Up Close, They Are Monsters

It was my own fault. I brought it on myself. Serves me right. I started telling spooky campfire tales. I told 'em tall and terrifying, hoping to scare Susan, the young lady I was backpacking with, into my sleeping bag.

The campfire flickered. The small light was a safe place to huddle and tell stories about crazy things that happen in the woods at night. We were camped in a tree-choked gully in the Santa Ynez mountains. Live Oak branches formed a canopy that shut out much of the moonlight. The ground was carpeted with brittle, dry spiny leaves that crunched underfoot. Outside, beyond the light, lurked the beasts of the night.

"Anything could wander into our camp. Some say big cats escaped the Hearst Castle zoo and are still here. Leopards, lions, and bears, the food odors bring 'em in. They take what they want. The cats could eat you. Even a small brown bear can toss a big man like a rag doll. So you better hope you're not between a beast and what it wants."  

But my stories didn't scare Susan. 

"These are remote mountains. Not many backpackers up here; it's mainly hunters. Folks get lost forever in these mountains. In 1942 a B24 Liberator disappeared off Big Sur. When hikers found the wreck, the mummified bodies of the airmen were still strapped to their seats. Only the captain's body was missing. Some say he still walks these woods."

Coyotes yipped and barked in the distance. Susan shivered, arms folded, huddling inside her down jacket. She smiled but moved no closer. She wasn't buying my half-baked Jack London/Stephen King routine. Even my most lurid lies about hog wild deep woods crazies failed to move her. Susan was a sophisticated audience. She laughed and rolled her eyes in all the right places. She had a Master's degree in English and seriously appreciated the structure of my stories.

But Susan didn't budge.

I exhausted myself telling yarns. We spread our ground cloths on opposite sides of the dwindling campfire, far enough back to keep sparks off the down sleeping bags. My purple prose failed to lure Susan into even a snuggle. I resigned to sleeping alone.

I watched the galaxies slide above the oak branches, looking for shooting stars and satellites. A breeze blew rustling leaves. "If I told her the one about..."  I drifted into sleep.

Hideous! The monster's foul breath is wet on my face. Hair bristling, the fiend's slavering mouth is stuffed with massive crooked tusks. I can't breathe. The ogre's lethal red eyes radiate fury. This swollen evil creature will destroy me. I'm paralyzed, trapped, suffocating. I try to scream, but I can't hear my voice. I explode.

Suddenly I'm awake. The grotesque face remains in my mind. My fists are clenched, my back is arched, my legs are tensed to run, but I'm frozen in fear.

Nightmare!

I spooked myself. My skin crawls. I look at Susan asleep in her bag. I feel ashamed. The mighty woodsman, the big-time climber, the all-knowing backpacker has scared himself shitless.

But the nightmare gargoyle's grin was so real. I'm ready to fight for my life. Trembling, stabbed by the claw of an adrenal rush, I can't shake it.

Back in my bag, twitching at every breeze-pushed sound, berating myself for a fool, time crawls. I'm scared to look into the darkness, scared not to. My mind plays a litany of reassurances. "The woods are safe; it's people who are dangerous. It was just a dream. The woods are safe." Finally, I fall into a jittery half-sleep and doze until dawn.

Up at first light, I build a fire and warm my back. Then I notice something odd about the ground near my sleeping bag. The dark earth is gouged like it was tossed with a shovel. There are deep tracks in the dirt.

Oh God, it wasn't a nightmare; it was a wild boar!

Domestic hogs escaped the Hearst menagerie at San Simeon in the 30s. Hogs go feral in two generations. Now the whole Santa Ynez range was haunted by giant wild boars, some reaching 800 pounds. They're mean, stubborn, unpredictable, and deadly. Wild swine with razor tusks will charge, slash, and even kill.

I remembered the story of hikers chased up an oak by a wild boar. The beast circled the tree, ramming the trunk and slashing the bark all day and night. The treed hikers were in agony with thirst and cramps. 

Eventually, the damned pig just forgot about it and wandered away.

Closing my eyes, I saw the demonic brute's face drooling over me. 

Why didn't it maul me? Why did it run?

I said nothing to Susan. 

I didn't want her to know I was scared.

Why Did You Run Away?

I booted the kickball as the recess bell rang. It was a great kick. The ball shot through crowds of running kids, eventually clanging against a distant tree lined chain link fence in the far corner of the playground. I ran for it, weaving through the crowds rushing back to class. 

It was cooler in the shadows of the peppercorn trees near the fence.  The the trees whispered and twitched in the wind. Broken branches and crushed peppercorns lay scattered on the ground. 

Looking back the kids drifted off the hot asphalt like steaming water down a drain. My friends disappeared into their hot stuffy classrooms. The last few ran to beat the tardy bell.

I stayed in the far corner, watching it all, sitting on the kick ball, hiding from a gusting San Fernando Valley wind. It was suddenly quiet.  I was alone, away from class. My friends were settling in, sitting up straight, getting out the pencils. 

There was an unlocked gate next to me. I thought how fine it would be to be home, gone from school, free from the hot afternoon classroom. I wanted to walk. Just wander into the breezy afternoon. I opened the gate and began walking. I was too scared to go back and face the questions and consequences. 

Several blocks from school I realized that I didn't really know my way home. All I could do was walk the bus route. Trudging beside busy streets that would eventually lead me to my house.  I walked the whole afternoon away. I looked for the intersections I knew from riding the bus. It was hot and I was very thirsty. The sense of adventure was gone.  

