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| HOM: Jeepers! OMG! | for everyone |
I figured that I would make the most of that autumn and tried to cram as much hunting, fishing & playing into it as I could.
My first purchase for the Jeep was a set of the most agressive tires Cenex was able to stuff under the fenders and the Jeep could handle with its 4.11 gearing and positrac. Like I said, I had plans...
The late 60's and early 70's were the heyday of 4x4 travel here, with tons of roads and trails, no restrictions and not too many people. I did my best to get the Jeep to the end of every trail I could find, and usually succeeded. The failures were a little worrisome though.
Gordon & I went up Peter's Ridge on a snowy trail and all went well till we hit a spot where the trail tilted sideways onto a steepish slope that ended in a gully. When I decided to give it a try, the crew mutinied. Gordon put his foot down and wouldn't let me go any further.
Okay. No problem. We backed out and went elsewhere.
O f course, the next day I went back up there with Paul, tried making it over the tilted portion of the trail - over Paul's objections - and failed. I ended up with the Jeep 1/3 of the way down the slope and sliding sideways towards the gully. Couldn't go forward, couldn't go backwards, finally got stopped.
Paul got out, grabbed his rifle, told me to have fun and went hunting. I got out the come-along and ropes and spent the next hour getting my poor rig back up to level ground.
Gordon called that night and asked if I had gone back to the bad spot - said he had a feeling I would. He also said "I told you so."
Gordon was with me up on Pioneer ridge when the snow had melted a bit. The road was mostly bare gravel till we rounded a bend and found a 30 or 40 foot wide sheet of ice on the road where the melt had run across it and then frozen. Yep, the road slanted toward the outside edge, the sidehill was steep, and I was dumb. I didn't give Gordon a chance to object - I just hit the gas and went for it - and made it, though the back of the jeep got closer to the drop than the front did. I hit the dry ground at the far side with the Jeep going sideways at about a 45 degree angle.
Gordon let me know how stupid that was, but I will never forget the look on his face when the road dead-ended a little ways on and we had to go back over the same icy patch.
He was with me up near Rogers Lake when I tackled a bog. The road went into it, disappeared for fifty yards or so and then reappeared on the far side. I got a run at it and was probably doing 70 when we hit the goop. We made it across, but the I spent the next half hour drying out the ignition system so I could start the Jeep again while I listened to Gordon laugh at me. The engine had drowned out and only momentum got us through.
(My biggest gripe on the rig was the distributor - it was on the side of the engine near the bottom and was constantly shorting out when I went through puddles too enthusiastically. I eventually made a rubber boot to protect it and that helped.)
I didn't have any close calls when Donal was with me, he kept me on a pretty tight rein. I did forget once to put the gas cap on and got water in the tank when I was out at Thompson River with him. Seemed like it took forever to pop and bang our way back into town...
Gordon got a bit peevish with me when I put a leaky five gallon can of gas behind the seat. That time I did listen to him and moved it to the bumper.
Dad & Gordon & I went over to Townsend hunting for a few days. Exploring the roads, we came to another of those infuriating dead ends. When I complained about going in reverse the mile or so back to the last spot wide enough to turn around, Dad pointed over the bank at the edge of the road and said "Oh, just back over the edge and then drive back on to the road."
I did. Barely. Thank God for 4x4 and knobby tires and low gears and a touch of Divine Intervention, otherwise we'd still be there. Apparently I took Dad seriously when I shouldn't have.
The Jeep was a little squirrelly if you were driving on ice in 2wd, I guess because of the positrac axle. Dad & I were way down the Swan on a good gravel road when when a gentle bend led into an icy hairpin curve. When I saw it, I told him to hang on, we weren't gonna make it...
I tried to power-slide the corner and we made it about 3/4 of the way around when the rear end dropped off the edge.
We slammed to a stop with the rear bumper embedded in the far bank of the ditch, the front bumper hanging on the egde of the road and all four tires in the air. I had to dig a hole under the front bumper (Shovel - the #2 purchase for the Jeep) so I could get the Handyman Jack (#3 purchase) under it and lift.
Cool procedure, jack it as high as it will go, push the jack over to shove the rig sideways, rinse, repeat, until all four wheels are on the ground again ...
In the meantime Dad visited with some folks that stopped to watch the show. When I finally got out, a quick check showed that the only damage was to my ego.
Years later I did the same thing in my driveway, with the bumpers on the ice berms from the plow and the tires in the air. Going too fast on ice, hit a bump - I never learn...
TBC
(Me) (Home) (My Photos)
My first purchase for the Jeep was a set of the most agressive tires Cenex was able to stuff under the fenders and the Jeep could handle with its 4.11 gearing and positrac. Like I said, I had plans...
The late 60's and early 70's were the heyday of 4x4 travel here, with tons of roads and trails, no restrictions and not too many people. I did my best to get the Jeep to the end of every trail I could find, and usually succeeded. The failures were a little worrisome though.
Gordon & I went up Peter's Ridge on a snowy trail and all went well till we hit a spot where the trail tilted sideways onto a steepish slope that ended in a gully. When I decided to give it a try, the crew mutinied. Gordon put his foot down and wouldn't let me go any further.
Okay. No problem. We backed out and went elsewhere.
O f course, the next day I went back up there with Paul, tried making it over the tilted portion of the trail - over Paul's objections - and failed. I ended up with the Jeep 1/3 of the way down the slope and sliding sideways towards the gully. Couldn't go forward, couldn't go backwards, finally got stopped.
Paul got out, grabbed his rifle, told me to have fun and went hunting. I got out the come-along and ropes and spent the next hour getting my poor rig back up to level ground.
Gordon called that night and asked if I had gone back to the bad spot - said he had a feeling I would. He also said "I told you so."
Gordon was with me up on Pioneer ridge when the snow had melted a bit. The road was mostly bare gravel till we rounded a bend and found a 30 or 40 foot wide sheet of ice on the road where the melt had run across it and then frozen. Yep, the road slanted toward the outside edge, the sidehill was steep, and I was dumb. I didn't give Gordon a chance to object - I just hit the gas and went for it - and made it, though the back of the jeep got closer to the drop than the front did. I hit the dry ground at the far side with the Jeep going sideways at about a 45 degree angle.
Gordon let me know how stupid that was, but I will never forget the look on his face when the road dead-ended a little ways on and we had to go back over the same icy patch.
He was with me up near Rogers Lake when I tackled a bog. The road went into it, disappeared for fifty yards or so and then reappeared on the far side. I got a run at it and was probably doing 70 when we hit the goop. We made it across, but the I spent the next half hour drying out the ignition system so I could start the Jeep again while I listened to Gordon laugh at me. The engine had drowned out and only momentum got us through.
(My biggest gripe on the rig was the distributor - it was on the side of the engine near the bottom and was constantly shorting out when I went through puddles too enthusiastically. I eventually made a rubber boot to protect it and that helped.)
I didn't have any close calls when Donal was with me, he kept me on a pretty tight rein. I did forget once to put the gas cap on and got water in the tank when I was out at Thompson River with him. Seemed like it took forever to pop and bang our way back into town...
Gordon got a bit peevish with me when I put a leaky five gallon can of gas behind the seat. That time I did listen to him and moved it to the bumper.
Dad & Gordon & I went over to Townsend hunting for a few days. Exploring the roads, we came to another of those infuriating dead ends. When I complained about going in reverse the mile or so back to the last spot wide enough to turn around, Dad pointed over the bank at the edge of the road and said "Oh, just back over the edge and then drive back on to the road."
I did. Barely. Thank God for 4x4 and knobby tires and low gears and a touch of Divine Intervention, otherwise we'd still be there. Apparently I took Dad seriously when I shouldn't have.
The Jeep was a little squirrelly if you were driving on ice in 2wd, I guess because of the positrac axle. Dad & I were way down the Swan on a good gravel road when when a gentle bend led into an icy hairpin curve. When I saw it, I told him to hang on, we weren't gonna make it...
I tried to power-slide the corner and we made it about 3/4 of the way around when the rear end dropped off the edge.
We slammed to a stop with the rear bumper embedded in the far bank of the ditch, the front bumper hanging on the egde of the road and all four tires in the air. I had to dig a hole under the front bumper (Shovel - the #2 purchase for the Jeep) so I could get the Handyman Jack (#3 purchase) under it and lift.
Cool procedure, jack it as high as it will go, push the jack over to shove the rig sideways, rinse, repeat, until all four wheels are on the ground again ...
In the meantime Dad visited with some folks that stopped to watch the show. When I finally got out, a quick check showed that the only damage was to my ego.
Years later I did the same thing in my driveway, with the bumpers on the ice berms from the plow and the tires in the air. Going too fast on ice, hit a bump - I never learn...
TBC
(Me) (Home) (My Photos)
| HOM: Jeepers! | for everyone |
Part one:
(Stock photo)
The next thing on my agenda was a trip to Missoula with Dad & Gordon in search of a used Jeep since we couldn't find a good deal on one in Kalispell.
A Wagoneer was my dream machine, the first real SUV, go-anywhere guts and a comfy ride for four people, roomy enough to sleep in and heavy-duty enough to haul anything I owned. The new ones had V-8 engines and automatic transmissions and high price tags. I wanted one with a manual transmission and a low price tag.
We found one in Missoula, a blue '64, like new, with a six cylinder 230 c. i. OHC, three-on-the-tree, two-speed transfer case, roof rack and trailer hitch. We had driven down in my little Falcon: we drove the Jeep home. The Falcon was gone.
When we got to Somers, I took a detour and went back in by the old dump to play with the 4x4 a bit. After a while, I made one of those decisions that made perfect sense to me and made everyone else decide I was insane - I deliberately aimed the rig between two trees and put full length scratches down the pristine sides of the Wagon. Dad & Gordon were pretty outspoken about my stupidity, but I did explain that I wanted the Jeep for playing in the woods, and if I had to worry about scratching it, I wouldn't enjoy it. Now I could relax.
