US 80 to a frontage road. But the towns had survived to some degree. They remained small but they certainly didn't degenerate.

We crossed the city of El Centro and took Highway 111 north through Brawley. This highway is slowly being rebuilt. There's already a stretch called Old Highway 111. Closing in on Niland, the Salton Sea appeared directly west and close to the Sonny Bono Salton Sea Wildlife Refuge. First through Calipatria then reaching Niland, a railroad crossroad of a town with little to do but stay out of the sun.

Ultimately, our destination was Slab City. This is not a real city but old military facility where people have been coming to live in the desert at no charge on BLM land. Most are snow birds who come only in the winter. There are some all-year round types. Each sets up their RV like a home with the desert floor being their front yard where art and other junk collect. There are no rules as there is no HOA!

I did not tell the family about Slab City or what was there until just a few miles from it at a rest stop. They had seen a show called Weird America where they highlighted a man who created a mountain by making adobe brick then painting it. His name is Leonard Knight and his mountain is called Salvation Mountain. The pictures speak for themselves.

Remembering Carl Kolchak in Plaster City

2008-04-18T21:08:00.000-07:00

Kolchak - The Night Stalker ran for just one season in 1974. But that was enough time to get my juices going about photography. He was a reporter in Chicago chasing bizarre monsters in the night all the while snapping photographs and talking into his recorder. Inspired I bought and destroyed countless Kodak Instamatic 124 cameras. They were cheap and I collected them. You'd be surprised if not aghast at how many family photos came from that infliction during the mid-1970's.

But I never knew how ingrained the influence of that show was until recently while checking out a lonely desert town called Plaster City. Actually, Plaster City is not a city. It's really not even a town as there are no houses. What it is is a large and sprawling factory with silos and billowing steam vents for processing and shipping gypsum, a mineral found in the rich sedimentary soil of near the Carrizo Badlands in Anza Borrego. There's a narrow gauge rail link from Plaster City to the gypsum mine run by the US Gypsum Company.

Unless you work here there is no reason to come by this way except

out of curiosity. Plaster City, like the nearby towns of Ocotillo and In-Ko-Pah prospered when US 80 passed through. But when Interstate 8 was built in the 1970's, missing these towns by a matter of feet, all was lost. These towns would forever be tied to "old US 80" with its crumbling asphalt.

But while Ocotillo and In-Ko-Pah are visible from the interstate, Plaster City is not, and that thought bugged me for the longest time. It's also one of the few places in the area to get a view of the railroad tracks that connect with Tijuana, El Centro, and Yuma. The railroad is part of the famous San Diego & Arizona Eastern Railroad built by entrepreneur John D. Spreckles. They called it The Impossible Railroad and keeping it linked to San Diego proved to be impossible thanks to the numerous tunnels and trestles that got destroyed by storms and earthquakes.

From Ocotillo I turned eastward on old US 80, now a frontage road, taking note of the changing desert. I had been watching the ocotillo from which the town gains its name. All through the Anza Borrego Desert the plants were blooming bright red flowers from their tips. But once you enter the small town of Ocotillo the desert changes in name and form. Here it's the Yuha Desert and the ocotillo and smoke trees fade away and the landscape become almost barren with low desert scrub and flat lands with their topsoil churned by off-road vehicles.

Arriving in Plaster City I realize why they missed this in the Visitors Guide. It's nothing but a factory which seems to run without human intervention. Nobody is in sight. I don't even feel eyes watching me which is rare in Southern California. I stop here and there, take a few photographs and record my observations. At that moment I realized that that is exactly what Carl Kolchak did on the show. Thirty-four years after the run of the The Night Stalker it still remains a part of me. A few weeks ago I ordered the series on Half.com for less than twenty bucks. It's still a good show and Darren Mc Gavin is magnificent.

Break - One break, one poem

2008-04-05T11:24:00.000-07:00

Break

Ok we've had our break

Can we get started for heavens sake?

I have someplace to be

When the clock strikes 3:30

Excellent - A poem in appreciation of a foster parent class

2008-04-05T11:19:00.001-07:00

Excellent

This class is excellent
I fell more intelligent
We're learning so much
All the things they're teaching us

Now we see a film
We begin another realm
This is very educational
My learning rate is astronomical

I can hardly wait to practice what I've learned
And show the kids the certificate I've earned
The home will be a different place
Where I've become a basket case

The discussion never ends
So constructive and never offends
With two more hours to go
How much more is there to know?

So Interesting - In appreciation of the foster parent class

2008-04-05T11:14:00.000-07:00

So Interesting

I'm trying to pay attention
This takes concentration
This is all very interesting
I'm glad I'm only visiting

Attachment - A poem from the depths of boredom in a foster class

2008-04-05T11:00:00.000-07:00

Attachment

We are attached
But not since being hatched
It's like a piece of string
Though you aren't my offspring
See you must become my child
And you're acting kinda wild

I want to meet your needs
So you'll be filled with good deeds
Thank you for your cooperation
This is cause for congratulations

But lets not be confrontational
I'll think of something original
Your behavior will be modified
The situation is over, cut n' dried

This class is so helpful
Don't think I am resentful
It's good that we are here
To listen, learn, then disappear

1999?

The Grand Canyon by way of the Mojave

2008-03-21T22:08:00.000-07:00

If you look on the map at the jagged-edged border of California and Arizona you will notice that Highway 95 goes south to north on the California side and north to south on the Arizona side. One can explore both sides of the border without ever leaving a Highway 95.

On our recent trip to Grand Canyon we did just that. What intrigued me most was traveling through the Mojave Desert which includes the Mojave Road, Kelso Depot, and Old Woman Mountain with its 5,300 foot summit. I also wanted to see Needles, California which may come as a surprise to anyone whose been there.

The highway on the California side begins at Blythe where all normalcy ends with the last agricultural acre of land. From here on out its desolation where only semi-trucks and a few scattered cars remain. For such a vast landscape with the close proximaty of the Colorado River, there is little evidence of developement. What we do find are scattered old resorts, mobile home parks, and boat docks.

Getting up towards Needles we pass Old Woman Mountain on our left. How on earth people survived on that mountain long enough to build gold mines is beyond me. It doesn't look like it has a shred of life on it including vegetation. The highway parallels the Colorado and we take every opportunity to enjoy it's beauty which never disappoints.