Eventually the long yellow L.A. City School busses began to pass me. Suddenly I realized I was in big trouble. Each time I heard the grunting gears of an oncoming bus I hid behind the Eucalyptus trees that lined the street. Eucalyptus shed piles of thick paper bark around their trucks, it crunched and snapped underfoot. The stringent odor of the trees mixed in the oily bus exhaust each time a bus rumbled by. 

Peeking out I saw my friends on their way home, They were riding easy over the same ground it took so long for me to walk.  I'd be home now if I hadn't bolted. I thought about waiving a bus down for a ride, but I was scared. 

Why did I leave school? I'd be home now if I'd just gone back to class. I’d be bouncing those green leatherette seats, elbowing my buddies or gazing moodily at the traffic and trees. Instead I'm hiding here sinking deeper into big trouble.

Now I realized mom would be wondering where I was. Angry that I hadn't come strait home after getting off the bus. I knew my folks would be mad I was walking home without permission, 

It didn't occur to me that I'd be missed right after recess, that a search would be launched, and terrible phone calls made. The police alerted. 

After the busses passed the walk took forever.  It wasn't so bad when I was ahead of the whole school, questing for home before the herd was let loose. But now I was behind them all, way behind, walking so long it was getting dark. 

The sun set as I stood on the sidewalk in front of my house.  There was a police car in the driveway.  Footsore, hungry, thirsty and worn out, I turned the front door knob and entered the crowded house. The kitchen was full of relatives. I wondered why everyone was here. 

"Dennis! you're safe! Thank God!" The pain, relief and joy in their voices cut through my fatigue and worry. They sounded so scared. Then they were happy to see me. I relaxed, everything would be fine, I wasn't in trouble after all. 

"Where have you been !?" Their relief crested suddenly and a wave of anger broke. Mom and dad shouted simultaneously. "Where have you been, what happened, why....?" 

"Uh, I walked home from school. I just didn't want to stay."

I caught of a couple of well deserved sharp ones on the behind.  In the background a police officer was shaking his head and smiling as he spoke on his radio. Everyone was talking at once. 

My dad had me by the arm," You're never, ever to leave school like this again! Do you understand?" 

My back side hurt as I was hustled into my room. I knew I had it coming. I'd scared them bad. 

The next day at school I was the center of attention in the fourth grade. First thing I had to go to the principal's. He talked at me, while the teacher nodded with a worried smile stuck on her face. I nodded my head a lot and kept silent.  

All the kids gathered around at the first recess. Everybody asked the same questions.

Why'd you do it? Why'd you run away?

The principal, the police, the teachers, the kids, mom and dad, even my little brother John all wanted to know the same thing. 

"Why did you run away?"

How could I make them understand?  I wouldn't admit that I was just scared to be tardy. I couldn't describe the lure of the shade and sound of shaking leaves at the edge of a hot playground. 

How do you tell worried faces that you couldn’t go back inside the airless classroom and just sit still in the second seat in the third row, when the chance to walk away is suddenly there?

I went with the urge to walk away. On impulse, I jumped into an adventure without thinking. 

Eventually the questions stopped.

All I ever said was, “I just didn't feel like going back to class.” 

Winter Solo

Blast after blast, lightning flashed, and thunder exploded over me. Curled fetal into the punk wood of a downed tree, I tasted a tangy smell. My hair shivered with static. Sleet and wind whipped the quaking trees. I rocked and moaned. 

"You go up there alone. You'll die," the ranger said.

But I wanted to rough it, go light, move fast, and find myself in the wilderness. After all, it was a dry March day in Yosemite National Park.

Winter solo. This was a trip of firsts-a two-week trek into the Sierras. Deep into the big snowy, no programmed survival course for me! I'd shot my mouth off about the joys of backcountry isolation for weeks. Now it was too late to run home.

Why was I wet, cold, aching, scared, and waiting to be zap-fried by lightning? Because I wanted to be a mountain man. A wilderness-worn hard guy in an old 60/40. I imagined the Vibram soles of my new climbing boots run down by a thousand miles of mountain passes and peaks. I saw myself on the high route, a sun-bleached beard covering my shirt pockets. My eyes zen-blue cool above a knowing smile. The type of guy with a low Co-op number and endless stories to tell.

I had no backcountry experience. I shipped camping gear for Sierra Designs in South Berkeley. It was just a job. I knew nothing about backpacking or mountaineering. So I decided to teach myself how to use all the equipment I sent out daily. I'd done a few day trips and some trout fishing. I depended on Colin Fletcher's The Complete Walker for the rest to show me the way.  

It was time to pay my dues. I had the best equipment and armchair experience money could buy. I was ready to teach myself how to snow camp. Unfortunately, I was a newbie about to learn the hard way.

After the lightning passed, I trudged into the sleet and snow. My new boots leaked, hammered my toes, and rubbed silver dollar blisters into my heels. Wind-crusted snow collapsed with each step.  I longed for the new Vermont Tubbs snow shoes I left behind to save weight. Wallowing thigh-deep, I exhausted myself to make a few miles a day.