Gordon kept everything he owned in immaculate condition, and Dad was careful of his stuff too, so I am not sure either of them really understood, but when you have a reputation for craziness/stupidity, you have to defend it...
I wish I still had this old rig - it had a ton of happy memories riding on its sagging springs. I think that i am going to drop any semblance of chronology and just tell "Jeep" tales for a while. If I could recall all the good and fun times I had in it, it would probably fill a book.
TBC
(Me) (Home) (My Photos)
(Stock photo)
The next thing on my agenda was a trip to Missoula with Dad & Gordon in search of a used Jeep since we couldn't find a good deal on one in Kalispell.
A Wagoneer was my dream machine, the first real SUV, go-anywhere guts and a comfy ride for four people, roomy enough to sleep in and heavy-duty enough to haul anything I owned. The new ones had V-8 engines and automatic transmissions and high price tags. I wanted one with a manual transmission and a low price tag.
We found one in Missoula, a blue '64, like new, with a six cylinder 230 c. i. OHC, three-on-the-tree, two-speed transfer case, roof rack and trailer hitch. We had driven down in my little Falcon: we drove the Jeep home. The Falcon was gone.
When we got to Somers, I took a detour and went back in by the old dump to play with the 4x4 a bit. After a while, I made one of those decisions that made perfect sense to me and made everyone else decide I was insane - I deliberately aimed the rig between two trees and put full length scratches down the pristine sides of the Wagon. Dad & Gordon were pretty outspoken about my stupidity, but I did explain that I wanted the Jeep for playing in the woods, and if I had to worry about scratching it, I wouldn't enjoy it. Now I could relax.
Gordon kept everything he owned in immaculate condition, and Dad was careful of his stuff too, so I am not sure either of them really understood, but when you have a reputation for craziness/stupidity, you have to defend it...
I wish I still had this old rig - it had a ton of happy memories riding on its sagging springs. I think that i am going to drop any semblance of chronology and just tell "Jeep" tales for a while. If I could recall all the good and fun times I had in it, it would probably fill a book.
TBC
(Me) (Home) (My Photos)
| Desk Reading | for everyone |
Currently:
by Rachel Caine
From Booklist:
Joanne Baldwin is a weather warden, who can control the weather and keep it from being more chaotic and destructive than it already is. She is on the run, though, for she is accused of killing a senior warden, which she did, sort of: a thread of corruption runs through some of the most powerful wardens, one of which put a Demon Mark on her and then died. Her only hope now is to get a djinn from her old friend Lewis, who stole three of them^B from the council of the wardens many years ago. As she runs, she picks up a hitchhiker who knows things an ordinary person wouldn't, and who offers help. With djinns and other wardens, including those sent to arrest her, all giving her conflicting information, Joanne never quite knows whom to trust in this romantic escapist romp rife with danger, excitement, and even classic cars. Regina Schroeder
--------
I read the first five in the series last year, got sidetracked, and now working my through book 6 and then on to book 7. Good series, almost as good as Simon Green's stuff. A female protagonist/female author that even this old Misogynist likes!
(Me) (Home) (My Photos)
by Rachel Caine
From Booklist:
Joanne Baldwin is a weather warden, who can control the weather and keep it from being more chaotic and destructive than it already is. She is on the run, though, for she is accused of killing a senior warden, which she did, sort of: a thread of corruption runs through some of the most powerful wardens, one of which put a Demon Mark on her and then died. Her only hope now is to get a djinn from her old friend Lewis, who stole three of them^B from the council of the wardens many years ago. As she runs, she picks up a hitchhiker who knows things an ordinary person wouldn't, and who offers help. With djinns and other wardens, including those sent to arrest her, all giving her conflicting information, Joanne never quite knows whom to trust in this romantic escapist romp rife with danger, excitement, and even classic cars. Regina Schroeder
--------
I read the first five in the series last year, got sidetracked, and now working my through book 6 and then on to book 7. Good series, almost as good as Simon Green's stuff. A female protagonist/female author that even this old Misogynist likes!
(Me) (Home) (My Photos)
| HOM: 1967 - Rain & Change | for everyone |
Like the old saw states, all good things must come to an end.
Rain ended my time at Ford. The woods were damp enough to lower the fire danger and life was returning to normal, but the free time and solitude had given me a chance to figure out a few things and get a course of action.
I quit the Forest Service - the normal thing for college students at the end of summer - and on a bright September day signed my name on the line at the USN Recruiter's office for a 120 day deferred enlistment.
I broke the news to the folks at supper, and I suppose to the rest of the neighborhood at the same time since Mom had cooked for the harvest crew and they were all there.
When the news that I was leaving spread, I suspect there were some happy faces.
..........
It had taken me a while to decide what to do. Enlistment was a big step. I rationalized it by saying that if I enlisted I could chose my own branch, but I really did it because I needed to.
Needed to? Why serve at all when I didn't need to? Good questions. I wish I knew the answers.
I guess I was responding to something that had been ingrained in me all my life, a mix of patriotism and, though I didn't realize it at the time, the need for a rite of passage. I had enough baggage, I didn't want to echo Vic's note of regret the rest of my life. I wanted to go, and do, and maybe I had to prove something to myself.
Why Navy? I suppose it was because Dad had been a sailor, though fear of heights kind of ruled out the Air Force, lack of Gung Ho ruled out the Marines and laziness & cowardice ruled out the Army. I liked boats and swimming, the Navy had some of the best training, and it offered a chance to travel and see the world, or so the posters said.
Heh - "See the world!" One of my fellow sufferers in boot camp enlisted for the chance to travel the oceans - and spent the next four years at the Naval Air Station in Fallon, Nevada. It didn't take me long long to learn to take ANYTHING I was told with a grain of salt.
TBC
(Me) (Home) (My Photos)
Rain ended my time at Ford. The woods were damp enough to lower the fire danger and life was returning to normal, but the free time and solitude had given me a chance to figure out a few things and get a course of action.
I quit the Forest Service - the normal thing for college students at the end of summer - and on a bright September day signed my name on the line at the USN Recruiter's office for a 120 day deferred enlistment.
I broke the news to the folks at supper, and I suppose to the rest of the neighborhood at the same time since Mom had cooked for the harvest crew and they were all there.
When the news that I was leaving spread, I suspect there were some happy faces.
..........
It had taken me a while to decide what to do. Enlistment was a big step. I rationalized it by saying that if I enlisted I could chose my own branch, but I really did it because I needed to.
Needed to? Why serve at all when I didn't need to? Good questions. I wish I knew the answers.
I guess I was responding to something that had been ingrained in me all my life, a mix of patriotism and, though I didn't realize it at the time, the need for a rite of passage. I had enough baggage, I didn't want to echo Vic's note of regret the rest of my life. I wanted to go, and do, and maybe I had to prove something to myself.
Why Navy? I suppose it was because Dad had been a sailor, though fear of heights kind of ruled out the Air Force, lack of Gung Ho ruled out the Marines and laziness & cowardice ruled out the Army. I liked boats and swimming, the Navy had some of the best training, and it offered a chance to travel and see the world, or so the posters said.
Heh - "See the world!" One of my fellow sufferers in boot camp enlisted for the chance to travel the oceans - and spent the next four years at the Naval Air Station in Fallon, Nevada. It didn't take me long long to learn to take ANYTHING I was told with a grain of salt.
TBC
(Me) (Home) (My Photos)
| Hom: 1967 - Ford 2 | for everyone |
Mixed memories.
The pistol Mom sent up was my old High Standard Supermatic Citation target pistol. I did a lot of plinking and practicing with it. I even got a grayling out of the creek in the back yard with it, after I trial-and-errored the deflection and scored a head shot. It was the basic ingredient of an excellent supper.
While I was still soloing, I got a call from Jim Hutchens, my erstwhile boss, telling me he was coming up the next day for a visit. This was okay with me, but he threw in a kicker - he wanted either fresh cake or cookies waiting for him. When I told him I couldn't bake, he said I better learn because my job depended on it.
I had around 24 hours to learn, so I started in. I wasted a lot of ingredients battling that old gas range and my incompetence and my mistakes all went out in the woods. Mistakes like forgetting to put the flour in the cookie mix...
I did one cake, & I wouldn't be totally shocked to find out it was still in the back yard up there, mislabeled as a meteorite. It was so hard and so gross the mice & chipmunks wouldn't even sniff it. I decided cakes took too much stuff and too long to bake and I didn't have time to play with them any more.
I concentrated on cookies, and finally a batch came out that was basically edible. They were on the table when Jim walked in, along with a fresh pot of coffee. Everything met his approval.
We had quite a visit and put together a bit of mutual history - my Handcock grandparents had purchased their farm from his Jackman grandparents. Then Jim sniffed out the fact that my Mom was a Streit and a sister to Bill & Rudy, who he knew - and then he realized I was Pat Taylor's nephew.
I told him I thought he knew that already, and that was why I had been handed such a cushy job, and after he got done snorting coffee all over he told me I'd have been out cleaning outhouses or some similar scutwork if he'd known in time.
Jim was a great guy, and became a good friend. He became a school bus driver after he left the Forest Service and died a few years back.
TBC
(Me) (Home)
The pistol Mom sent up was my old High Standard Supermatic Citation target pistol. I did a lot of plinking and practicing with it. I even got a grayling out of the creek in the back yard with it, after I trial-and-errored the deflection and scored a head shot. It was the basic ingredient of an excellent supper.
While I was still soloing, I got a call from Jim Hutchens, my erstwhile boss, telling me he was coming up the next day for a visit. This was okay with me, but he threw in a kicker - he wanted either fresh cake or cookies waiting for him. When I told him I couldn't bake, he said I better learn because my job depended on it.