I've considered living in Needles for its close proximate to Arizona and Nevada. There are a number of interesting places a short distance in every direction. That idea's time is far in the future. On this trip, I did not find Needles very appealing.

Michele and I have come this way before going to the Grand Canyon. About 15 years ago I got a speeding ticket after doing about 65 mph on Highway 40. It's just a few miles after entering Highway 40 that we detour to Oatman, a small western town deep in the gold bearing badlands. We take a quick walking tour and witness a gunfight and the passing of the hat.

A couple of days later we're on our way back and start back south on Highway 95 in Arizona. Again we find wide open country but the traffic is heavy and around Lake Havasue it's like being in South Lake Tahoe at rush hour. We do manage to cross London Bridge before heading out of town. Geologically this is a very interesting and wonderous area, taken over by tens of thousands of the off-road set. They're everywhere; puttering through the canyons, going over shredded dirt hills or parked in every nook with their hogs and buggies.

South of Lake Havasu Village is Parker Dam where we stopped for photographs and chat with a bird watcher and his wife.

Finally, back to Quartzite after too many years. We visited the same outdoor rock store as we have before and take in a book store where one of the venders is a nudist and one patch away from being completely nude. I love the desert for the weird characters in brings out. This guy was also covered in red earth head to toe.

Visit to the Marshal South Homestead

2008-02-10T14:20:00.000-08:00

Upon his death in 1948, Marshal South left a legacy behind and a few other items atop Ghost Mountain where he lived for seventeen years with his family. There's his box spring, cistern, rusty can collection, and remnants of a wall and kitchen. His legacy has grown and so has the popularity of this somewhat strenuous 1 mile hike in the southern section of the Anza Borrego Desert State Park. The trailhead is 3.2 miles off State Route 2 on the dirt road leading to Blair Valley.

Marshal and Tanya South with their three children lived up here for seventeen years starting in 1930 at the beginning of the depression. He called it Yaquitepec. In a way it was his reaction to the depression. For money he wrote a column in Desert Magazine chronicling his "experiment in primitive living". Eventually Marshal and Tanya divorced and Marshal died in 1948.

The curious story about South and Yaquitepec draws people to this location. On our way up a steady stream of people were making their way down. On our way down a steady stream of people were making their way up. During the time we were there we had it all to ourselves.

The way up is almost entirely up hill. But once on top it's a quick footpath along the crest. Yaquitepec hides from view until you are right upon it. The first thing you notice is an earthen wall with wood framing and a bed frame nicely sqaured within what once was a room.

The most striking thing about this location is the beauty and peacefullness. It has a towering view of the desert floor with an abundance of the best desert vegetation: Ocotillos, barrel and cholla cactus, desert agave, and greasewood (creosote). There's smooth granite boulders about and little foot trails leading in every direction. Views of the desert floor on both sides of the crest are spectacular.

Once we got over the fact that we made it there we sat around enjoying desert. The temperature was warm and mild with a slight cool breeze. The recent rains had turned this dry brown landscape a pleasant green in places and plants, including cactus, are just beginning to flower.

Making The Best Of A Rainy Day

2008-01-28T17:21:00.000-08:00

The local park has a 3.3 mile loop trail popular with local walkers and joggers. We've been using this path for exercise for the better part of twenty years. Michele typically goes twice a day with the kids, rain or shine.

During a break in the rain this last Sunday (1/27/08) we did the route. This time though I brought the camera.

On the Ponderosa

2007-11-24T19:35:00.000-08:00

The identification of trees is an exact science that takes a considerable amount of study. But often, despite the research, there is no fruit. The reason for the difficulty is the shear number of variations within a type of tree. For example, there are over a hundred species of pine. So how can you tell the difference between the Sugar Pine or the Ponderosa Pine? How about the difference between a California Redwood and the giant sequoia for that matter?

Considering how difficult it is to accurately identify a type of tree there are many ways to accomplish the task. The difference between trees are both small and great. For pines, the difference may be in the number of needles to a cluster. The Ponderosa has three while others like the Sugar Pine has five. The length of needle is also a dead give away. Spacing of branches is an indicator.

There are other less subtle ways to differentiate between trees such as the over all shape and height. Both the Ponderosa Pine and the Sugar Pine can grow to a height of 200 feet, but the Ponderosa is conical while the Sugar Pine is not.

Really, in every way the trees are different, from size and shape of the cone to the color, texture and design of the bark. Even the location, elevation and circumference of the trunk hint at what tree you are looking at.

There is a frustration factor when you're on the trail and all the facts and figures get confused. You look at a tree and draw a complete blank. Is it a fir, cedar, or a pine? You can’t even answer the simplest, most basic question.

In Yosemite I learned that the three most prolific trees are the Incense Cedar, Ponderosa Pine, and the Black Oak. On this last trip to Yosemite I concentrated on the Black Oak, mainly because it is a tree so overlooked because of the grandeur of the conifers, yet the Black Oak is everywhere. Forty years of coming to Yosemite and I didn’t know that oaks grew in the valley, but they do. In fact they were the staple food of the indigenous people that lived there before the first white man came in 1851 (trappers arrived in 1823).

True to its name, the Black Oak has dark rough bark with a large leaf that almost resembles a maple in size and shape. It drops massive amounts of perfectly formed acorns about an inch and a half long. The kids picked them up and pretend they're little people wearing a hat. On the trail, these acorns are scattered broadly underneath the tall Black Oak. Now that it's fall/winter, the broad leaves cover the ground. Between the leaves and acorns covering the forest floor it's not hard to locate the great Black Oak. Imagine that the Yosemite's first inhabitants depended on this tree and the bounty which is still being produced.

These indigenous peoples called the Yosemites would gather a winters worth of acorns in a square shaped structure called a chuck-ah. Three of these can be found in the Indian Village behind the museum at Yosemite Village. The Yosemites would take the acorn and make three food products: a soup, a mush concoction, and hard patties. The Black Oak figured prominently in their diet.

Before leaving on this last Yosemite trip I decided to research the indigenous peoples who lived there before the white man came. What happened to them? Why are they non-existent? I read about Chief Tenaya and his three brothers (Three Brothers mountains).

