On Revisiting My Failures

Somehow, I turned 55 this year.

Not that it should come as a surprise, after-all, I was 54 years old last year.

And, no, this isn’t one of those “Oh lord, I’ve done got old” things either. 

I have always pretty much ignored my birthday.  I’ve always figured that if there were any congratulations to be doing, or gifts to be giving, that should all be directed at my mom.  After-all, I had absolutely nothing to do with being born, or surviving childhood either (and neither did my brothers for that matter).

Some few years ago, after my “old dog” beard had gone mostly gray, a co-worker suggested that I should shave my beard because “it makes you look older”.  I said to him then, and I repeat to you all now; “There are plenty of people who wouldn’t have given odds I’d live long enough to have gray hair, so I think I’ll keep it a while and wear it with pride”. 

I got no problem with being older than I once was.

But somehow, turning 55 has provided me with a new willingness; a willingness to face my failures, and to wrestle with them yet again, to dedicate time and energy, sweat and tears, hope and dreams once more to those things that have eluded me to this point.

And trust me it’s not that there aren’t plenty of new things to fail at.  The world may revolve at basically the same speed it has for all of my life, but my world is evolving ever faster.  Faced with what will most likely be the last 20 years of my life I can see plenty of complications rushing headlong at me.

But, there are those past failures lying in the road behind me; failures that, as I get older, seem to mean more to me, things that I willingly walked away from, out of embarrassment, or frustration, or lack of interest, things that make me less than I could be.

Now in truth, there is little I can do about some of them. 

Like relationships.  Most of those are perhaps best left as they are.  Like my first love.  We were together for years.  Everyone was certain we would marry.  She utterly destroyed me when she told me she didn’t love me anymore. 

She wanted to be friends. 

I didn’t know how. 

I am not sure I do now.  I couldn’t talk to her, or look at her, or think about her without grieving for the life that I had lost when she came to that decision.  Years later, I couldn’t talk with her, or look at her, without grieving.  I’m not sure I could now.  I’m not sure I even have a right to try.

So, maybe I need to start smaller, get some practice at recovering from my failures, before I tackle the big interpersonal stuff.  And perhaps in the practice, I will use up enough time and energy that I don’t go do something foolish.  All I know is that I am drawn ever more strongly to the things I failed at as a boy and young man.

There are other, less spectacular failures in my past, things that don’t have the potential to disrupt other’s lives, and so, things that I feel free to tackle.  Things like;

Writing. 

God, how I hated writing as a kid.  I always wrote my book reports the night before they were due.  Never mind that I had the book completely read the first day it was assigned.  The writing waited.  I hated it.

But as I have gotten older, I have learned that it wasn’t the writing that I hated.  I actually enjoy crafting words into ideas, and ideas into stories.  What I hated back then was the actual “putting words on paper” part. 

What I have come to realize is that in the day of pen and ink, the day of typewriters, in order to change a single word, you had to rewrite (retype) the entire paper.  Something that I was loath to do.

Now, at 55 I have written 60 odd short stories, close to 200 poems, and a couple dozen opinion pieces.  I’ve even been published in collected works a couple times.  And I write 3 internet blogs that have been read by several thousand people in dozens of countries around the world.

And I find it relaxing.

Drawing and painting

With full apologies to Mrs Y from seventh grade who I know gave it her best effort.  I have never been able to draw an apple, a tree, or a person that even remotely looked like anything other than a smudge on what had once been a perfectly useful piece of paper so full of potential.

But sometime back, I was drawn (forgive the pun) into understanding why I couldn’t reproduce what my eyes saw.  I gave it a great deal of thought, and I came to realize that there was a perspective problem that I had.  That when I look at objects, I see the light reflecting off of them and the colors.  But it is the dark that needs to be reproduced on paper.

So I started to train myself to see the dark, the black, and the dingy.  Once I understood that, the first drawing I attempted was a bust of a person.  And while some might argue that it bears only passing resemblance to the actual model used, none have any doubt that it is clearly an animate human that was captured on the page.    

I have recently picked up oils, and brushes, and pencils, and an easel at garage sales.  I have set myself a goal to make 100 sketches in the next 100 days, and am actually several straight days into that process.  At the end of my 100 sketches, I will set a goal on oils as well.  I have 35 boards that I picked up at a flea market, prepared for painting, 11 x 16, so I will do at least that many oils, whether any are fit to hang or not.

Music

I often have told the story that when I was a boy I tried to learn to play the cello for 6 months I struggled with music, and finger position, and holding the bow.  Then failing with the cello, I switched to the trumpet, and struggled with music, and finger position, and tightness of lips, and breath control.  And failing that, I switched to the violin, then tuba, then viola, and finally trombone. 

Finally, after assaulting the ears of countless music teachers and fellow students, it became apparent to me that it wasn’t the instruments’ fault.

But inside, all my life I have harbored a fantasy that I could make music, that I could learn to play, something.  I surrounded myself with friends who were musically inclined; string players, piano players, and singers.

And for some inexplicable reason, the one thing that has stayed with me all of my life has been the belief that “if only I had tried the banjo”.  Why the banjo?  I can’t for the life of me tell you, but there it is.