I had around 24 hours to learn, so I started in. I wasted a lot of ingredients battling that old gas range and my incompetence and my mistakes all went out in the woods. Mistakes like forgetting to put the flour in the cookie mix...
I did one cake, & I wouldn't be totally shocked to find out it was still in the back yard up there, mislabeled as a meteorite. It was so hard and so gross the mice & chipmunks wouldn't even sniff it. I decided cakes took too much stuff and too long to bake and I didn't have time to play with them any more.
I concentrated on cookies, and finally a batch came out that was basically edible. They were on the table when Jim walked in, along with a fresh pot of coffee. Everything met his approval.
We had quite a visit and put together a bit of mutual history - my Handcock grandparents had purchased their farm from his Jackman grandparents. Then Jim sniffed out the fact that my Mom was a Streit and a sister to Bill & Rudy, who he knew - and then he realized I was Pat Taylor's nephew.
I told him I thought he knew that already, and that was why I had been handed such a cushy job, and after he got done snorting coffee all over he told me I'd have been out cleaning outhouses or some similar scutwork if he'd known in time.
Jim was a great guy, and became a good friend. He became a school bus driver after he left the Forest Service and died a few years back.
TBC
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| HOM: 1967 - Ford 1 | for everyone |
Life at Ford was pretty idyllic, though the solitude didn't last too long.
The woods were closed, but some idiots still tried sneaking in to hunt or whatever, so Jack Brown and a few other FS guys started patrolling the roads, watching for fires and chasing non-NF-residents out. Jack took the north end, so he & his helper started bunking at Ford.
Jack always hassled me over the coffee I made, calling it dishwater weak, so I made a special pot for him one morning - 1/2 the water, double the grounds, Tabasco added and the whole mess boiled down to mud.
He loved it...
Jack was there for one of my more "Jim" moments. One evening one of the old NF ranchers stopped by Ford and visited with Jack for a couple of hours while his helper & I played cards. Since we had company the generator was running and all the inside lights and the yard light were on and it was pretty cheery there.
Jack was everybody's friend, so this visit wasn't unusual.
Eventually too much liquid intake caught up with me and I headed outside. Now, farmers, lumberjacks, foresters and most folks who work in outdoor solitude are a lot like dogs - pretty casual about where they relieve themselves. I was no different - rather than go the 50 yards to the outhouse I just walked over to the fence in front of the rigs and, uh, went, and then went back in and resumed the game.
An hour or so later, the old rancher bestirred himself and left, with the remark "I guess I better get going - the old lady is waiting out in the truck." The truck I had been standing in front of...
I wish I could remember the name of the the kid I was playing cards with... Oh well. Anyway, he saw the look on my face and asked what was wrong. When I told him he went hysterical, thought it was the funniest thing he'd ever heard, and then it caught my funny bone. Jack walked back in, took one look at us and asked what the joke was - we wouldn't tell him until he threatened violence, then he cracked up too.
40 years later & I still can't believe a woman existed that would have put up with those hours alone in that chilly truck...
TBC
(Me) (Home)
The woods were closed, but some idiots still tried sneaking in to hunt or whatever, so Jack Brown and a few other FS guys started patrolling the roads, watching for fires and chasing non-NF-residents out. Jack took the north end, so he & his helper started bunking at Ford.
Jack always hassled me over the coffee I made, calling it dishwater weak, so I made a special pot for him one morning - 1/2 the water, double the grounds, Tabasco added and the whole mess boiled down to mud.
He loved it...
Jack was there for one of my more "Jim" moments. One evening one of the old NF ranchers stopped by Ford and visited with Jack for a couple of hours while his helper & I played cards. Since we had company the generator was running and all the inside lights and the yard light were on and it was pretty cheery there.
Jack was everybody's friend, so this visit wasn't unusual.
Eventually too much liquid intake caught up with me and I headed outside. Now, farmers, lumberjacks, foresters and most folks who work in outdoor solitude are a lot like dogs - pretty casual about where they relieve themselves. I was no different - rather than go the 50 yards to the outhouse I just walked over to the fence in front of the rigs and, uh, went, and then went back in and resumed the game.
An hour or so later, the old rancher bestirred himself and left, with the remark "I guess I better get going - the old lady is waiting out in the truck." The truck I had been standing in front of...
I wish I could remember the name of the the kid I was playing cards with... Oh well. Anyway, he saw the look on my face and asked what was wrong. When I told him he went hysterical, thought it was the funniest thing he'd ever heard, and then it caught my funny bone. Jack walked back in, took one look at us and asked what the joke was - we wouldn't tell him until he threatened violence, then he cracked up too.
40 years later & I still can't believe a woman existed that would have put up with those hours alone in that chilly truck...
TBC
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| HOM: 1967 - The Summer Of Love. Finale. | for everyone |
I was in Butte when the Huckleberry Fire blew up that last time. The last thing I saw of Big Creek out the back window of the FS pickup I hitched a ride in was a retardant bomber working the edge of the campground.
It was a free trip - an "all expenses paid" bus ride by Uncle Sam. Free entertainment too, watching lines of naked guys standing at attention waiting for a medic to put them into the humiliating routine of bend, spread, cough, etc.
Yeah, it was a pre-induction physical, the prelude to the Draft telling you exactly how your days were numbered. And yeah, I passed, flat feet, bad eyes and all. Guys that didn't pass wore a mixture of expressions, usually a mix of relief and shame. Faces of the passing specimens showed anything from from fear to pride to ... nothing? I suspect my face was thoughtful, because I had a decision to make.
When I got back to Big Creek the fire was basically out and mopping up was going on. Just north of Big Creek a ways the river takes a right turn and cuts through the line of ridges that the fire was running on. The river, the road, some luck and a lot of hard work stopped the fire at the river. Had it made it across the break it probably would have run north till snow put it out.
The camp ground was left in ashes, the crews had gone to other fires, the woods were closed to all but residents and USFS personnel and my thinning crew was scattered all over the district.
There wasn't much debate as to where I was going when I got back. As soon as he saw me, Jim Hutchens walked up and asked if I could cook. When I told him no, he said I was gonna get pretty hungry if I didn't learn...
A few hours later I found myself alone at Ford station, with orders to stay within earshot of the phone & radio in the little cabin. My job was to act as a relay - two lookouts could only reach Ford to send and get messages - one only by radio, one only by telephone. One of the lookouts was in the park, one on our side of the river. One was Numa, I think the other was Cyclone. Maybe Larry can confirm the name of the other. (EDIT: It was Hornet Lookout. Thank you, Larry.)
I had to field their daily reports and any emergency messages and pass them on to Big Creek over the phone, and also pass Big Creek's messages back to the lookouts. They could not talk directly. (By "phone", I mean one of those old wooden 1920's hang-on-the-wall, turn a crank and yell alot contraptions.)
In some ways it was paradise - a neat little cabin in a beautiful part of the country, a stream stocked with grayling literally by the back door, deer in the meadow, Mother Nature at her most charming.
Learning to cook wasn't a big deal - they gave me a Lookout's Cookbook, the gas range & freezer worked fine, the pantry was well stocked, and I had a frying pan.
I have never minded being alone, so that was okay. I have rarely had problem with boredom, so no big deal there.
But . . . THERE WERE NO BOOKS!!!!
I read the cookbook, a chainsaw operator's manual, a couple of pamphlets, the backs of all the cereal boxes and the labels of most of the cans. I'd never been without books before, and it was awful!
I slipped a message out to Uncle Pat, and a few days later he showed up with my packsack. He'd talked to Mom and she'd grabbed my pack, took it in my room and filled it with books. Covering a knife. And a pistol and a couple of boxes of ammo. When Pat got the pack from her and delivered it, my Holiday in Paradise commenced!
TBC
(Me) (Home)
It was a free trip - an "all expenses paid" bus ride by Uncle Sam. Free entertainment too, watching lines of naked guys standing at attention waiting for a medic to put them into the humiliating routine of bend, spread, cough, etc.
Yeah, it was a pre-induction physical, the prelude to the Draft telling you exactly how your days were numbered. And yeah, I passed, flat feet, bad eyes and all. Guys that didn't pass wore a mixture of expressions, usually a mix of relief and shame. Faces of the passing specimens showed anything from from fear to pride to ... nothing? I suspect my face was thoughtful, because I had a decision to make.
When I got back to Big Creek the fire was basically out and mopping up was going on. Just north of Big Creek a ways the river takes a right turn and cuts through the line of ridges that the fire was running on. The river, the road, some luck and a lot of hard work stopped the fire at the river. Had it made it across the break it probably would have run north till snow put it out.
The camp ground was left in ashes, the crews had gone to other fires, the woods were closed to all but residents and USFS personnel and my thinning crew was scattered all over the district.
There wasn't much debate as to where I was going when I got back. As soon as he saw me, Jim Hutchens walked up and asked if I could cook. When I told him no, he said I was gonna get pretty hungry if I didn't learn...
A few hours later I found myself alone at Ford station, with orders to stay within earshot of the phone & radio in the little cabin. My job was to act as a relay - two lookouts could only reach Ford to send and get messages - one only by radio, one only by telephone. One of the lookouts was in the park, one on our side of the river. One was Numa, I think the other was Cyclone. Maybe Larry can confirm the name of the other. (EDIT: It was Hornet Lookout. Thank you, Larry.)
I had to field their daily reports and any emergency messages and pass them on to Big Creek over the phone, and also pass Big Creek's messages back to the lookouts. They could not talk directly. (By "phone", I mean one of those old wooden 1920's hang-on-the-wall, turn a crank and yell alot contraptions.)
In some ways it was paradise - a neat little cabin in a beautiful part of the country, a stream stocked with grayling literally by the back door, deer in the meadow, Mother Nature at her most charming.