Almost from the first meeting with the whites there was conflict. The Indians raided the white's camps and stores. The whites were given to prejudice and would kill the Indians at the slightest provocation. The Indians were faced with one choice; leave the valley or be exterminated. Some chose the first option and some chose the latter. But the end was a forgone conclusion. Stopping the whites from further incursion into the Sierras was impossible. Today, the Yosemites are essentially non-existent though their lineage survive in the Mono tribes and others. The Yosemites were Paiutes.

After the Indians were passified, the whites went after the good wood, especially the Sugar Pine. By the end of the 19th Century, Yosemite's trees needed protecting. John Muir stepped in but even he or an act of congress couldn't stop the onslaught. Actually, congress was an enabler to the lumber companies. Yosemite may have been declared a national park but it had little protection from logging. In 1912, The Yosemite Lumber Company pulled 35 million board feet of lumber. And this payload was reached and exceeded annually until November of 1942. There was also the Yosemite Valley Railroad that laid standard gauge tracks every which way to haul the logs to the mills in Merced. Maps of Yosemite at the time look like a labyrinth of tracks.

Very little evidence of these operations are left as all the buildings and equipment are gone; sold for scrap.

It's an absolute miracle that the beauty of Yosemite has been maintained, especially in light of it's history of war and logging. I've deemed it the happiest place on earth. And you don't need to be a botonist or historian to appreciate it.

Photograph 1 - Bark of a P0nderosa Pine taken at June Lakes.

Photograph 2 - The conical shape of the same Ponderosa Pine at June lakes.

Photograph 3 - The base of this giant sequoia reminded me of the o-chum bark homes of the Yosemites.

Photograph 4 - Tree with Cathedral Spires in background.

Sailing of the Star of India

2007-11-10T10:50:00.000-08:00

One of San Diego's most prominent attractions is a square-rigged vessel called the Star of India. She's moored up alongside the embarcadero which is a fancy term for San Diego's waterfront. They tout her as the oldest working ship in the world, and to prove this point they sail her annually. This weekend, November 10th and 11th, she makes her little jaunt up the coast to La Jolla and back. Only this time things were different - she had us to see her off.

Expecting crowds, we arrived early at 8:00 a.m. this morning when the ship's special guests and crew were boarding. The crew earn their way aboard by committing each Sunday for a year of training. We talked to one crew member, an engineer by day, who got bumped down to "handling the lines" because he missed a few Sundays because of a vacation he took to Europe. The other guests are big donators to the Maritime Museum, about $5K a pop at minimum.

The Star of India was built back in 1863 in Europe. She's square-rigged meaning that her sails face forward and the only way she goes anywhere is when the wind is cooperative and to her backside. To leave port, the ship employs the services of tug boats which consumes half the budget of the Maritime Museum, according to our new friend.

Recently, I've been reading and listening to a slew of books about sea voyages. My last, Red Sky in Morning, was about a women and her fiance who get hit by hurricane Raymond while piloting a yacht from Tahiti to San Diego. In the storm the boyfriend gets swept overboard by a rogue wave that also capsizes the boat. She ends up adrift for 41 days. Interesting, she'd learned celestrial navigation which saved her life because she was able direct the boat along the 19th longitude and hit Hawaii.

Besides the Maritime Museum which keeps a number of interesting ships for tours, the embarcadero has a number of other sights including many homeless people and the tuna fleet. We passed by a couple of older fishermen and I said I wanted to hire myself out on one of the boats. I got a lecture about the plight of the fishing industry in San Diego and how subsidized imports are killing the trade. I insisted that I be hired on one of their boats. He said, "sure, if you want to starve! Go sportfishing and get it out of your system." He was joking around but he meant what he said.

Photograph 1 - The Star of India in port.

Photograph 2 - HMS Surprise, a replica of an 18th century ship. You saw this ship in Russell Crowe's Master and Commander.

Photograph 3 - A Russian Submarine; part of the Maritime Museum's collection of ships.

Photograph 4 - USS Midway aircraft carrier. Converted into a museum.

Photograph 5 - This is new artwork titled Unconditional Surrender. It stands 25 feet tall. That's Aaron, Cecilia, and Marc in the lower left.

Photograph 6 - Another view. This part of the embarcadero has several tributes to the WWII era.

Photograph 7 - This group of statue commemorates Bob Hope. If you look closely, some of the objects are brightly dressed and look familiar.

Photograph 8 - The figure of Bob Hope on the sketch pad.

Photograph 9 - The old codger on the right started in the fishing industry in SD back in 1954. He says he's retired. Skilled hand at cutting netting. Doesn't recommend the profession.

Photograph 10 - Shipping pulling out.

Photograph 11 - And thar she goes.

Photograph 12 - She'll be towed out of the bay then then will set sail. The only thing missing was a star to sail by.

Photograph 13 - Family shot in front of the Maritime Museum. Aaron was disappointed that I didn't buy him a pirate hat. For $9! No way. The night before I had the kids watch Pirates of the Caribbean with Captain Jack Sparrow.

Salt Creek Village

2007-11-03T21:38:00.000-07:00

Salt Creek is a Guaymi Indian village located on Isla Bastimentos, a large island in the Bocas Del Toro archipelago. The village is accessed by way of a river that cuts deep into the island. With mangroves on both sides and thick dark jungle all around, the river narrows to a stream until it becomes impassable by boat. At this spot is a dock and wooden walkway.

Batimentos is one of the largest of the 200 hundred islands that make up the archipelago located on the Caribbean side of Panama. Costa Rica is over the rise on the mainland to the north. Bastimentos has many faces including one of an island paradise for the rich. On the Salt Creek side of the island the picture is more primitive.

Out on the open ocean we had been passed by an older couple in a small motorized wooden boat shaped like a canoe. That boat was tethered to the dock and its cargo of Atlas bear and bananas clearly visible. Under a steady drizzle, a young barefooted girl stoically lifted a bag a fruit and disappeared with it down the path. Another girl showed up for another load just as we were docking.

Pa and I came here with legendary guide, Livingston, a man whose write-up in the Lonely Planet guide book caused us to seek him out. Earlier we had lunch on another island and snorkeled amongst the mangroves. As we stopped on the dock it was decided to wait for the rain to stop. Also, Pa’s knee was giving him pain so he wasn’t in a rush to go anywhere.
The second girl to arrive lifted a sack of bananas and transferred them into a satchel with a strap that goes around her forehead for easy carrying. I could wait no longer and jumped out. I looked back and new both of them were in for a long wait.