Eventually, I settled into the routine of solo backpacking. Making camp became a ritual: find a spot by a downed tree, spread a ground cloth, rig the tarp and blow up the air mattress. Soon, the throaty blue glowing hiss of the primus 8R flames up a pot of boiling water. Dinner time! Later, I relax with a hot coco warming my cupped hands, wrapped in my down jacket and 60/40 windbreaker. Bone weary and happy, pulling the down bag over my hips, I let my mind go blank and sink into it all.

Back in Berkeley, I resolved my boondocks diet would have a monastic simplicity. I'd catch trout for my protein, wrap them in tinfoil filled with butter and pepper, and set fish in a campfire! But, instead, after a week of frozen lakes and no fishing, I lived on instant oatmeal, M&M peanuts, brown rice, and a nut-rich mix of crunchy granola. I fantasized about prime rib and dark chocolate, green salads, and pitchers of beer.

Setting up camp after another tough day, I pulled out a wet food bag catching the metallic odor of white gas. I couldn't believe it. The stove leaked into the granola, ruining it all. The granola became kindling.

The endless trudging, loneliness, and lack of calories took a toll. The thin brown and green contour lines on the topo map lost meaning. Instead, I depended on blazed trees to mark the trail to my destination, a lake at the base of Buena Vista Peak. I was flailing through the snow a few hundred yards at a time, searching for the next sap­ obscured mark.

Reaching treeline, I dropped my Kelty DB5 pack against a tall pine with a  wide snow-free well that worked as a camp spot. I took a long drink and thought about the lake where I'd fish and finally eat well. Ahead, I saw snow-packed windswept ridges leading up to what I hoped was Buena Vista Peak. So I decided on a quick scout trip up the nearest ridge. Climbing up over crusty snow, I kept my head down, going into the wind. Light snow stung my eyes. Finally, I crested the ridge. Time to get my bearings. Turning in every direction, I see snow, occasional bare rock, distant mountains, and blue sky. No lakes.

After a long rest, I turned, looking for my back trail. Nothing. My footprints were gone under drifting snow. Suddenly it all looked the same; no blazes, cairns, or tracks. The sun was setting. Snow-covered boulders threw scattered shadows. I didn't see the big pine as I looked down the ridge. I turned and turned, trying to get my bearings.

I was alone and lost.

Panic seeped in. Everything I needed to survive was in my pack. Fear clawed me. Which way to go?

Breathe deep-conquer the fear. I sat on a rock and looked up at the slow sunset colors of the sky. I'd read of lost hikers walking in disoriented circles until they drop. Now I knew why it could happen. When you are lost, all directions are the same.

I was way across the line. Everything was dangerous now. Terror lurked nearby. Alone. Death or survival?

I needed a plan. To avoid walking in circles, I imagined the rock I sat on was the center of an ever-growing series of squares. To step out of the maze, I counted my strides, extending the last leg of the square 100 feet before turning right 90 degrees. Scan the ground. Find my tracks. Repeat.

I walked my squared circle for hours, searching for my bootprints. Moonglow helped. Be careful, don't trip, and don't turn an ankle. I kept looking for the pattern that would save me.

Hypothermia! The first signs are violent, uncontrollable shivering. How do you build a snow cave barehanded? Does rubbing frostbite with snow work? How does thinking twist and fade? The feet freeze first, hands numb. I don't feel my ears. My fingers hardly tingle when I slap my hands. 

The fear faded; no panic now. Just wrestling with a morbid imagination. Thinking of London's "To Build a Fire, " I didn't have a match or flint. But, hey, this isn't the Yukon. But the Sierras could kill you too. I swore at my arrogant stupidity, shouting, " You wanted this fool! This is the test you sought."

Hours now, keep moving, go all night, find the trail in the morning light. Luckily the moon splashed the snow with blue shadows. Are those my tracks? There it is! Down on my knees, I traced the wind-faded pattern with trembling fingers. Stepped into a waffle pattern in the snow, then another. My tracks! Adrenalin cleared my head. Hope puts things in a new perspective. I was going to be OK. I'd never been in any real danger. I stuffed my fears back into their hole. I felt safer.

I paced the tracks for miles before I allowed myself to worry. Are these my tracks? Am I going toward my pack or away? What if I'm walking in circles?

I found my pack at dawn. Tilted against the tree where I'd left it. Home. Striping off my wet clothes, I crawled into my sleeping bag and collapsed into an instant, dreamless sleep.

That afternoon I shouldered my pack and pushed over the ridge. I eventually found Buena Vista  Lake. It was frozen. No fish for me.

I camped by the lake for a long time. I forgot what I looked like. I didn't recognize my voice when it echoed across the frozen lake. Time is slippery. How many days and nights here? Breaking holes in the ice to watch the water refreeze. I  listened to the wind. Then I looked up and realized I would climb my first mountain.

The next morning at sunup, I broke camp, packed my gear, shouldered my pack, and started up Buena Vista Peak. I'd never climbed before. Kicking back up the ridge with a full pack was challenging. But, for the first time in days, I could see across miles of wild space. Reaching the top woke me up. I took out my map and compass, finally able to orient myself. I found the names of the peaks and planned a route to Ostrander Lake, where there was a winter ski hut. 