Learning to cook wasn't a big deal - they gave me a Lookout's Cookbook, the gas range & freezer worked fine, the pantry was well stocked, and I had a frying pan.
I have never minded being alone, so that was okay. I have rarely had problem with boredom, so no big deal there.
But . . . THERE WERE NO BOOKS!!!!
I read the cookbook, a chainsaw operator's manual, a couple of pamphlets, the backs of all the cereal boxes and the labels of most of the cans. I'd never been without books before, and it was awful!
I slipped a message out to Uncle Pat, and a few days later he showed up with my packsack. He'd talked to Mom and she'd grabbed my pack, took it in my room and filled it with books. Covering a knife. And a pistol and a couple of boxes of ammo. When Pat got the pack from her and delivered it, my Holiday in Paradise commenced!
TBC
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(Me) (Home)
| From Larry O. | for everyone |
Larry is a great Contributing editor:
----------------
I just got done reading your story on the Huckleberry fire and about those Indians in the fire camp. That same thing occurred in 1961 when I was down on The Salmon River on the Corn Creek fire.
We had our fire camp at Lantz Bar then and there were two different tribes of Indians there in the same camp. During the shifts, they always left a couple of great big-and I mean BIG Indians guarding their areas. Those fellows sat on their behinds with their arms folded across their sumptuous bellys watching each other all day long.
I was the radio operator there and got to watch all this malarkey.
Everything went pretty good until one afternoon one of the young bucks got a big water snake that was all covered with wet sand and did look like a Rattlesnake as there were lots and lots of them critters down there. He let out a loud yahoo and tossed that snake into the other tribe's area. You never saw a bunch of Indians move so fast.
That kid was really laffing it up until he got caught and it took the Camp Boss and several other "White Eyes" to break that up as that kid could have been severely beaten up. Anyway, that kid got shipped out damn quick.
A note in passing, that fire was the first one that I got to ride down the Salmon River in a Jet Boat. Man, what an experience. That was how all the fire fighters got down to the fire then. The only other way was by trail which had lots of buzz tails on it all the way so little ol' me was glad to go by boat.
Just thought that you might like to know that different tribes don't mix well in close quarters.
----------------
I just got done reading your story on the Huckleberry fire and about those Indians in the fire camp. That same thing occurred in 1961 when I was down on The Salmon River on the Corn Creek fire.
We had our fire camp at Lantz Bar then and there were two different tribes of Indians there in the same camp. During the shifts, they always left a couple of great big-and I mean BIG Indians guarding their areas. Those fellows sat on their behinds with their arms folded across their sumptuous bellys watching each other all day long.
I was the radio operator there and got to watch all this malarkey.
Everything went pretty good until one afternoon one of the young bucks got a big water snake that was all covered with wet sand and did look like a Rattlesnake as there were lots and lots of them critters down there. He let out a loud yahoo and tossed that snake into the other tribe's area. You never saw a bunch of Indians move so fast.
That kid was really laffing it up until he got caught and it took the Camp Boss and several other "White Eyes" to break that up as that kid could have been severely beaten up. Anyway, that kid got shipped out damn quick.
A note in passing, that fire was the first one that I got to ride down the Salmon River in a Jet Boat. Man, what an experience. That was how all the fire fighters got down to the fire then. The only other way was by trail which had lots of buzz tails on it all the way so little ol' me was glad to go by boat.
Just thought that you might like to know that different tribes don't mix well in close quarters.
| On My Desk: | for everyone |
Finished with Askins, time for a change of pace.
From School Library Journal
Adult/High School–Charles Fat Charlie Nancy leads a normal, boring existence in London. However, when he calls the U.S. to invite his estranged father to his wedding, he learns that the man just died. After jetting off to Florida for the funeral, Charlie not only discovers a brother he didn't know he had, but also learns that his father was the West African trickster god, Anansi. Charlie's brother, who possesses his own magical powers, later visits him at home and spins Charlie's life out of control, getting him fired, sleeping with his fiancée, and even getting him arrested for a white-collar crime. Charlie fights back with assistance from other gods, and that's when the real trouble begins. They lead the brothers into adventures that are at times scary or downright hysterical. At first Charlie is overwhelmed by this new world, but he is Anansi's son and shows just as much flair for trickery as his brother. With its quirky, inventive fantasy, this is a real treat for Gaiman's fans. Here, he writes with a fuller sense of character. Focusing on a smaller cast gives him the room to breathe life into these figures. Anansi is also a story about fathers, sons, and brothers and how difficult it can be to get along even when they are so similar. Darkly funny and heartwarming to the end, this book is an addictive read not easily forgotten.–Matthew L. Moffett, Northern Virginia Community College, Annandale
Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved. --This text refers to the Hardcover edition.
(Me) (Home)
Anansi Boys (Hardcover)
by Neil Gaiman (Author)From School Library Journal
Adult/High School–Charles Fat Charlie Nancy leads a normal, boring existence in London. However, when he calls the U.S. to invite his estranged father to his wedding, he learns that the man just died. After jetting off to Florida for the funeral, Charlie not only discovers a brother he didn't know he had, but also learns that his father was the West African trickster god, Anansi. Charlie's brother, who possesses his own magical powers, later visits him at home and spins Charlie's life out of control, getting him fired, sleeping with his fiancée, and even getting him arrested for a white-collar crime. Charlie fights back with assistance from other gods, and that's when the real trouble begins. They lead the brothers into adventures that are at times scary or downright hysterical. At first Charlie is overwhelmed by this new world, but he is Anansi's son and shows just as much flair for trickery as his brother. With its quirky, inventive fantasy, this is a real treat for Gaiman's fans. Here, he writes with a fuller sense of character. Focusing on a smaller cast gives him the room to breathe life into these figures. Anansi is also a story about fathers, sons, and brothers and how difficult it can be to get along even when they are so similar. Darkly funny and heartwarming to the end, this book is an addictive read not easily forgotten.–Matthew L. Moffett, Northern Virginia Community College, Annandale
Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved. --This text refers to the Hardcover edition.
(Me) (Home)
| HOM: 1967 Intermezzo. | for everyone |
At the moment the well of college memories is pumped out; Time to dig into fresh ground.
1967: The summer of fire and change.
By then, Viet Nam was the hot topic in the under-30 age group and in the news. Several good friends had died there, I'd heard horror stories from a couple of returnees, and the Draft was hot on the heels of others I knew.
Potential draftees: a few of them headed for Canada, others got married - and a favorite quip from recruiters touting service over marriage was "Better four years than life!" A few enlisted.
I was 21 and in school and getting passing grades so I felt safe, but in the middle of the summer I got a letter from the government changing my classification from 2S (Student) to 1A (Cannon fodder). I called NNC and found out that they had sent in the wrong form confirming my standing as a student. "No sweat", they said, "Easily corrected!"
I figured I was truly off the hook, but I wasn't sure if I was really glad or not. I grew up around WWII vets, reading G.I. Joe & Sgt. Rock comics and playing war games. I had Heroes: The Sullivans. Alvin York. Audie Murphy.
I remembered Dad & Darrel, Gordon, Herb Hegg, Uncle Paul, Charley Taborski and other WWII Vets and the unspoken but always present "I was there" cachet they had. This cachet, this bond, was even stronger among the Vets who had actually been in combat.
I remembered Vic telling me of the war years, and his lifetime regret that, sidelined by a heart murmur, he could not go and serve with the rest of the "boys".
I told the school to not bother.
I didn't tell the folks my decision.
TBC
(Me) (Home)
1967: The summer of fire and change.
By then, Viet Nam was the hot topic in the under-30 age group and in the news. Several good friends had died there, I'd heard horror stories from a couple of returnees, and the Draft was hot on the heels of others I knew.
Potential draftees: a few of them headed for Canada, others got married - and a favorite quip from recruiters touting service over marriage was "Better four years than life!" A few enlisted.
I was 21 and in school and getting passing grades so I felt safe, but in the middle of the summer I got a letter from the government changing my classification from 2S (Student) to 1A (Cannon fodder). I called NNC and found out that they had sent in the wrong form confirming my standing as a student. "No sweat", they said, "Easily corrected!"
I figured I was truly off the hook, but I wasn't sure if I was really glad or not. I grew up around WWII vets, reading G.I. Joe & Sgt. Rock comics and playing war games. I had Heroes: The Sullivans. Alvin York. Audie Murphy.
I remembered Dad & Darrel, Gordon, Herb Hegg, Uncle Paul, Charley Taborski and other WWII Vets and the unspoken but always present "I was there" cachet they had. This cachet, this bond, was even stronger among the Vets who had actually been in combat.
I remembered Vic telling me of the war years, and his lifetime regret that, sidelined by a heart murmur, he could not go and serve with the rest of the "boys".
I told the school to not bother.
I didn't tell the folks my decision.
TBC
(Me) (Home)
| HOM: 1967 - The Summer Of Love. Not. Part II. | for everyone |
I didn't mind being off the fireline - running the radio was more interesting. Being on the fireline is like being in a battle; all you see is what is around you and the big picture is a blank. Command headquarters is where the overall progress is tracked and strategy planned, and the radio operator is in the thick of it.
Uncle Pat laughed a bit at Jim Hutchens, the fire boss, and made a few remarks about old fire horses responding to the sound of the bells. Jim was in his element when things got bad and kept the radios and the phone line busy.
There were hotshot crews and firefighters from all over the U.S. at this Huckleberry Fire, and a lot of them were camped at Big Creek. The mix of personalities and nationalities made for some humorous moments.
Mind you, these were hear-say, gathered from the radio and the office gossip.
There were a group of black firefighters camped along the creek by the station, and there were several bears that hung around the station, attracted by the dump behind the station. (Yes, in those benighted times, bears were accepted as neighbors and generally were pretty good ones, educated that they weren't the dominant species and thus careful in their forays. Having them frequent the dumps was not seen as a bad thing.)