I hopped out of the boat and helped the young girl with the bananas. She didn’t say a word and walked to the end of the wooden walkway which led to a dirt path. She was up ahead about 20 yards and me slowly behind. I didn’t know where I was going but nobody was stopping me.
The girl disappeared once we entered the village. I concentrated on the most amusing sign advertising a $6 tour. This confirmed the rumor of a tour. I started down the trail with the sign but was stopped by a woman who got my attention but not with words. She waved me back along another trail towards a house with chickens running about. The house was high off the ground and entered by stairs.

Past the house she lead me to a small shack with a door opened. A young man and several boys stared at me. I noticed that the woman I followed now had a child. I understood that I was expected to enter the dark shack. Inside was an older women and many items for sale. Among the items for sale was a hand carved wooden bird which I bought and hangs on my wall today. I also picked up a necklace of shells that I immediately put on. I asked the old lady to pose with my purchases.

Outside again I took some amazing photos of the group. These are some of my favorite photos I’ve ever taken. The young man would be my tour guide. I told him I wanted to see a crocodile in the wild. Somehow he understood enthusiastically and assured me that I would see the creature.

Almost immediately we came to a house where a couple of kids were cooking in the front room. He walked around to a gate while I went straight for the house. I understood this to be his extended family. The kids were solemn but looked happy and well fed. They spoke very little. The oldest, a girl about 12, chewed rice in her mouth and let it drop to feed the chickens. I took a series of photos of them. I enjoyed this visit and lingered long trying to get to know them. They weren’t the most talkative.

At a pond, the guide pointed to a crock whose features were clearly identifiable though below the surface. I realized then that I was more interested in his excitement at finding it then the animal itself. We moved on to deep jungle where we passed a house on stilts. What was unique about the house is that it had no walls whatsoever.

I couldn’t imagine the trip getting any better and it didn’t. He pointed out vultures in a tree and bovine grazing on acres of deforested land. Before I knew it we were back in the village. The trail had been a loop. I said my good-byes and made my way back to the boat. A little boy came up to me and took my hand. Pa and Livingston hadn’t stirred. They were in the same position as when I left them. To his credit, Pa didn’t complain about having to wait for me. To this day I’m grateful for Pa’s good attitude because I had the time of my life. Check out these pictures and you’ll understand.

Livingston next took us to Red Frog beach. On the way, under downed logs, we found the red frog. Despite the serious warnings, we both held the frog. Had we had an open cut on our hands, this could have been lethal action. Later we washed out hands in the ocean. The swells coming into the cove made swimming impossible. In fact, a couple had drowned here recently. Livingston himself had witnessed drownings here. As I thought to myself, if the red frog doesn’t get you the ocean will.

Manuel Noriega Home

2007-10-11T19:29:00.000-07:00

Ma and I were taking a taxi back from Panama Viejo when the driver mentioned that we were passing the home of Manuel Noriego. I'd say "former" home but I think he still owns it.

This taxi driver hadn't said a word until this moment which makes me wonder if he wanted to extend our little ride. And why we took this path to Oberra is not exactly clear. There was considerable traffic and I supposed he knew a short cut. Anyway, I asked him to stop and I took these photos.

The home and yard has obviously been vacant and neglected for years. I read later that some people were starting to tend the grounds in anticipation of his arrival after being released from federal prison in the U.S. Ofcourse we know that he is being extradited to France though that lastest move is being appealed. He's not coming back to Panama for a long time.

The house is actually very attractive as is the quiet neighborhood ...when visitors are absent. I noticed a older resident doing some watering of his yard and didn't raise an eyebrow to our presence. If figure visitors have been coming around since the early 1980's.

Noriega was born in Panama City but was raised in other places like Yaviza in Darien. He wrote an autobiography while in prison which I recommend only to get the other side of the story. A movie was also made about him which depicts him as one bizarre dude.

Desert Tower

2007-10-07T18:12:00.000-07:00

The Desert Tower is a bizarre rock structure overlooking Interstate 8 at Jacumba. It was built by Bert Vaughn, former owner of the town of Jacumba back in 1922 to commemorate the pioneers who traveled that way to San Diego. I guess he had a warm spot for those people.

When you consider the extreme deserts that surround San Diego County you can appreciate the hardship these people went through. Those who traveled by way of Jacumba had to ascend a mountain range completely covered in house sized boulders with no water and high temperatures. They would be coming from southern most path through the Imperial Valley. But these pioneers still had it better than those taking the Immigrant Trail or Anza Trail through the Anza-Borrego Desert.

I've only been here once though I've passed it many times. Only after reading about it several times in the newspaper over the years did I get it into my head to pay it a visit. We were passing it at the tail end of a long day trip around the county when I decided to stop. I guessed and took the In-ko-pah Park Road and hung a hard right. After about a half mile there it was.

The entrance fee is nominal at a couple bucks each. On the ground floor is the front desk, a pack of wandering dogs and a mish mash of curios for sale. On the walls and in display cases are odd artifacts which I guess is someone’s idea of a museum. Up the middle is a set of stairs leading up three levels to the viewing platform with open windows for a 360-degree view of the incredible backcountry of San Diego.

The area surrounding the tower has trails into the hills and rock carvings. Talk about rock art. Back in the 1930's a man named W.T. Ratcliff carved granite stones into the image of animal creatures. The kids loved running around the hillside and making discoveries.

Yuma Territorial Prison

2007-10-05T22:57:00.000-07:00

Very few places are worth coming back to when there are so many new places to see for the first time. Yuma Prison is one of those places I’ve come back to over and over again. It sits atop a hilltop perch overlooking the Colorado River and a picturesque train trestle. I’d come back here just to watch the trains pass over the bridge, but there is so much more.

The prison still stands and many relics from the days of its operation are displayed in the museum. What first caught my attention on my first visit maybe a dozen years ago were pictures of the prisoners who were kept here. I thought about how miserable they must have been; locked away in a silent, barren and stinkin hot land. With the penetrating heat in this desert the cells must have been baking.