I navigated cross country to a ridge above0 Ostrander Lake. The water was open! A small section of water was open just below me. A  howling boot glissade brought me to the open spot. Finally, I could use my fishing gear. I cast a tiny Daredevil spoon over the open pool onto a snow ledge. I teased the lure, so it dropped into the shadows. Sinking like a leaf on the breeze, the lure fell from view. With a hit and wrist flick, the rod shivered and bent. The magic first cast! I reeled the fish and flipped healthy brook trout up on the snow beside me. I cast again and caught another. Hunting for food when you are starving was another new experience. 

I gutted and washed the trout, added butter, wrapped them in tin foil, and waited impatiently. After a diet of brown rice and gas-soaked granola, the anticipation was intense. Opening the sizzling foil, I gently tugged the spines out, briefly warming my hands over the miraculous perfect fillets. Ah, that first bite became a lifetime memory.

I slept well that night in the Ostrander ski hut. The next day I fished the sliver of open water and caught breakfast and lunch. Late afternoon I started back, following a well-blazed trail. 

I got to my beat-up F-10 Land Cruiser at dusk. The engine started on the first try, and I eased out as night fell. Driving warm and in motion, I connected again to the concrete threads that stitch the roadmaps together. It was slow going back. Pushing the F-10 above 40 MPH caused the front end to wobble and shake. So it was a long slow drive through the night. I didn't see anyone on the road. I was still alone. It felt like the world had emptied out while I was lost.

As the sun rose, a few miles from home, I glanced out the driver's side window. I saw my first human in two weeks.

He was a tall black man dressed in a leopard-skin toga. The leather straps of his gladiator sandals wrapped up his calves. He held a full-grown cheetah on a leash. 

I was back in Berkeley again.

 

The Pomegranate Grove

We lived in the San Fernando Valley in Walnut Cove,  a subdivision of ranch-style houses with big front yards. Walnut Cove had a mature tree in front of every house.   The trees were an echo of the grove bulldozed to create the subdivision. At least the planners left enough trees to shade the wide sidewalks. The trees were all grafted between English and White Walnuts. That meant a white trunk, a black body with solid roots, and the best walnuts. They were big branched trees great for climbing.

These piebald nut trees would fill with green speckled pods every spring, then the heat and light of summer would darken and shrivel the pods into a thin black leather. Finally, the pods dried, exposing the wrinkled veined details of a new walnut shell. The ripe walnuts snapped from the husks, and we collected wagons full!

All my neighborhood pals, Dave DeCamp, Judy Corn, and her sister Sharon, David Olsen, and even the evil and weird Reynolds would gather bag fulls of walnuts. We'd crack the shells with our teeth and extract the brain like walnut meat. Occasionally a nut with bitter dark fibers and spider webs made you shiver. But most of the time, we plucked the delicious light brown nuts from the shell almost whole. You could always find a snack in Walnut Cove during the late spring and summer.  

Two big valley streets bordered Walnut Cove. Balboa Blvd and Nordhoff are major commuter roads with fast-moving traffic. Crossing these dangerous streets was forbidden. The valley was quickly filling up with sub-divisions. But Walnut Cove was still surrounded by groves—oranges to the north, acres of pomegranates to the south, and walnuts to the east. West across Balboa was bulldozed into weedless, treeless lots sliced by new black top ribbons of asphalt. The hammering of a new sub-division came next.

We could get into the orange groves without crossing the big streets, which meant their allure was minimal. The oranges were usually small, green, and bitter. Besides, the farmer hated kids and was always on the prowl. The pomegranate groves on the other side of Nordhoff Blvd seemed the most mysterious, remote, and irresistible.

Even though I wasn't supposed to cross the street, I planned a raid on the pomegranates with Judy Corn. Judy lived down the block. She was part of a Jack Mormon clan that seemed to have no trouble playing cards and drinking coffee. I'd go to Judy's house to watch American Bandstand with Dave DeCamp and Judy's older sister Sharon. I was the youngest of the group and always got fidgety waiting for the program to end so we could go out and play. The older kids, especially Sharon and Dave, who must have been at least 13, were fascinated by the dancing couples on the screen. It was boring but neat to be included with the older kids.    

Judy was bored too, but she wouldn't admit that around her big sister.  Judy was a hot-tempered tomboy and one of the toughest kids on the block. I fought her once, and she won. Judy hit me ten times as I struggled to wrestle her arms down. She was hard to hold. Her muscles were as big as mine. I told myself I held back during the fight because she was a girl. You weren't supposed to hit girls. But she punched harder than any boy in the neighborhood except Arty  Guftason, the worst bully on the block. I liked Judy, but I was afraid of her. Her punches really hurt.

Judy wasn't supposed to cross the street either, but she dared me, and I couldn't back down from a dare. Besides, I wanted to get some pomegranates. We waited a long time for a break in the traffic, then sprinted across the street, through the gully over the wire fence, and into the forbidden groves. A faded no-trespassing sign hung on the wire fence made me feel like we were on the verge of getting caught.   There was probably a farmer meaner than the guy at the orange grove just waiting to grab us. 

We went far into the grove between the neat rows of trees, disappearing into the mysteries of this banned place. The traffic noise on Balboa faded. The trees were planted in rows, a tractor-width apart. The leaves created a canopy that cooled the hot valley sun. It was hot enough to soften the asphalt at the edges of the street, but it was shady and secret here. Dust swirled, suspended in shafts of sunlight that cut through the leaves. We were alone. It was better here than either of us had hoped.