One of the firefighters near the creek woke up in the middle of the night to find a young black bear happily licking the dried sweat off of his arms. He screamed, the bear took off one way and he took off the other. The Fark factor was that you can't run in a sleeping bag ... he ended up in the creek, bag and all.
I heard that a couple of the Indian crews had problems too. Several of them were in the back of a pickup being transported to a new hotspot when a young bear trotted across the road. The crew bailed out with axes and chased it into the timber - where the Mommy bear was! The crew returned to the truck faster than they left it!
Another mentionable incident was the result of bosses putting crews from two different tribes into the same small camp. Two tribes with rivalries... Some bloodshed ensued, but no deaths.
I guess this must have been at another fire where I was the radioman, beacuse no civilians were allowed up the North Fork at the time. A grade school class and teacher on a field trip were at the fire camp and gathered around the radio when they got more of an earful than they planned on.
The FVCC frowns on profanity on the airways, even USFS airways, but about the time every little ear was cocked toward the radio listening to a fire boss give a situational update, the FB had a very close call. A burning snag fell and nearly nailed him, and he was pretty verbal for a bit. He described the tree & its ancestry, the ancestry and lineage of the guys that hadn't either cut the snag down or warned him it was burning, and everything in general with a lot of other colorful adjectives, and all of it over an open mike.
The teacher almost sprained an ankle gathering her shell-shocked little brood and getting out of there.
I missed Big Creek's most hectic moment, when the fire blew up, the campground - rated as one of the most beautiful in the state - burned and the station itself was in danger. The guy in the lookout on top of Huckleberry was evacuated by helicopter, and the crews had to pull back.
The fire made a real run to the north at the same time and if it had not been stopped and held at the river would probably have burned clear into Canada.
When I got back, the worst of the fire was over and mop-up was in progress. The woods were closed to all of the public and all normal work was suspended because of the extreme dryness.
My next chore was to babysit a cabin & the radio and telephone in it. Stay tuned.
TBC
(Me) (Home)
Uncle Pat laughed a bit at Jim Hutchens, the fire boss, and made a few remarks about old fire horses responding to the sound of the bells. Jim was in his element when things got bad and kept the radios and the phone line busy.
There were hotshot crews and firefighters from all over the U.S. at this Huckleberry Fire, and a lot of them were camped at Big Creek. The mix of personalities and nationalities made for some humorous moments.
Mind you, these were hear-say, gathered from the radio and the office gossip.
There were a group of black firefighters camped along the creek by the station, and there were several bears that hung around the station, attracted by the dump behind the station. (Yes, in those benighted times, bears were accepted as neighbors and generally were pretty good ones, educated that they weren't the dominant species and thus careful in their forays. Having them frequent the dumps was not seen as a bad thing.)
One of the firefighters near the creek woke up in the middle of the night to find a young black bear happily licking the dried sweat off of his arms. He screamed, the bear took off one way and he took off the other. The Fark factor was that you can't run in a sleeping bag ... he ended up in the creek, bag and all.
I heard that a couple of the Indian crews had problems too. Several of them were in the back of a pickup being transported to a new hotspot when a young bear trotted across the road. The crew bailed out with axes and chased it into the timber - where the Mommy bear was! The crew returned to the truck faster than they left it!
Another mentionable incident was the result of bosses putting crews from two different tribes into the same small camp. Two tribes with rivalries... Some bloodshed ensued, but no deaths.
I guess this must have been at another fire where I was the radioman, beacuse no civilians were allowed up the North Fork at the time. A grade school class and teacher on a field trip were at the fire camp and gathered around the radio when they got more of an earful than they planned on.
The FVCC frowns on profanity on the airways, even USFS airways, but about the time every little ear was cocked toward the radio listening to a fire boss give a situational update, the FB had a very close call. A burning snag fell and nearly nailed him, and he was pretty verbal for a bit. He described the tree & its ancestry, the ancestry and lineage of the guys that hadn't either cut the snag down or warned him it was burning, and everything in general with a lot of other colorful adjectives, and all of it over an open mike.
The teacher almost sprained an ankle gathering her shell-shocked little brood and getting out of there.
I missed Big Creek's most hectic moment, when the fire blew up, the campground - rated as one of the most beautiful in the state - burned and the station itself was in danger. The guy in the lookout on top of Huckleberry was evacuated by helicopter, and the crews had to pull back.
The fire made a real run to the north at the same time and if it had not been stopped and held at the river would probably have burned clear into Canada.
When I got back, the worst of the fire was over and mop-up was in progress. The woods were closed to all of the public and all normal work was suspended because of the extreme dryness.
My next chore was to babysit a cabin & the radio and telephone in it. Stay tuned.
TBC
(Me) (Home)
| HOM: NNC Flashback | for everyone |
I have mentioned rabbit hunting.
Idaho was overloaded with jackrabbits at the time, a high point in their cycle, and in some places it was impossible to drive at night without hitting some. We spent a lot of time out hunting them.
Night was the favorite time, slow-cruising the trails in the desert with headlights on and one or two of us sitting on the hood with rifles.
Tip: Never slam the brakes on with someone riding the hood - when they slide off they get mad and they are armed!
Anyway, it was a challenge to try to hit the jacks as they ran. Lots of fun, lots of misses, and little damage to the rabbit population.
Tip #2: make sure you know the area! We broke that rule once, meandering over a mix of ruts and trails along a ridge top till we came to the edge of a field. I stopped, trying to figure out which way to go, and suddenly we were pinned by a spotlight from two ridges over. Someone yelled, an engine started, and I made a fast circle and dove back into the trail we had been on, with the lights out. coming in, we were going at a walk - heading out, the chase was on, we were at full fearful bounce and we knew what the rabbits felt like!
I had a head start, but the pursuers spotted my brake lights. I took a wrong turn and found myself in another field, so I headed out across it at full speed, still with no lights. One of the guys with me yelled at me to turn on the lights, so i did - and swerved - just in time to avoiding running end-on into an irrigation pipe setup.
We saw a house across the field and headed for it, slammed to a stop in their yard. The pursuers stopped back in the field as the owners of the house came out. We explained - breathlessly, I suspect - what happened, and they directed us to the road and we vamoosed.
The next day I drove back out, alone, and located that house, then went up and talked to the folks there and offered to pay for any damage we had done. They were very nice about it and filled me in on what had happened.
The pursuers were their neighbors, who had been losing gas from a big tank they had at the edge of the field just below where we popped out. Vigilante justice was still somewhat of an option there and they were sure we were the thieves, till we headed for that house.
I never really felt much like hunting rabbits in the dark after that. Chasing girls was much safer.
TBC
(Me) (Home)
Idaho was overloaded with jackrabbits at the time, a high point in their cycle, and in some places it was impossible to drive at night without hitting some. We spent a lot of time out hunting them.
Night was the favorite time, slow-cruising the trails in the desert with headlights on and one or two of us sitting on the hood with rifles.
Tip: Never slam the brakes on with someone riding the hood - when they slide off they get mad and they are armed!
Anyway, it was a challenge to try to hit the jacks as they ran. Lots of fun, lots of misses, and little damage to the rabbit population.
Tip #2: make sure you know the area! We broke that rule once, meandering over a mix of ruts and trails along a ridge top till we came to the edge of a field. I stopped, trying to figure out which way to go, and suddenly we were pinned by a spotlight from two ridges over. Someone yelled, an engine started, and I made a fast circle and dove back into the trail we had been on, with the lights out. coming in, we were going at a walk - heading out, the chase was on, we were at full fearful bounce and we knew what the rabbits felt like!
I had a head start, but the pursuers spotted my brake lights. I took a wrong turn and found myself in another field, so I headed out across it at full speed, still with no lights. One of the guys with me yelled at me to turn on the lights, so i did - and swerved - just in time to avoiding running end-on into an irrigation pipe setup.
We saw a house across the field and headed for it, slammed to a stop in their yard. The pursuers stopped back in the field as the owners of the house came out. We explained - breathlessly, I suspect - what happened, and they directed us to the road and we vamoosed.
The next day I drove back out, alone, and located that house, then went up and talked to the folks there and offered to pay for any damage we had done. They were very nice about it and filled me in on what had happened.
The pursuers were their neighbors, who had been losing gas from a big tank they had at the edge of the field just below where we popped out. Vigilante justice was still somewhat of an option there and they were sure we were the thieves, till we headed for that house.
I never really felt much like hunting rabbits in the dark after that. Chasing girls was much safer.
TBC
(Me) (Home)
| HOM: 1967 - The Summer Of Love. Not. | for everyone |
That August was pivotal in many ways. I was back on the TSI crew thinning timber.
This is a bit from the USFS on the big event of that month.
I knew the "Flathead Fire" as the "Huckleberry Fire", so just interchange the terms as you wish.
When the fire was at it worst, when the planes were dropping retardant on the Big Creek camp ground, I took a couple of days off. I'll cover that interlude in a later post.
I was drafted as a radio operator once again, sitting in the Comm Shack at Big Creek and playing radioman. I liked the job - safe, secure, and in the middle of everything going on. Ike Weaver was a great boss, as was Jim Hutchens. the fire boss.
Not too many incidents stick in my memory any more. I know I put in long hours - over 12 a day - slept in a USFS-issue sleeping bag under the tree across the driveway or by the door to the radio shack, and lived on Bill Anderson's coffee.
On one of the quieter afternoons Art Vlasak came in and dropped a fancily knotted rope on the desk, saying "That's a hackamore knot. Let's see if you can tie one." It took me two days of puzzling before I copied the knot by carefully weaving the strands. When I showed it to Art he was impressed till I told him I still didn't know how to tie it.
He showed me the trick.