The prison lasted for just 33 years from 1876 to 1909, but served it’s purpose as a territorial prison. It became outdated because it couldn’t be expanded, so the prisoners were all moved elsewhere. Strange beginnings of the prison; it was built by prisoners with a mix of adobe and wrought-iron. The prison looks like it sprang up from the earth. The hill is called Prison Hill. The Colorado River is a stones throw away. Each time I visit I see people wading into the river to cool themselves. Rather impromptu.

During its run, the prison held over 3,000 prisoners of which 111 died of various illnesses or were hung or shot while escaping. Being a prisoner was punishment enough but if that wasn’t enough there was the Dark Cell. You can enter it and imagine staying there with the door closed. If that was the case you probably couldn’t see your hand in front of your face. The prison had guard towers and a walled courtyard.

There are pictures in the museum of hangings. One of the most famous prisoner was a female. She was the first female prison to be kept there and here name was Pearl Hart. She was also the first female to rob a stagecoach. She palled with her boyfriend and really played up the tough act. They say when she finally got taken away and separated from him she turned into a lady. Shows you what bad company can do. They may have faked pregnancy to get out of there. Just as well because she did alright afterwards.

Photograph 1 - Entrance into the prison.

Photograph 2 - The main cell block.

Photograph 3 - Typical cell with two bunks.

Photograph 4 - Iron ring for chaining prisoners.

Photography 5 - The library.

Photograph 6 - Bunk mate - doing 15 years for assault with intent to commit murder.

Photograph 7 - Bunk mate - 37 year old druggist doing 35 years for counterfeiting.

Photograph 8 - Another cell block. Notice the granite rocks. These were quarried locally by prisoners. The prisoners built their future home.

Photograph 9 - Original wall of adobe. The walls were reinforced with metal supports.

Photograph 10 - Transportation. There is no explanation about this vehicle. It can only be assumed it was to transport prisoners. At least that's the assumption.

Photograph 11 - Typical single occupant cell.

Photograph 12 - The dark cell used for punishment. Pitch black inside.

Photograph 12 - Looking out from within.

Photograph 13 - A vent from which snakes and other critters would drop. The Dark Cell was a snake pit too.

Photograph 14 - Excersize yard.

Photograph 15 - Cells opposite the excersize yard.

Photograph 16 - The mult-bunk cell.

Photograph 17 - Grafitti on the walls. Some as recent as 1971 but also one from 1942.

Photograph 18 - Cell block.

Photograph 19 - Guard tower above the well.

Photograph 20 - While we were there, we interrupted an escape attempt.

Photograph 21 - We found at least one inhabitant quite cheerful despite the accomodations.

Photograph 22 - It was hard leaving some of the prisoners.

Photograph 23 - We caught this family watching a train cross over a trestle on the Colorado River.

The Imperial Valley’s New River

2007-10-03T20:26:00.000-07:00

The New River flows north to the Salton Sea delivering a potent cocktail of chemical pollution from industrial and agricultural runoff as well as illegal dumping. The end result is that tens of thousands if not millions of fish and birds are killed in and around the ancient "sea." It is undeniable that pollution enters the river and the river enters the lake.

The New River has been considered the most polluted river in the country. It originates in Mexican territory around the city of Mexicali carrying untreated industrial pollutants northward into the Imperial Valley in Southern California. The river then picks up the runoff from 500,000 acreas of agriculture grown in the valley. Every soil-absorbing chemical used in the production of crops end up in the New River.

In addition, illegal dumping along the river and urban runoff serve to further pollute the river until it reaches the Salton Sea that has no outlet or means to purify itself. The Salton Sea can be likened to the Dead Sea which also has no outlet and the New River is the River Jordan. Nothing lives in the Dead Sea except bacteria and fungi due to its high salinity. The Salton Sea's salinity is 25% greater than that of the ocean. This serves to limit what life the lake can sustain.

The Salton Sea was created by a man-made accident between the years 1905 and 1907. Back then, both the New river and Salton Sea were bone dry and had been that way for some time. And they would have stayed that way if it weren’t for the aspirations of certain entrepreneurs to bring water and thus agriculture to the Valley. In 1901, the yet untamed Colorado River water was diverted westward through an irrigation canal by way of a diversion gate.

Eager farmers came to the newly named Imperial Valley and started vast agricultural farms. The Southern Pacific Railroad laid lines down to bring the produce to market. But what was not known about the Colorado River was the immense amount of silt it carried downstream, and by 1904 the canal channel was damming up. That actual spot of the diversion of the Colorado was located four miles south of the border in Mexico. It happened in 1905 that the whole system failed as the silt completely blocked the river's forward motion sending the entire flow toward Mexicali. It started eating at the outskirts of Mexicali taking down structures and threatening the entire city. The Colorado was a torrent that year.

Incredibly two major and ancient river channels were now filled once again with Colorado River water and flowed northward towards the Salton Sink as it was known. The two rivers were the New River and the Alamo. For 18 months the full strength of the Colorado flowed through these rivers into the ever-growing Salton Sea.

The Salton Sea was formerly called Lake Cahuila by the indiginous peoples and witnessed as full by Spanish exploreres 500 years ago. But it had long since dried. In its day, it was fed by the Colorado River. But how can the Colorado River which normally flows south do a U-Turn and travel north? The answer is that the Salton Sea is 227 feet below sea level. During the flooding of 1905 - 1907, the Colorado River simply ran downward, or north, per the law of gravity. This still occurs today as New River is still the primary source of new water to the lake. The input equals the evaporation rate thus sustaining the level.

By 1907 when the flooding was stopped, the Salton Sea had grown from a dry lake bed to a "sea" of 376 square miles and over 50 feet deep, larger than Lake Tahoe.

In the 1950’s the lake was successfully stocked with fish and promotional brochures advertised sportfishing at the new Salton City. Residential communities such as Yacht Club Estates and North Beach sprang up.

But before long the Salton Sea was known for its horrid stench and for the killing of tens of thousands of birds to botulism. By the 1970's Salton City was a ghost town. And today, visitors are greeted by millions of dead talipia fish tapping at the shoreline. Their death caused by chemical reactions that suck oxygen out of the water, especially as the mercury rises.

Yet, despite the choking smell of rotting fish the Salton Sea has a good amount of permanent residents. The hopes of making this area a resort playground are a thing of the past though. In fact whether the sea will exist at all in the future is in question. Some say let it evaporate back to dust while others note its value as a wildlife refuge for endanged species of birds like the brown pelican.