The trees clustered in odd-shaped fruit, a pomegranate's skin is a bumpy alien terrain, and pods like pale purple wasps nests hung heavy from the burdened limbs.    The overripe ones had fallen to the ground and lay half-hidden in the tall grass. These were insect-laden universes, purple, blood-colored clusters swarming with ants where the skin had split. The air smelled rich with growing things, backed by a cloying scent of decay. The skin color told you which pomegranates were ready to be eaten. A baseball-sized pomegranate with a pale purple exterior,  firm to the touch, wasn't ready yet. We wanted the dimpled and swollen, almost violet fruit, bigger than your fist; the ones just a bit soft to the touch were ready to burst with scarlet seeds and sweet juice.

We jumped up to steal the fruit, snatching them from the low limbs. But the best ones were out of reach. Pomegranate trees are hard to climb, and none of the branches are low enough. With my hands, I made a step cradle to boost Judy into the tree. She was surprisingly heavy, and it hurt my hands and shoulders as she climbed over me. Out of reach, She laughed and teased me, bombing me with dozens of pomegranates. I chucked back rotten, ground-softened, ant-covered missiles but never hit her.

Eventually, we called a truce. We stacked pomegranates in pyramids like lumpy cannon balls on the fruit-littered battlefield. We lay back in the grass, gorging ourselves, splitting open the sweet fruit, peeling back the tough fibrous skin, devouring the thick scarlet seeds, biting into massive clusters, chewing the pulp, and swallowing the juice. The crimson drippings ran down our chins and stained our t-shirts. We ate only the thickest seed clusters. After a  few mouthfuls and we'd be left with the difficult part of the fruit. We tossed the half-eaten carcasses aside, took a fresh pomegranate from the pile, and began again.

We spent the late afternoon eating, talking, watching the sky through the trees, and reveling in the special secret of the place. It was exciting to spend time with a girl, even if she was a tomboy. It got late quickly. The sky darkened, and the shadows grew. We had to get home. All around us were pomegranates' split, smashed, and broken remains. We ruined more than we ate. When I looked at empty husks and wasted fruit, I felt uneasy. If the farmer caught us now, he'd be right to be mad. Suddenly I felt guilty. We used a fine place poorly. It was a hopeless mess. Turning away, we ran from the grove.

I came slinking into the house. My conscience is hurting. I'd disobeyed, crossed the street, thieved the pomegranates worse, and wasted as much as I'd eaten. My face and hands were stained in juice and guilt. 

Mom's radar was on maximum. It was dusk, too late to get home. She was waiting for me. My furtive slump-shouldered skulk towards my room tipped her off. She took one look at me and knew something was wrong.

"Dennis, what is it?" was all she needed to say. 

"I, uh, I ... crossed the street .... took pomegranates.... stole them, I guess."

My story tumbled out, sneaking away with Judy, the shame of wasting the farmer's pomegranates. I had to confess. It was a relief to own up.

Surprisingly, Mom wasn't upset with me. Instead, she had a smile on her face as she nodded and told me not to cross the street again.

I never returned to the pomegranate grove. I never took another of the farmer's pomegranates, even when Judy brought me an extra. I'd lost my taste for pomegranates, and the ones bought at the store weren't the same.

Saab Stories - The Nautilus

I bought my first car in 1968. It was a jet-black 1960 Saab 93. It had 3 port holes on each side of the hood and suicide doors that flipped open like clam shells, ready to catch the wind.

I bought the Saab for $300 from an Australian in Culver City, California. The Aussie talked out of the side of his mouth (he'd been shark scarred somewhere off the Barrier Reef and asymmetrically stitched back together).

"She's a sweet potato, mate."

I believed him and laid down every dime I had. I bought a Saab solely on the strength of a bit part the car played in Richard Farina's ultra-hip novel, Been Down So Long It Looks Like Up To Me.

This narrowed my choices for my first car to a Saab or a Citroen 2CV. I was into the reverse status of obscure foreign cars. The 2CV looked (and drove) like a corrugated trash can on wheels; the Saab was like a bastard child of a Porsche and a VW Bug. 

This Saab was sleek, black, and mysterious. She had portholes on each side of the hood that earned her a nickname: The Nautilus. Finally, I had a car that was  "way cool?" long before the term was coined.

The Nautilus had a pull-chain activated grill flap that sealed up the engine compartment for sub-zero Swedish driving. After a cruise on an LA freeway, the heater could bring the red metal dashboard up to egg-frying temperatures. Revving produced a mad popcorn-like pinging set of 2-stroke explosions punctuated by gouts of blue smoke. Take your foot off the pedal, and freewheeling delivered a cliff dive every time you crested a hill.

What a great car.

Eighteen hours after I bought The Nautilus, the engine seized. My girlfriend drove it to the beach. There it died; it would 2-stroke no more. The lady swore she had mixed the oil in with the gas. But the engine seized anyway 

Less than a day into my first car, I started what would become a lifetime of Saab stories.

The Nautilus was towed to Lindqvist Motors in Culver City. A new engine would be $300, thank-you-very-much. Exactly what I'd paid the Aussie for the beautiful sleek hunk of immobile Swedish metal.

The Nautilus sat in Ingvar Lindqvist's back lot for three months (no doubt Ingvar was away rallying his Saab through Baja). I worked as a car jockey at Lou Ehlers Casa de Cadillac on Wilshire Blvd to earn bail money. I slipped 100's of Detroit blimps in and out of mechanic's stalls to save the money for a rebuilt engine that would drive me north to Berkeley, California, in the summer of '68.