The center, in step 4, is placed over the horses nose, the loop goes behind his ears, and the loose ends work as reins. Insta-hack!
TBC
(Me) (Home)
This is a bit from the USFS on the big event of that month.
------
-----" During the evening of August 11, 1967, dry lightning that crossed the Continental Divide and continued in the early morning hours of August 12 inaugurated Glacier National Park’s fire season. Fire spotters counted more than 100 ground strikes, the first at 6:25 p.m., with the first new fire reported at 7:05 p.m. The sparks started twenty new fires, burning in total more than 12,000 acres of timber. One of the most aggressive fires, the Flathead Fire, was discovered about halfway up the Apgar and Huckleberry mountains. The fuels of this fire were lodgepole-larch reproduction with heavy snags, the result of the major 1926 fire in the region. By early afternoon on August 17, the fire had spread to 650 acres. It doubled in size in the next seven hours, with a strong convection column angled up the slope. A cold front changed the direction of the wind, and by 10:30 p.m. on August 18, the fire had jumped the North Fork of the Flathead River, reaching the Flathead National Forest. It continued to spread downhill until August 20, when the center portion of the fire burned out and created two smaller fires, one on the northwest part of a ridge and the other on the southeast. By August 22, more the 4,645 acres of timber had burned.
The situation turned worse on August 23. The Weather Bureau issued a red flag weather alert, predicting that a weak Pacific frontal system passing through the area would bring high winds and dry lightning storms during the subsequent twenty-four hours. In response, the park tried to tie in bulldozer and hand-dug fire lines before the winds arrived. By 3:00 p.m., before the lines could be joined, the winds accelerated to between forty and sixty miles per hour. Firefighters were forced to retreat as the fire rapidly spread. Individual fires could be found as much as a half-mile in front of the main fire, with embers thrown ahead by the force of the wind. By the end of the day, another 3,500 acres of vegetation had burned.
Fires continued for another month, a result of the dry conditions, and when they came to an end, suppression advocates pointed to their successes. Throughout the Northern Rockies, fires had been controlled and a comparison with the terrible fires of 1910 highlighted a stunning contrast. Instead of the roughly 3 million acres of timber that burned in 1910, the 1967 fires only covered a total of 90,000 acres. Fatalities dropped from seventy-eight to three, with one resulting from a heart attack. Technology played an enormous role in this success. Aerial infrared scanners, oblivious to the smoke plumes that obscured vision, mapped fire perimeters. Fires that would have burned for days in 1910 were detected early and control efforts began within hours. Radio, telephone, and teletype networks provided instantaneous communications, allowing for immediate knowledge of new fires and coordinated responses. A national infrastructure also contributed to the 1967 success. The region was declared a national disaster area, and the federal Office of Emergency Preparedness joined in suppression efforts. Full closure of the national forests, a status akin to martial law, was enacted, keeping visitors away and limiting the chance of additional accidental fire. The response was impressive; the damage – with the exception of the 56,000-acre Sundance Fire in northern Idaho – was minimal. Suppression, most observers agreed, worked."
The situation turned worse on August 23. The Weather Bureau issued a red flag weather alert, predicting that a weak Pacific frontal system passing through the area would bring high winds and dry lightning storms during the subsequent twenty-four hours. In response, the park tried to tie in bulldozer and hand-dug fire lines before the winds arrived. By 3:00 p.m., before the lines could be joined, the winds accelerated to between forty and sixty miles per hour. Firefighters were forced to retreat as the fire rapidly spread. Individual fires could be found as much as a half-mile in front of the main fire, with embers thrown ahead by the force of the wind. By the end of the day, another 3,500 acres of vegetation had burned.
Fires continued for another month, a result of the dry conditions, and when they came to an end, suppression advocates pointed to their successes. Throughout the Northern Rockies, fires had been controlled and a comparison with the terrible fires of 1910 highlighted a stunning contrast. Instead of the roughly 3 million acres of timber that burned in 1910, the 1967 fires only covered a total of 90,000 acres. Fatalities dropped from seventy-eight to three, with one resulting from a heart attack. Technology played an enormous role in this success. Aerial infrared scanners, oblivious to the smoke plumes that obscured vision, mapped fire perimeters. Fires that would have burned for days in 1910 were detected early and control efforts began within hours. Radio, telephone, and teletype networks provided instantaneous communications, allowing for immediate knowledge of new fires and coordinated responses. A national infrastructure also contributed to the 1967 success. The region was declared a national disaster area, and the federal Office of Emergency Preparedness joined in suppression efforts. Full closure of the national forests, a status akin to martial law, was enacted, keeping visitors away and limiting the chance of additional accidental fire. The response was impressive; the damage – with the exception of the 56,000-acre Sundance Fire in northern Idaho – was minimal. Suppression, most observers agreed, worked."
I knew the "Flathead Fire" as the "Huckleberry Fire", so just interchange the terms as you wish.
When the fire was at it worst, when the planes were dropping retardant on the Big Creek camp ground, I took a couple of days off. I'll cover that interlude in a later post.
I was drafted as a radio operator once again, sitting in the Comm Shack at Big Creek and playing radioman. I liked the job - safe, secure, and in the middle of everything going on. Ike Weaver was a great boss, as was Jim Hutchens. the fire boss.
Not too many incidents stick in my memory any more. I know I put in long hours - over 12 a day - slept in a USFS-issue sleeping bag under the tree across the driveway or by the door to the radio shack, and lived on Bill Anderson's coffee.
On one of the quieter afternoons Art Vlasak came in and dropped a fancily knotted rope on the desk, saying "That's a hackamore knot. Let's see if you can tie one." It took me two days of puzzling before I copied the knot by carefully weaving the strands. When I showed it to Art he was impressed till I told him I still didn't know how to tie it.
He showed me the trick.
The center, in step 4, is placed over the horses nose, the loop goes behind his ears, and the loose ends work as reins. Insta-hack!
TBC
(Me) (Home)
| Best Book Blog | for everyone |
Best I have found, anyway.
Maybe someday i too can qualify as a "Bastard with a Bookshp"!
Excerpts from the blog:
![[booktowns6_c668d699ab.jpg]](http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_A5qhnmd_hog/SJjd-tvertI/AAAAAAAABqA/fKNebwKWl4w/s1600/booktowns6_c668d699ab.jpg)
![[booktownss240307_9288a.jpg]](http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_A5qhnmd_hog/SJjd-9Q6TlI/AAAAAAAABqI/2K7IYLKoEB0/s1600/booktownss240307_9288a.jpg)
![[car.jpg]](http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_A5qhnmd_hog/SIxNWXasM1I/AAAAAAAABpw/rddjgWY8bcM/s1600/car.jpg)
"A similar tale is set in 1965 in a provincial bookshop where trade is slow. The dealer has a sale of the books upstairs, lesser books but useful stock--even after severe reductions there are 10,000 books left. Rather than haul them down to the dump he decides to give the whole lot to the young girl who comes in on afternoons when he is out doing house calls, fishing, watching cricket etc., She graciously accepts them and says she will arrange to have them out as soon as possible. He sets off to a local auction and on his return is greatly surprised to find all the books have gone. The girl explains that a guy came in from a movie company needing 10000 books - for the book burning scenes in Fahrenheit 451 that they were filming nearby. She only charged £1 per book."
Overall, lots of info on rare books, stories from dealers, and a lot of great information.
(Me) (Home)
Maybe someday i too can qualify as a "Bastard with a Bookshp"!
Excerpts from the blog:
"A similar tale is set in 1965 in a provincial bookshop where trade is slow. The dealer has a sale of the books upstairs, lesser books but useful stock--even after severe reductions there are 10,000 books left. Rather than haul them down to the dump he decides to give the whole lot to the young girl who comes in on afternoons when he is out doing house calls, fishing, watching cricket etc., She graciously accepts them and says she will arrange to have them out as soon as possible. He sets off to a local auction and on his return is greatly surprised to find all the books have gone. The girl explains that a guy came in from a movie company needing 10000 books - for the book burning scenes in Fahrenheit 451 that they were filming nearby. She only charged £1 per book."
Overall, lots of info on rare books, stories from dealers, and a lot of great information.
(Me) (Home)
| Hom: Tommy Riedel | for everyone |
Tom and his wife Mary owned the farm to the south of ours, which now houses Dennis Carver's proud new subdivision. (Mary was an Emmert, related to Mike Emmert, who Dad purchased the farm from. Her nickname was Pat, which I guess tied in with Mom's childhood nickname of "Pete". I don't know the story behind those nicknames, but I think they had something to do with dolls that each owned.)
When I was a freshman or sophomore I used to walk to Riedel's corner to meet the school bus and usually visited with Tommy while I was waiting.
Tom was a great guy. He started my ammunition collection by giving me a .30M1 carbine cartridge. He used to tell me stories about his growing up in Kalispell - I wish I could remember more of them.
One that stuck in memory was when he and some friends went into the old Kalispell Mercantile. The KM was the main store for everything from tools to toys back before WWII, so they wandered around and into the sporting goods, with Tommy pulling a little red wagon like an innocent little kid.
When the clerk's back was turned, they dumped a case of .22 rimfire ammo into the wagon and walked out.
Country kids, .22 rifles and five thousand rounds of ammunition made for some interesting times! They packed their guns and their loot up near Foy's lake and proceeded to shoot up every target of opportunity they could find. When that got boring, someone suggested playing cowboys and Indians.
Tommy thought it was a lot of fun till he peeked over a rock and got a faceful of chips from a very near miss. Then he decided he could hear his mother calling and went home.
To the best of his memory, nobody got badly hurt and no one was able to prove they did the theft, but they avoided the KM for a long time afterward.
TBC
(Me) (Home)
When I was a freshman or sophomore I used to walk to Riedel's corner to meet the school bus and usually visited with Tommy while I was waiting.