Today, the Salton Sea attracts controversy but little else. It’s not a pleasant place to visit and most travelers go right on by at 80 miles per hour. For sale signs in front of houses advertise bargain prices. And my son Aaron vomited from the sight of millions of dead fish on the beach and their odor. And so is the future of this lake forced into existence by an accident of man.

Photograph 1 - Old Southern Pacific building remain empty at the railyard in El Centro. When the Colorado River flooded for two years at the turn of the century, it was the SP that plugged the breach.
Photograph 2 - The trains still run throughout the Imperial Valley bringing crops to market.
Photograph 3 - Canals bring Colorado River water for irrigation of crops in the Imperial Valley. The drainage runs to the Salton Sea.
Photograph 4 - Trash dumped along the New River between Calexico and El Centro.
Photograph 5 - A sign warns of the danger under foot and in the water.
Photograph 6 - The rotting carcass of a dead dog or coyote lies just feet from the New River.
Photograph 7 - The carcass is not removed but left to deteriorate into the soil and into the river.
Photograph 8 - Cattle is the Imperial Valley's biggest commercial crop. Here a farm spreads out along the New River with no barrier between. The river flows northward into the Salton Sea.
Photograph 9 - Dead talapia wash up against the unused boat ramp at the Salton Sea.
Photograph 10 - The skeletal remains of millions of tilapia.
Photograph 11 - Closeup of long dead, dried up tilapia. The stench is enough to drive away all tourist acitivity.
Photograph 12 - A dead gull. These can die from botulism outbreak but one of a number of hazards can kill a gull.
Photograph 11 - Rotting tilapia by the millions invade the shore of the Salton Sea.
Photograph 12 - Where there is water there is life. As long as there is water the birds will come. But whether this is for their better or worse is the question.

Chiriqui Mishap

2007-09-27T19:41:00.000-07:00

We caught up with this poor guy shortly after he tipped his truck on the road to Chiriqui. I'm sure it just happened because you could hear the engine cooling and he looked a little miffed. His right wheel must have left the roadway where the pavement ends and drops about a foot or two. This particular stretch is under construction and extremely hazaradous for driving. Ma and I travelled this portion the night before. Can't say we were overly thrilled by the condition of the road here. And given the choice we probably would have liked to have started out earlier and hit it in daylight.

We had gotten a late start from Panama City, in part because I rented a car in the morning that had to be taken back because it was a piece of junk. We also got stuck in Casco Viejo for awhile before heading out of town. It was about 7:30 pm when we arrived at Santiago. We decided to press on.

The road construction began soon after Santiago. The most hazardous obstacle was ditches in the middle of the road that were marked but caused the highway to be reduced to a single lane. Along the entire length the vegetation was thick, dark, and ominous. There were no towns whatsoever. We still enjoyed the ride, but driving conditions were poor.

The next day, returning from David, we enjoyed the breathtaking scenery we missed the night before. I was especially happy to see people along the roadway, waiting for rides, walking with machetes, or playing outside their houses. Sometimes scenery is a wonderful thing but it's empty without people.

Chiriqui has water in abundance and we strained to see every river we passed. They were full and wide. In the daylight things didn't seem so wild. But we felt for this guy. He took his eyes off the road and ended up in a ditch. That one mishap may cost him his job. Ma wondered how on earth they were going to get that thing upright out there in the middle of nowhere.

Favorite Photos Series - Curt's Log Raft

2007-09-26T19:41:00.000-07:00

The only thing I regret about the years bumming around with Curt is that there wasn't enough of them. We shared an adventurous spirit that was insatiable. He was always pushing the envelope on adventures, Woody Guthrie style.

One day we were having lunch with Russ and his first wife Brenda on the banks of Lake Cushman at the foot of Mt. Washington in Washington state. Curt left the group and was absent for some time. I turned and there he was by the lake. I snapped the first shot.

We all hung around while Curt spliced together a surprisingly sturdy raft in a short amount of time. We'd made rafts before but nothing with the durability of this one. I watched and snapped pictures in amazement as Curt drifted further and further away. I lost sight of him as he rounded a pointed several hundred yards away. I took the last shot. We all walked away shaking our heads but totally unconcerned for his safety.

A few months later we would be living at Lake Cushman at the state park. For free rent we worked every day except weekends. He'd work one day and I the next. The main job was cleaning out the fire pits at the campgrounds and cleaning the bathrooms. One day the ranger and I made a "glutton" which is a wooden mallet. This reminds me of a typical day for a ranger in the dead of winter at Lake Cushman.

I followed him into the shed and he took the old mallet, slammed it hard against the wooden work table and declared that it was time for a new glutton. So we hopped into the truck and went to a ranch house with considerable acreage and a large mountain beside it. It was tucked into a valley thick with green trees. As beautiful a spread as you could wish.

We hopped into the strangest vehicle I'd ever seen. It was like a Jeep without the sides. It had four wheels and a square body to fit the passengers and a cargo area in the back. It had one purpose - to lug up and down the mountain. It had power to spare and gripped the mud as if it had claws. No ordinary truck could have performed such a feat.

This road hugged the side of the mountain with nothing but drop-off on the other side. About a mile up we came across a raging waterfall with a hundred foot drop. Between the lush vegetation surrounding us and seeing that water come over the ridge and plunge down to the rocks, the beauty was simply mesmerizing. So incredible was this sight that the image seared into my memory instantly and remains to this day. I knew instinctively that that is why he brought me up there. Not to make a silly glutton but to show me this beauty.

But then we stopped on a steep incline of road. The open space to our left was still there but was now thick with hard wood trees. The ranger (forget his name) handed me the chainsaw and said, "cut some wood off one of those trees for our glutton." I thought, "you've got to be kidding!" In front of all these people? I'd never used a chainsaw before. Not to mention we were in the midst of a drizzle and everything was soaking wet. The hillside itself was almost verticle to the road. I'd have to climb down to the trees, stand on an incline, and control a killer chainsaw which I'd only watch others use. This was insane. The one thing I had going for me was that I had watched very closely as others used chainsaws. Mentally I was prepared for this moment but not for the conditions, and the audience.