Eventually, The Nautilus lived again. I took advantage of the fold down the rear seat to turn The Nautilus into a spud-shaped truck. I packed all my worldly goods into the car, using every cubic inch of storage space to make the move north. I must have looked like the hippy version of the clown car act when I unloaded my Saab at my first apartment in South Berkeley.

I cruised California reveling in the" What is that?" looks of middle-class America. I'd silently freewheel down on a Rambler wagon and fly by a black blur shrouded in two-stroke smoke. I drove the Natulus from Berkeley to L.A. and back a dozen times, averaging about 40 miles to the gallon.               

I could fill a dry gas tank with 96-octane Supreme for $2.97. Often attendants would refuse to add two-stroke oil during a fill-up. 

"You put oil in the gas, and she'll blow, buddy. I ain't doing it!"

I'd tilt that blue and white Saab oil can into the gas tank, trying not to dribble down the fender while the attendant and his buddies scratched their heads and pointed at the weird machine.  

The Nautilus really was way cool.

Well after midnight, on a return run from L.A., I found the outside of the freewheeling envelope. After a long climb, I was coasting the Grapevine on Highway 99, freewheeling and flying low on a long cruise to Bakersfield. The speed jumped quickly - 70, 80, 90, I tried the brakes, but they weren't serious about stopping me. Besides, I was trying to stretch the miles per gallon.  

With the speedometer bumping a hundred, I began to worry about the tires. I felt like a skater on thin rickety blades. By now, the brakes were useless. 

I had only myself to blame as I'd pointedly ignored the advice of the manual about locking the free wheel " ...to utilize the braking action of the engine when going down steep mountain grades... " 

Stiff-armed, I pointed the 93 at the fast lane and held on.

Suddenly the tiny rearview mirror lit up with the blinding high beams of a 16-wheeler charging down on top of me. The trucker was on his own freewheeling breakaway.                                  

The truck blew at 140 mph, belching eye-watering clouds of burning brake lining. The big truck's backwash blew me across three lanes. I wrestled The Nautilus back into the fast lane and rolled on.               

I finally coasted down to safe speeds on the flats. I didn't have any trouble staying awake that night. I Bet I averaged 50 miles per gallon that run too.

I was a mechanical ignoramus depending on the Berkeley Saab agency to get me going when I broke down.   Finances dictated a fix it when it stops approach. Other than a set of brakes and a slipping fan belt that sidelined me near Big Sur at 3 a.m. The Nautilus treated me well. 

I cringe now when I remember that due to the insidious effects of 

"Flower Power," the Saab acquired an Indian bedspread headliner. It was a green and tan paisley that also adorned the door panels.

A young arrogance, a heavy foot, and the call of Saab's rally heritage finally did the Nautilus in. 

Idling a stoplight in Oakland, I glanced over at a blue-haired pensioner in a highly polished  Plymouth Valiant four-door sedan. She eyed me nervously. Obviously, she wanted to drag.

When the light changed, I revved the 2-stroke, blasted a cloud of blue smoke, and popped the clutch. The front tires chirped and stuttered. The Nautilus surged forward, lurched violently, and rolled to a metal-clattering halt in the intersection. A broken right front axle clanked hideously from down below. I was stranded and humiliated in the middle of the road. The Valiant, without so much as a glance from the driver, drove past me.

I was broke. A busted axle meant a dead Saab. I remember pushing dejectedly on the door jam. The open wing of the suicide door threatened to scoop me up as we gathered speed down the hill. I jumped in for a last miserable freewheel onto a residential side street. 

I was too broke to rescue it. 

So my first car, a jet-black 1960 Saab 93 with portholes on the hood, gathered dust, weeds, and bird droppings until it was tagged, towed, and totaled in an Emeryville car crusher.

I didn't know it then, but I was permanently hooked on Saabs. This first experience set the pattern for the rest of my automotive life. I tried to kick the Saab habit with Corvairs and VW's, Rovers, and Jaguars. Then I'd relapse, buy an old two-stroke or a couple of V4s, find a dead Saab in a field, and toe it home. I even bought a 900 EMS at a car auction. It burst into electrical flames the day I bought it). 

For years Volvo's were the best Methadone. I drove more sensible Swedish for years! 

Then my willpower collapsed last summer, and I bought a 1971 Saab 96 V4 (Desert Sand, rally rigged). I couldn't pass it by.

While zipping through the midwinter Tahoe slush, I thought of the tell-tale two-stroke ring and pop of The Nautilus. 

Another slippery slope

I still miss that car.

Machapuchare at sunrise

between breaths

the air is still

cumulous clouds torn

by the fishtail

vapor fountains 

to the stratosphere

peaceful moment
charged with certainty
of storm

eventually
momentary 

stillness

prayer flags flap
beyond the tent 
it begins again

daily notes in the old snail log

haiku of change 

on insight timer

daily notes in the old snail log

scattered leaves on the 

pond of consciousness 

meandering past the bodhi tree

golden trout giggle 

while the big fish slumbers 

I am a fish swiming to the sea 

dissolving in the waves 

wondering if the atoms of us

ever drift to space

will our star dust escape this place?

or are we bound by Newton 

to the third planet from our small sun?

Wilderness Lost

Do you remember the naked desert?

time flowed to rock 

Do you recall when this rock was better than that rock?