Tom was a great guy. He started my ammunition collection by giving me a .30M1 carbine cartridge. He used to tell me stories about his growing up in Kalispell - I wish I could remember more of them.
One that stuck in memory was when he and some friends went into the old Kalispell Mercantile. The KM was the main store for everything from tools to toys back before WWII, so they wandered around and into the sporting goods, with Tommy pulling a little red wagon like an innocent little kid.
When the clerk's back was turned, they dumped a case of .22 rimfire ammo into the wagon and walked out.
Country kids, .22 rifles and five thousand rounds of ammunition made for some interesting times! They packed their guns and their loot up near Foy's lake and proceeded to shoot up every target of opportunity they could find. When that got boring, someone suggested playing cowboys and Indians.
Tommy thought it was a lot of fun till he peeked over a rock and got a faceful of chips from a very near miss. Then he decided he could hear his mother calling and went home.
To the best of his memory, nobody got badly hurt and no one was able to prove they did the theft, but they avoided the KM for a long time afterward.
TBC
(Me) (Home)
| The Book List 9/8/2008 | for everyone |
The Bedside Book: "Long Way Down" was excellent, but too short.
From Publishers Weekly
After collaborating on Dead Heat (2007), bestseller Francis and his son, Felix, deliver another gripping thriller with a thoroughbred racing backdrop. Soon after London barrister Geoffrey Mason, an amateur jockey by avocation, starts receiving a series of threatening messages from a former client, Julian Trent, whose conviction for assault was overturned on appeal, Mason reluctantly accepts the defense of a jockey, Steve Mitchell, accused of the pitch-fork murder of fellow rider Scot Barlow at a steeplechase event. Mitchell and Barlow had fallen out over Barlow's sister, a vet and Mitchell's former girlfriend, who took her own life just a short while before. When unknown parties order Mason to lose the case, he must balance his professional ethics and his sense of self-preservation. The solid writing and engaging lead will carry readers along at a brisk pace, though some may find the dramatic courtroom revelation of the murderer overly theatrical. (Sept.)
Desk:
Unrepentant Sinner (Paperback) by Charles Askins
Product Description
Colonel Askins is an adventurer. Whether it be fighting his way out of an ambush, hunting tiger in Asia or sniping along the Rhine, Askins has done it with gusto. Here he recounts his early days as a forest ranger, his decade of slinging lead on the Mexican border, his astounding success as a competitive pistol shot, his combat participation in World War II, his adventures as a paratrooper in Vietnam and his career as one of the world's leading big-game hunters.
Silks (Hardcover)
by Dick Francis (Author), Felix Francis (Author)From Publishers Weekly
After collaborating on Dead Heat (2007), bestseller Francis and his son, Felix, deliver another gripping thriller with a thoroughbred racing backdrop. Soon after London barrister Geoffrey Mason, an amateur jockey by avocation, starts receiving a series of threatening messages from a former client, Julian Trent, whose conviction for assault was overturned on appeal, Mason reluctantly accepts the defense of a jockey, Steve Mitchell, accused of the pitch-fork murder of fellow rider Scot Barlow at a steeplechase event. Mitchell and Barlow had fallen out over Barlow's sister, a vet and Mitchell's former girlfriend, who took her own life just a short while before. When unknown parties order Mason to lose the case, he must balance his professional ethics and his sense of self-preservation. The solid writing and engaging lead will carry readers along at a brisk pace, though some may find the dramatic courtroom revelation of the murderer overly theatrical. (Sept.)
Desk:
Unrepentant Sinner (Paperback) by Charles Askins
Colonel Askins is an adventurer. Whether it be fighting his way out of an ambush, hunting tiger in Asia or sniping along the Rhine, Askins has done it with gusto. Here he recounts his early days as a forest ranger, his decade of slinging lead on the Mexican border, his astounding success as a competitive pistol shot, his combat participation in World War II, his adventures as a paratrooper in Vietnam and his career as one of the world's leading big-game hunters.
| The NWMACA Fall Gun Show | for everyone |
I wandered in there this morning before it opened to the public - and got detained by security for not have a dealer's badge. I had to hang around the door till Paul Willis, show chairman, showed up.
Paul gave me a dealer's badge as he says I am a "Dealer Emeritus" - a reward for 25 years of setting up at every show. He also told me I looked "Elderly". I couldn't shoot him - too many witnesses and no ammo!
It was neat to wander the show and visit with old acquaintances., with a little bitter-sweet mixed in because of the missing faces like Les Bauska's. I miss being able to get a table and be a real dealer, but at least I don't get so foot sore this way -when I have a table, I rarely sit behind it - I pace around in front of it and end the weekend tired out.
Bought a couple of things from Maynard Denna. He gave me a box to put the stuff in, so I asked him if he'd turn his back while I loaded the box. He did ... it took all the fun out of joking.
Being trusted is a two-edged sword - makes me happy but disgruntled. Being trusted by someone means you can't take any advantage of them at all. Oh well, I spent a long time building that trust here so I suppose I might as well enjoy it.
Lots of fun stuff to drool over. Most tempting was a conversion kit to let you shoot .22 lr ammo in a Ruger mini-14. Since it takes me about 30 seconds to disassemble a Mini and 4-5 hours to get it back together, my innate laziness made me pass on it.
There were a couple of beautiful rifles there with gorgeous wood and ungodly prices - each of them cost more than I have ever spent on a vehicle! I looked at oddball stuff and for cheap stuff that might catch my interest, but there wasn't much there in those categories.
I might go back tomorrow & visit a bit more.
(Me) (Home)
Paul gave me a dealer's badge as he says I am a "Dealer Emeritus" - a reward for 25 years of setting up at every show. He also told me I looked "Elderly". I couldn't shoot him - too many witnesses and no ammo!
It was neat to wander the show and visit with old acquaintances., with a little bitter-sweet mixed in because of the missing faces like Les Bauska's. I miss being able to get a table and be a real dealer, but at least I don't get so foot sore this way -when I have a table, I rarely sit behind it - I pace around in front of it and end the weekend tired out.
Bought a couple of things from Maynard Denna. He gave me a box to put the stuff in, so I asked him if he'd turn his back while I loaded the box. He did ... it took all the fun out of joking.
Being trusted is a two-edged sword - makes me happy but disgruntled. Being trusted by someone means you can't take any advantage of them at all. Oh well, I spent a long time building that trust here so I suppose I might as well enjoy it.
Lots of fun stuff to drool over. Most tempting was a conversion kit to let you shoot .22 lr ammo in a Ruger mini-14. Since it takes me about 30 seconds to disassemble a Mini and 4-5 hours to get it back together, my innate laziness made me pass on it.
There were a couple of beautiful rifles there with gorgeous wood and ungodly prices - each of them cost more than I have ever spent on a vehicle! I looked at oddball stuff and for cheap stuff that might catch my interest, but there wasn't much there in those categories.
I might go back tomorrow & visit a bit more.
(Me) (Home)
| Blogging: Good Intentions | for everyone |
And poor carry-through.
And too many distractions...
I think I am getting the end-of summer rush here in the store, plus I am seriously weeding down a few categories of books to make the place a little more navigable.
Pump problems out on the farm added a little tension. Calls from friends needing computer support added a bit too, and took up a chunk of time.
Add laziness/inertia into the mix and you get a blank blog. I am about 1/3 of the way through the re-reading of the HOM and hopefully will get some time to mull over the contents.
Doing the HOM is time consuming - not the actual writing, but the remembering and the organizing I have to do before I try to write - changing the names to protect the guilty, etc. Once i get on a roll with it, though, a lot of my lay-awake-for-hours nights get filled with the memories and associations and help fill the pages in here.
Hopefully this doodling around will help me get some momentum going. hang in there!
(Me) (Home)
And too many distractions...
I think I am getting the end-of summer rush here in the store, plus I am seriously weeding down a few categories of books to make the place a little more navigable.
Pump problems out on the farm added a little tension. Calls from friends needing computer support added a bit too, and took up a chunk of time.
Add laziness/inertia into the mix and you get a blank blog. I am about 1/3 of the way through the re-reading of the HOM and hopefully will get some time to mull over the contents.
Doing the HOM is time consuming - not the actual writing, but the remembering and the organizing I have to do before I try to write - changing the names to protect the guilty, etc. Once i get on a roll with it, though, a lot of my lay-awake-for-hours nights get filled with the memories and associations and help fill the pages in here.
Hopefully this doodling around will help me get some momentum going. hang in there!
(Me) (Home)
| READING! | for everyone |
Bedside:
Long Way Down by Ewan McGregor and Charley Boorman (Hardcover - Sep 4, 2008)
On 12 May 2007, Ewan McGregor and Charley Boorman set off on a 15,000 mile trip from John O'Groats to Cape Town. This is their story. I like reading motorcycle travel and general adventure travel books.
Truck/Van (A copy in each)
In a Sunburned Country by Bill Bryson (Paperback - May 15, 2001)
Treo PDA:
(Me) (Home)
On 12 May 2007, Ewan McGregor and Charley Boorman set off on a 15,000 mile trip from John O'Groats to Cape Town. This is their story. I like reading motorcycle travel and general adventure travel books.
Truck/Van (A copy in each)
In a Sunburned Country by Bill Bryson (Paperback - May 15, 2001)
Treo PDA:
King of the Khyber Rifles by Talbot Mundy (Hardcover - 1916)
Desk:
Desk:
The Buffalo Rock by Bob Faulkner (Paperback - Aug 8, 2008)
Bob is an old friend & neighbor, so I am dumping in the entire article from the Daily Interlake:
Ex-policeman pens novel about Pony Express
Posted: Monday, Sep 01, 2008 - 11:48:57 pm MDT
By CANDACE CHASE/Daily Inter Lake
Author Bob Faulkner, 67, spent 20 years as a Los Angeles policeman, but his new novel “The Buffalo Rock” has nothing to do with modern urban crime.