As they stood just about twenty feet away, I made my way down the hill and proceeded to pretend to know what I was doing. I gave the rope a jerk and the thing started right up. I eyeballed a thick branch and cut both sides using the base of the chain-saw. By using the base I knew that that would prevent kickback and the thing from going through my forehead. We ended up with a perfect sized chunk of wood, nice and round for our new glutton. I turned off the motor, headed up the hill, returned the chain-saw to the back of the vehicle and we took off down the hill. Hardly a word spoken.

Most days were not that interesting but always enjoyable. Hardly anyone came around the campground so cleanup was always light. Curt worked one day and I the next. While he worked I explored the forest or hitchhiked into the little town at the bottom of the road. A little old lady picked me up once, and then again another time. She asked me if I needed work and I said I did. She said she'd also picked up my friend the other day and verified that my story of why I was there was true. Both Curt and I worked for her alternating, always chopping up wood for her fire. She always made cookies for us, hot and fresh from the oven. Her name was Doris Micklen and she drove a four-door Ford. Some years later Curt went back there and noticed the car gone. Most likely she had died.

For additional money we picked chanterelle mushrooms in the forest. There were always people along the road set-up to buy them. These mushrooms that grew wild in the rain forests of Washington would end up in Europe and sold for $4 an ounce. We brought in multiple pails full and got about a buck a pound. Still, living near the forest we made a killling.

Casco Viejo Debacle

2007-09-25T19:28:00.000-07:00

We didn't intend to visit Casco Viejo, and I tried to keep right in order to avoid it. But my rights couldn't overcome the wrongs and we ended up driving straight into Panama's old downtown without any chance of turning around.

Our intended destination was the Bridge of the Americas via Balboa Avenue. My inexperience on these roads cost us precious time but we caught a quick view and a whirlwind tour of this most unique area.

Unfortunately for us we were trapped within the narrow streets, trinket shops, and certain elements squalor. Round and round we went until we came to the Metropolitan Cathedral which is at the center of the whole labyrinth, which I find out was laid out with thought and planning, with 38 blocks arranged in a grid pattern running east and west. This "old quarter" was created in 1673; just two years after Henry Morgan burned down the original Panama City.

The Metropolitan Cathedral was part of the grand plan and construction began in 1688 and completed in 1786, 108 years later. What I don't know is why it took so long. Maybe they couldn't find their way out of the city?

We stopped and asked for directions several times. Once we were given very specific instructions to turn right at a small park. I overshot the turn without realizing it.

Had I been more watchful I would have noticed a statue in the center of this park. It is that of Ferdinand de Lesseps, the French diplomat and entrepreneur behind France's disastrous effort to build a canal in Panama. De Lesseps may have been the hero behind the construction of the Suez Canal but in Panama he met his match and afterward France hauled him into court and convicted him of crimes related the failure. We can thank France for providing much of the architectural style of the buildings found in the quarter.

It became clear to Ma and I that we were hopelessly bound within the old quarter and asking directions was no use. Finally, we came across a small police substation with a small crowd gathered out front. We asked directions once more but our prospects of ever finding a way out was nil. A voice from within the crowd told us to hold on a helmeted policeman appeared and offered to lead us out. We accepted. Thus, the pictures you see here have two officers escorting us out of Casco Viejo.

Goleta Pier Rendezvous

2007-09-17T19:32:00.000-07:00

It was early winter 1981 when I started to notice large groups of Vietnamese fishing off Goleta Pier. They literally lined both sides for over half the span to the very end. You could tell instinctively that they were well acquainted with the sea and old hands at fishing. I thought it was an amazing site, so I told Pa.

Pa, the committed columnist, made it down for a look. But that day only half the number I had seen were there. And, there was a more, shall we say, ethnic mix. Oh well. Pa got a story (I think), and I got great pictures of Pa. And in the end, I caught Curt walking his bike up the pier too.

Lost mine of Pegleg Smith

2007-09-16T16:23:00.000-07:00

If I'm ever accused of not taking the kids anywhere, please refer to this blog. The person, character, and myth of Pegleg Smith and his lost goldmine came out of the mid-1800's gold fever that swept the country. His real name was Thomas Long Smith, and he gained a reputation for being "the most superlative liar that ever honored California with his presence."

The origin of the goldmine story came from a trek he took from the Colorado River to Los Angeles along the Anza Trail to sell pelts. While crossing what is known today as the Anza-Borrego desert, he stumbled upon several small stones that turned out to be almost pure gold. But Smith didn't return to the location for many years until well after rumors grew and groups paid him to take them to the exact spot. He died in 1866 at the age of 65, unable to find the "three buttes" where the gold was found.

In 1947 a sign was erected that reads, "Let him who seeks Pegleg Smith's gold add 10 rocks to this monument." Later, a mailbox and guestbook was added.

So I declared to the kids that if they are also looking for Pegleg Smith's lost goldmine to add 10 stones, which they did. The chances either of them finding Pegleg's lost goldmine is slim to none as it probably never existed in the first place.

Smith was many things, trapper, trader, Indian fighter, and mountain man. He even operated a outpost in Utah, selling goods to immigrants. But his greatest achievement was as a horsethief and they considered him one of the best.

The Double Take

2007-09-15T08:29:00.000-07:00

When traveling, I do this quirky thing where I'll take a picture to duplicate what I'd seen in a post card or book. It's not a hard thing to do. You just stand in the exact same spot, line up the shot and snap. Piece of cake.

It's something I like to do especially if that particular post card or picture is what brought me to that spot in the first place. If that is the case, then it is absolutely necessary to grab that shot, or at least to attempt to do so.

Because of changes occurring with the progression of time and the differences in lenses, my photo will never precisely match that of the original. But I try. And while there I want to give it my best shot, so to speak.

Back in the late 1980's, Michele and I were in the Mexican state of Michoacan, staying in the city of Uruapan. Why we were there and how we got there is a different story. It's like planning a vacation by closing your eyes and placing your finger on the map then going there.

Anyway, while there, we had days to kill so I read up on the area and discovered what there was to do. Turned out there was plenty of interesting things to do and places to see. One of the day trips we took was to the ruins at Tingambato. These are very interesting Mayan-era ruins which I've read about considerably since. But back then it was all new. And there I had in my pocket the post card to match.