When the wine was so foul we watered the sand with Gallo red?

You left a clay figure of hopeless to melt

abandoned in the cold of winter desert

old Saab sliding up hill and down 

building momentum to crest the summit to Saline valley

opening up to  

sky and  rock

to the soulless cold of desert night

to Death Valley in winter 

Our journeys into the darkness were ways to find the light

So often we went from alone together to just alone

You on the path out... me on the path to wildness 

The long high hike alone, with Tolstoy for company

The high ledge and million star sky a lifelong touchstone

I lay on the stone and fell into the cosmos 

always there 

in my stony heart 

always there 

my high granite bed 

under the yawning sky 

there were signs that said turn back. 

a hawk screeching and flashing talons in my eyes, 

stay away 

    stay away 

        stay away 

I kept on 

Stepping over a downed log I a wasp stabbed me. 

electric shock snapped my head out the hike and into alert. 

signs to turn back? 

challenged to go on

I hiked

Hawk and wasp echoing

widow maker limb fell 

crash bashed across the path

just a step behind

A pause, a shrug, an extra breath and I'd been dead.

Instead I hike on alone 

three warnings

before 

I found IT 

on the stone bed in the night. 

I found solitude and Tolstoy.

I hiked  

    one hundred miles 

        one hundred miles 

alone

now and then the same 

now and then connected 

all I've carried 

all these years 

connected

to song and soaring grace 

found in the backcountry

I carry it all 

blessed

and still alive!

sunday

barrel chest wrapped with pain

sore 

wrapped in a blanket of tears 

for the pain 

for the hurt

for the weight of 

a human 

floating and sinking

floating belly to the sky into space

between planets in the family orbit

touch the face of whatever god you can imagine

find 

strength and peace 

share it share it share it....

Old friend

 Old friend

lost so many years ago 

at the cross road

solo or family

you are alone

I am not

yet we have the same task

live with ourselves

live with it

live

hidden memories of trail days

bubble like the burp of Yellowstone mud

reach to the light

form in the mind

remember when we were young 

and so dumb

Know with all my heart

Janice warm inside

silent snow sleeps outside

blazing inner fire

touched by winter

wind disguised as summer

wind chimes 

bird song

meditating

San Diego bird song

stills my wandering mind

my breath

like the surf sliding

on a gentle shore

blissful wave

breathe balance

breathe 

be present

feel the crest

with all my heart

this song of sweet life

we sing together

Crazy Hiram's Used Computer Emporium

Would you buy an online education from this guy?

(This is a revision of a post published in 2010) 

I was wallowing in Unix and trapped in 1980's corporate computing. I knew it was time to bust the rut and do something different.  How to escape?

The idea for Hiram Access the computer guru as a printed calendar was born in a Carson City Nevada coffee shop talking with Wolf Kohtz.  I collaborated with a cartoonist to create a series of 12 cartoons. 

Let me note for the record, this is a project where the only person to get paid was the artist! 

The closest I got to a deal was standing in line to talk with the computer columnist John Dvorak.  I pitched him with the mock-up calendar. John gave me a one word review: 

"Cute." ~ John Dvorak   

That word killed the project for me. Somewhere in the files I still have a proof copy, but the calendar never went to press. In the world before the world wide web, you printed things! 

Today I resurrected Hiram Access and 'minted' him as an NFT.  

Update:  Now's your chance to own a very limited edition of the "Epiphany Image" of Hiram Access as a gas free NFT on OpenSea. 

Confessions of an American Teacher

Written October 14, 2006
Slightly revised June 6, 2014
Minor revision January 19, 2018

A bit more revision October 8, 2021


I’m tired of saying the right thing. I've taken too many bullets for the team. I've been a Pollyanna with my head stuck up my ass… and a visionary that changed lives for the better. 

I walked picket lines, exposed evil, compromised my integrity, and given with all my soul. I've ranted across the desks of more than one superintendent and rolled over for others. 

I charmed, trashed, ignored, sympathized with, and bullshitted hundreds of parents. I faced surly classes and then flipped them into open-minded learners. I missed as many teachable moments as I caught. I helped some kids gain 4 years on the reading test and ignored others because they were hopeless punks who pissed me off. 

I hung around in the computer labs and classrooms weeping with inspiration and happiness for simply being part of the learning environment I dreamed of building, 

I hated the deep rut of driving back to school every morning to participate in the systematic destruction of joy and trust that small-minded inane administrators and school board members call education.

I was an American Teacher for 45 years and I’m sick at heart about public education. I want to tear the system down and let the ferrets run free. I want to teach skepticism and critical thinking and create a generation that will fight for their minds and fight for freedom. 

But I’m tired of tilting at windmills. I’ve learned to choose my battles. I’m not sure how much fight is left in me.

Sometimes I just want to scream and tell it all. All the good, all the bad, the lunacy and the laughs and everything in between. Instead, I’ll just blog.

I got my credential in 1974 despite a system that kept trying to talk me out of wasting my life in the classroom. All my neurotic friends in the graduate English Department at Berkeley thought I was nuts.

“You’re too good for teaching. Why waste your talent in a classroom?”

The application committee at the CSUN asked me the same thing (after beating me up for misspelling the word professional in my writing sample). 

“You don’t want to teach. There’s no money in it. You won't’ be able to get a job, there are too many teachers already.”