It details the thrills and adventures of an early priority mailman — one Tornado Tom Thomas of the Pony Express.
“I had this story rattling around in my head for years,” said Faulkner, a lower valley resident.
About four years ago, he began researching and spinning the tale of young reporter Grant Collins who, in 1923, seeks out the last living Pony Express rider, the aforementioned Tornado Tom.
Collins finds him living in Fort Benton then begins chronicling his adventures, including his stint with the Pony Express in 1860 in St. Joseph, Missouri. Faulkner laughed as he recalled the advertised qualifications for riders.
Originally, he said he pictured riders as looking like Wild Bill Hickok. Through research, he learned Hickok was too big so he became a station agent and wrangler for the Pony Express instead of a rider.
“They were specifically looking for small, skinny guys — orphans preferred — because they didn’t know if they would come home,” Faulkner said.
To overcome that rather dismal prospect, the Pony Express offered riders $100 a month, a tremendous wage in that era. Riders also were issued weapons to fend off frequent attacks although most opted not to carry the heavy pistols.
“Company policy was ‘don’t fight — run for it,’” he said.
Riders galloped 10 to 15 miles between horse changes, sitting on a “mochila,” a sort of blanket thrown on top of the saddle that held letters and packages locked in pouches. Express riders crossed the country to Sacramento, Calif., in about 10 days.
Faulkner said he remains intrigued by how the Pony Express continues to fascinate the nation, considering the service— made obsolete by the telegraph — folded after just one year.
“One of the last big things they did was carry Abe Lincoln’s inaugural address to California,” Faulkner said. “That’s what kept California in the Union.”
He dropped a clue that this historic event plays into the foundation of his novel.
Faulkner took the name of Tom’s Montana ranch, “The Buffalo Rock,” as the title for his epic 615-page story published in August by Stand Up America, USA, the Flathead Valley multimedia company founded by retired Maj. Gen. Paul Vallely.
A national political commentator and author, Vallely praised Faulkner’s book
as “one of the best yarns I have read in years.” The book also was reviewed and recommended by Gerald Molen, the Academy-Award-winning producer of “Schindler’s List” and by prolific writer Bill Brooks.
Brooks, author of the recent “The Stone Garden: The Epic Life of Billy the Kid,” compared the book to such classics as “The Virginian” and “Little Big Man.” He complimented the book’s humor, history and insight into the character of men who become legend.
For Faulkner, Brook’s praise was especially gratifying since he admires his writing.
“I’ve read a bunch of his books,” he said.
A self-described voracious reader, Faulkner said he grew up in Indiana with an insatiable appetite for the written word, particularly history. He ended up in California as a young man after serving in the Marine Corps.
That’s when an ad in the Los Angeles Times for police officers jumped off the page at him.
“When I was a kid, everyone watched ‘Dragnet,’” he said.
He applied and was accepted for the police academy. A career of almost 20 years followed with the Los Angeles Police Department.
“Those really were the good old days of being an L.A. police officer,” he said. “I have a thousand police stories to tell.”
He retired in 1983 but continued working for a time as a private investigator and then a representative of the National Rifle Association. Faulkner moved here about 15 years ago, and his literary career blossomed.
“I had the ambition for years to become a writer,” he said.
Faulkner joined the Writers of the Flathead to work on his book idea. Through their meetings, classes and seminars, he refined his novel’s plot, fleshed out his characters and researched the eras of his story.
A stickler for accuracy, Faulkner checked out everything from guns to iconic western characters. He even made sure he described his street scenes correctly.
“I had to dig up the history of when streets were paved,” Faulkner said. “Fort Benton had paved streets in 1923.”
As Tom, his niece Dixie, the young reporter Grant Collins and many other characters evolved, the author developed flow charts to keep track of how they were all related. As he wrote, he said they became very real to him.
“I even had dreams about them,” he said.
Readers who would like to meet his characters may purchase the book at Borders, Amazon.com, Standupamericausa.com or bobfaulkner.com. The price varies.
Those who would like to meet the author and purchase “The Buffalo Rock” may do so at a book signing from 2 to 4 p.m. Sunday, Sept. 7, at the Vista Linda Restaurant Pavilion located just north of MacKinaw’s Grill in Somers.
Along with Faulkner, Vallely also will autograph his books “Endgame” and “Baghdad Ablaze” at the reception that features wine and hors d’ouevres.
Even as the print dries on this novel, Faulkner has new works in development drawing from those thousand stories from his career as an L.A. policeman.
“I really do enjoy writing,” he said. “It always was a desire. Now it’s an absolute passion.”
Reporter Candace Chase may be reached at 758-4436 or by e-mail at cchase@dailyinterlake.com.
Bob is an old friend & neighbor, so I am dumping in the entire article from the Daily Interlake:
Ex-policeman pens novel about Pony Express
Posted: Monday, Sep 01, 2008 - 11:48:57 pm MDT
By CANDACE CHASE/Daily Inter Lake
Author Bob Faulkner, 67, spent 20 years as a Los Angeles policeman, but his new novel “The Buffalo Rock” has nothing to do with modern urban crime.
It details the thrills and adventures of an early priority mailman — one Tornado Tom Thomas of the Pony Express.
“I had this story rattling around in my head for years,” said Faulkner, a lower valley resident.
About four years ago, he began researching and spinning the tale of young reporter Grant Collins who, in 1923, seeks out the last living Pony Express rider, the aforementioned Tornado Tom.
Collins finds him living in Fort Benton then begins chronicling his adventures, including his stint with the Pony Express in 1860 in St. Joseph, Missouri. Faulkner laughed as he recalled the advertised qualifications for riders.
Originally, he said he pictured riders as looking like Wild Bill Hickok. Through research, he learned Hickok was too big so he became a station agent and wrangler for the Pony Express instead of a rider.
“They were specifically looking for small, skinny guys — orphans preferred — because they didn’t know if they would come home,” Faulkner said.
To overcome that rather dismal prospect, the Pony Express offered riders $100 a month, a tremendous wage in that era. Riders also were issued weapons to fend off frequent attacks although most opted not to carry the heavy pistols.
“Company policy was ‘don’t fight — run for it,’” he said.
Riders galloped 10 to 15 miles between horse changes, sitting on a “mochila,” a sort of blanket thrown on top of the saddle that held letters and packages locked in pouches. Express riders crossed the country to Sacramento, Calif., in about 10 days.
Faulkner said he remains intrigued by how the Pony Express continues to fascinate the nation, considering the service— made obsolete by the telegraph — folded after just one year.
“One of the last big things they did was carry Abe Lincoln’s inaugural address to California,” Faulkner said. “That’s what kept California in the Union.”
He dropped a clue that this historic event plays into the foundation of his novel.
Faulkner took the name of Tom’s Montana ranch, “The Buffalo Rock,” as the title for his epic 615-page story published in August by Stand Up America, USA, the Flathead Valley multimedia company founded by retired Maj. Gen. Paul Vallely.
A national political commentator and author, Vallely praised Faulkner’s book
as “one of the best yarns I have read in years.” The book also was reviewed and recommended by Gerald Molen, the Academy-Award-winning producer of “Schindler’s List” and by prolific writer Bill Brooks.
Brooks, author of the recent “The Stone Garden: The Epic Life of Billy the Kid,” compared the book to such classics as “The Virginian” and “Little Big Man.” He complimented the book’s humor, history and insight into the character of men who become legend.
For Faulkner, Brook’s praise was especially gratifying since he admires his writing.
“I’ve read a bunch of his books,” he said.
A self-described voracious reader, Faulkner said he grew up in Indiana with an insatiable appetite for the written word, particularly history. He ended up in California as a young man after serving in the Marine Corps.
That’s when an ad in the Los Angeles Times for police officers jumped off the page at him.
“When I was a kid, everyone watched ‘Dragnet,’” he said.
He applied and was accepted for the police academy. A career of almost 20 years followed with the Los Angeles Police Department.
“Those really were the good old days of being an L.A. police officer,” he said. “I have a thousand police stories to tell.”
He retired in 1983 but continued working for a time as a private investigator and then a representative of the National Rifle Association. Faulkner moved here about 15 years ago, and his literary career blossomed.
“I had the ambition for years to become a writer,” he said.
Faulkner joined the Writers of the Flathead to work on his book idea. Through their meetings, classes and seminars, he refined his novel’s plot, fleshed out his characters and researched the eras of his story.
A stickler for accuracy, Faulkner checked out everything from guns to iconic western characters. He even made sure he described his street scenes correctly.
“I had to dig up the history of when streets were paved,” Faulkner said. “Fort Benton had paved streets in 1923.”
As Tom, his niece Dixie, the young reporter Grant Collins and many other characters evolved, the author developed flow charts to keep track of how they were all related. As he wrote, he said they became very real to him.
“I even had dreams about them,” he said.
Readers who would like to meet his characters may purchase the book at Borders, Amazon.com, Standupamericausa.com or bobfaulkner.com. The price varies.
Those who would like to meet the author and purchase “The Buffalo Rock” may do so at a book signing from 2 to 4 p.m. Sunday, Sept. 7, at the Vista Linda Restaurant Pavilion located just north of MacKinaw’s Grill in Somers.
Along with Faulkner, Vallely also will autograph his books “Endgame” and “Baghdad Ablaze” at the reception that features wine and hors d’ouevres.
Even as the print dries on this novel, Faulkner has new works in development drawing from those thousand stories from his career as an L.A. policeman.
“I really do enjoy writing,” he said. “It always was a desire. Now it’s an absolute passion.”
Reporter Candace Chase may be reached at 758-4436 or by e-mail at cchase@dailyinterlake.com.
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