In the photograph, a child or person is running across the flat courtyard which I learned later is a ball court in the center of an arena. To match the shot I needed Michele to run across the yard in order to duplicate the scene. Being that it was over 100 degrees hot, she refused. I insisted but it was no use. Searching for an alternate would have been futile as we were the only ones there, or so I thought. A little unnerved, I climbed up the bleachers and lined the shot as best as I could.

Later, back home, I was reviewing the photographs taken on the trip and came up with the ones shot at Tingambato. Apparently, I had taken the shot while a child ran across the field. I vaguely remember doing so. But the match is extradinary. The first photo is the post card. The second is my shot trying to match it (or is it vice-versa).

Earlier, before Tingambato, on the first day in Uruapan, we visited the Eduado Ruiz National Park. In hand, I had a post card of a man jumping in the river with heavy vegetation all around. Below is the post card and my matching shot. There was no way I was going to make a perfect match on this one, but I did try. What you had to do was throw a coin in the river which one of the dozen or so boys would dive to get. Needless to say, this was a blast to watch.

Walk to the Southwestern most corner of the United States

2007-09-14T14:10:00.000-07:00

It's been gnawing on me to explore Dairy Mart Road and visit the Southwestern most corner of the United States where the border with Mexico meets at the Pacific Ocean. I had contemplated the trip many times over the years but never thought anything worthwhile out there and I pictured an unkept ghetto-like scene in my mind. This idea was lurking in my subconscious but had no basis in fact.

I had been on Dairy Mart Road a number of times, usually just to turn around as it is one of the last exits before entering Mexico. I'd even traveled along its curves for a mile or two, years back, but never went to the end and beyond. On a lazy spring Sunday morning, I took the opportunity to explore the area with my eight-year-old intrepid son Aaron in tow.

The Dairy Mart Road exit is found on Interstate 5, just a couple of miles from the border crossing leading into Mexico. Most people exiting go east, across the overpass where there are numerous apartments and stores. We pick up drinks and a snack there and head west along Dairy Mart Road and its industrial park beginnings where the road is still wide for trucks with a sidewalk on one side.
Just a mile or so in you can feel the open space and the sky appears bigger with a soft blue hue, and it's quiet. We round a corner and come to a large bridge spanning the width of a swampy riverbed which I learn is the Tijuana River. On a flat dirt area is a line of cars and something hovering in mid-air. We pull over for a closer look, then head down a dirt road leading to the parking area. We've come across a model airplane group that meets here on Sundays to fly their planes and helicopters. It was a helicopter I saw hovering in the distance shielded by a cloud of white exhaust smoke.

After a few quick conversations and a turn at the controls of a model plane in mid-air, we hop in the car and continue our trek. Almost immediately we reach rural farms, livestock and signs of the Tijuana Estuary, a wetlands preserve and no-man's land between the two countries. It's this area that gets flooded in heavy rains as there are minimal flood control devices like dikes and levees. In fact, the bank of the river appears so low as to be non-existent. Over the years I've heard of horses getting trapped on sandbars by flood waters. Most are rescued, but some end up being washed away to drown.

Eventually, we reach a locked gate and a small vacant office building. Nobody is around but a sign clearly reads Border Fields State Park. I find the most convenient place to park, lock the car and through the fence we go. The paved road that had been called Dairy Mart is now Monument Road and within a few feet becomes dirt.

The dirt road is our footpath that continues straight to the ocean. The scenery is monotonously barren, broken up by pools of water and small tributaries off the main river. We see little wildlife and no sign of people in any direction as far as the eye can see.

At a crossroads junction we have a choice to keep straight or go left. I can visualize the road taking us to the ocean where we'll walk south to the border fence and hopefully find access back to the park entrance, making a giant loop. I tell Aaron to brace himself for a long walk.

But soon enough we start to hear waves breaking and men on horseback walking in the distance on the sand. Two men stand talking where the dirt road finishes off at the foot of the beach marked by a white plank fence. We exchange greetings with the gentlemen and head south behind a caballero on horseback who disappears into the brush with both of us wondering what the heck he's doing. He dismounts and sits. At that moment we notice that we're being watched by a border patrol agent in a small Ford Bronco.

After several hundreds yards of walking on the sand we reach the border fence that separates the United States from Mexico. At the point where the fence meets the beach begins a line of iron pylons sticking up out of the earth like bludgeons and extending into the water about 100 yards. A person could swim around it with ease if it wasn't for the fact they'd be instantly captured by Border Patrol.

As we reach the fence to look across to Mexico's Playas de Tijuana, another couple approaches from the other side. But they stop short and turn around. Aaron and I head up the bluff along the fence now numbered like it was put together as a puzzle. No attempt is made to beautify the fencing on the U.S. side. By contrast, on the Mexican side I've seen whole murals of horse scenes, mountain scenes and advertisements.

At the top of the bluff overlooking the gorgeous Pacific Ocean is a picnic area and two monuments. One, an obelisk, straddles the border and has words chiseled into it. It is the official border marker on the exact spot where the two countries meet. Expecting to read some official proclamation I stop and bend over to have a look. This is what it reads - "The destruction or displacement of this monument is a misdemeanor punishable by the United States or Mexico". Well, at least the two countries agree on something.

Reaching the border fence and the "Southwestern most corner of the United States" was not the highlight of the trip. The power and beauty of the deep blue ocean overshadowed the scene of rusty metal that reminds me of prison bars. And it's not lock tight as Aaron could pass between the vertical pylons at will.

We walk back where the slough water has completely engulfed the road. The Border Patrol agent keeps and eye on us until we are safely out of sight. The vegetation along the border is head-high and thick. My mind wonders how many people, men, women, and children have passed this way, in the night, hoping not to be discovered entering the U.S. illegally. Sadly we find a doll and the head of another in the brush. Could these have been dropped by children on the run with their parents? Whether they are or not the symbolism is there.

We make our way back to the car where another group has assembled and asks us questions about the walking trip. Our morning has turned into afternoon as we head back, stopping once to grab a shot of llama staring at the road.

Welcome

2007-09-14T09:51:00.000-07:00

This "blog" has been set up for each of us to use for whatever reason we can think of. It's a family news resource tool, thing ...

Like with every feature on the Google site, everyone has access and everyone can use it.