But I was stubborn and burned out by the life I’d been leading and looking for direction. Up in Canada, I made a deep woods camp. I spent time on mountain tops and in the wild thinking about it all. It gets old talking to fish and sitting on the high ground with a rifle. Ultimately, you are left with the questions only you can answer…

My career choices came down to law or education. I could be a lawyer or a teacher. I could make a living working with people at their worst or helping kids learn. I chose to teach and despite 45 years of classroom joy and pain, I don’t regret the choice.

Remembering My Grandfather Frank Thomas O'Connor November 11, 2020

My grandfather, Frank Thomas O'Connor was born on May 29, 1894, in Omaha, Nebraska.  He died February 25, 1965, in Los Angeles, California, at the age of 70.

Frank, was a graduate of Creighton University, where he boxed and played football. At age 23, in 1917 he was working as a Public Defender in Omaha.  

He tried to volunteer to become an officer in the AEF.  They turned him down because of an eye injury he got when he was a teenager.  He sang in an Irish trio. Here's a picture of Frank (in the middle) at age 18.

The family story is that Frank and his friends loved to sing together.  They were walking down some street in South Omaha and saw a sign on a bar that said, "No Irish Allowed".  Of course, they went in to talk about it. During the fight, Frank was hit across the face with a bottle that broke and cut his eye.  

The army wouldn't take him as an officer, but they did draft him into the infantry and made him into a machine gunner. 

Frank served  Company A, 341st Machine Gun Battalion, 177th Brigade, 89th Division of the American Expeditionary Force. He trained at Camp Funston, Fort Riley, Kansas.

Machine Gun Battalion

 

BATTLE PARTICIPATION OF THE 89TH DIVISION.

341st Machine Gun Battalion

—

(1) Lucey sector, Toul, France, 10 August-ll September 1918.

(2) St. Mihiel offensive, France, 12 September-16 September 1918.

(3) Euvezin sector, Toul, France, 17 September-7 October 1918.

(4) Meuse-Argonne offensive, France, 19 October-11 November 1918.

Frank remained in Germany assigned to the military police until he returned home in 1919.

He was part of the first element of the 89th Division to sail from Brest Brest France upon the Leviathan May l5 (1919) troops comprised the 355th Infantry, the 353rd Infantry, and 340th and 341st Machine Gun Battalions.

Frank's experiences in the trenches marked him for life. As a machine gunner, his job was to clear the way for the infantry. He survived gas attacks, shelling, very few of his friends ever got back to Omaha. He survived the Battle of Argonne Forest a deadly campaign resulting in over 26,000 US soldiers being killed in action (KIA) and over 120,000 total casualties.

When I was a young boy told me a few stories about the war.  He was a taciturn man. When a story came, it seemed to erupt   

He repeatedly told me how important it was to take care of my feet.  "Keep 'em dry. Otherwise, it's trench foot and they'll just rot away." 

"Don't tell me about religion. I'll tell you what it gets you.  I remember when one of the men just jumped up and started preaching.  He was really screaming about Jesus and a bunch of the guys gathered around to listen.  A shell hit and killed them all.  That's what religion gets you."

"I got lost in the trenches.  I was out in the mud for days. No water. It was night and I heard voices, I was so hungry and thirsty I just jumped into the crater. It was full of Germans,  they were as startled as I was, I managed to get away before they could shoot me."

I can only imagine what must be going on in his head in this photo from 1941.  He's got his arm around my dad, Jack E. O'Connor.  Dad was a Lieutenant in the Army Air Corps, home on leave.  He survived WWII and carried his own scars.

This day, 102 years ago, my Grandfather was alive on the battlefield with the smell of the Argonne on him when World War 1 ended at the 11th hour on the 11th day of the 11th month of 1918. 

War is pain that echoes in the genes. 

My Father and Grandfather were scarred for life by the death they survived as young men. 

Memorial Day is more than a calendar event.

a moment

The queen
on her throne
under flowering Matisse
froggy nudes looking coy
the seal infuses mushrooms
we laugh
a wet bird hops at midnight
we laugh
two birds tied together
tap dance on the tiles
we laugh
together at last
the doors open
we are the light
hearts joined
still time
joyful moment
we
are
one

April 15, 2019

present moment 

perfect

love ripples

out

ripples 

back

from infinite space

to infinite place

riders

senders

sharing our water

and our cheese sandwiches.

Esther Alvina Ellinghuesen

Teacher, Publisher, Missionary: What an amazing woman.

To this day, artifacts of Esther are present in my life. 

A battered camel saddle bought in a Cairo souk 60 years ago. 

Huge brass candlesticks.

Inlaid boxes, falling to pieces.

Just tourist trinkets that seeded my life with the desire to travel and see the places of my childhood imagination.

Inside Tut's Tomb

The Lion Gate at Mycenae 

Standing atop the Great Pyramid looking out over the Sahara

The Palace at Knossus

Luxor

The Nile

The Taj Mahal

Fatehpur Sikri 

The Toy Train to Darjeeling

Kanchenjunga

Dhaulagiri

Machupuchare

Annapurna

Kaziranga

Thank you, Esther

Henri's crapgame

Henri Pierre Hillinck



For more of Henri's art see his Pinterest Page: https://www.pinterest.com/wiredinstructor/the-art-of-henri-pierre-hillinck-1900-1959/