And even though the only way I can carry a tune is in my pocket on an MP3 player, and that I have no ear for time, tempo, and notes.  I recently bought a used banjo.  And as soon as I get through my sketches, and my oils, I am going to sit down, in a field far, far away from all unsuspecting humans, and I am going to assault the ears of the animals and insects.

Repeatedly.

Until I can at the very least play by rote some small selection of sounds that are pleasing to my ear, if no one else’s.

I have come to understand, that as time passes, my experiences, both good and bad, accumulate, and my skills and perspective change.  And those altered skills and perspectives oft times make just enough difference to allow me to accomplish what confounded me before. 

There is peace, and assurance to be gained in those accomplishments.

For in so doing, faith in the potential is renewed. 

The potential that lies in me, the potential that lies in you, the potential that lies in all mankind.

So, my message to you; “Reward yourself, go back to your previous failure(s), take your current skills, and challenge your life with new accomplishments”.

You will be infinitely richer for the effort.

© Copyright 2013, Marty Vandermolen, All Rights Reserved

"It"

There were two excellent adventures each year in scouting as I grew up.  Yeah, we camped and backpacked at least once a month, and we went waterskiing each fall, but the really great adventures were the annual 50-Mile Backpack Trip and of course, Summer Camp.

The Summer Camp that our troop used was a very well developed camp with large canvas tents on individual raised wooden decks.  Each tent was made of canvas, with side walls, tie back end flaps and 4 rope ties that were secured around the wooden railings on the side for the tent platform.  Included with each platform were two wooden and canvas cots.  The ropes and railings, combined with a front pole and rear pole held up the essentially A-framed tents

On arrival in our site, the boys were paired off and assigned a platform.  They had to lift the cot frames off of the canvas tent material pile, fit the two section poles together, erect their tent, set up their cots and move their packs into the tent and arrange some sort of organization.

Clean or dirty, fresh or mildewed, solid, patched, or torn, that tent and those cots were going to be home for a week.  And because the camp was in Oak hills country in Northern California, the weather was so warm that everyone kept the tent flaps tied back.

In Scouting at that time there was a long standing tradition called a tent war. 

Typically the tent war was set off about mid-way through the week. Usually Wednesday night, one or two troops would get up in the middle of the night and run around knocking everyone’s tents down.  From then on every night, roaming bands of boys would try to steal into another troop’s site and untie tent ropes, dropping tents on sleeping boys if they were there, or making work for those who were out leveling other tents elsewhere in the camp proper.

No one ever, I mean, ever, ran a tent war raid the staff hill area where the 20-something year old camp councilors had their tents.

One year, our troop decided to change all of that.

 

Now the first step in an ambitious new tradition is to think about the potential ramifications.  And it did not take too long to realize that we did not want to use our mixed group of 11 to 18 year olds to take on the much older camp counselors.  Not to mention we did not want to pay the price of having our merit badge councilors pissed at us personally.

 

So the first step in the plan that year was to pick another troop to be “It”.  Then to plan how to have “it” take all the blame.

We looked over all the troops at Saturday night’s opening campfire.  There were the ones that we had “fought” with in earlier years, one or two that smirked at our ragged, patched equipment, and one that had actually beat us the previous year in the end of week scout craft competition (an almost unforgivable act, not to mention a first).  But, finally we settled on the “goody-two-shoes” troop. 

Oh, don’t tell me you don’t know what I mean.  Everything from their matching scout socks to scout shorts were pressed, fresh, and wrinkle free.  Pretty patches, yep.  Spiffy hats and contrasting bandanas, yep, those too.  They were “that girl” in high-school every other girl was slightly jealous of and just couldn’t tolerate.  They were just too pretty to be camping.  And to top it all off, they had the campsite closest to Staff Hill. 

Once “it” had been selected, we wasted no time in moving on to the next several steps of the challenge;  Scoping out all of the possible pathways that led up to Staff Hill and how to get there and back in the dark without being seen or heard, Identifying which tents the adults used in each site (thankfully all adults slept in areas slightly removed from a boys, so we just had to identify specific areas and not individual tents), and to run a couple of dress rehearsals of the planned raid.

By Tuesday night, we were ready.

We got the entire troop up, except the adults of course, at 1:30 in the morning.

The first and most critical thing we did was to carefully slip the poles out from under our canvas tents and lay them under the platforms where we could find them easily.  In this way, anyone storming into our camp would see that we had been “victims” as well and yet we could easily set back up by just putting in two tent poles, no knots to tie or anything else.

Then we snuck off to the troop site that was farthest removed from Staff Hill.

There we proceeded to lay waste to each and every campsite moving rapidly closer and closer to Staff hill.  

Each tent had three boys assigned to it, one snuck up to each side and carefully untied all of the tent lines, holding the ends so the tent stayed up.  The third boy was busy untying the flaps so they would be a bigger obstacle in getting out from under the collapsed tent.  Then the third boy would run in the front, grab the front pole, and out the back grabbing that pole as well.  The tent would deflate like a parachute hitting the ground.  The boy with the poles would chuck them towards the nearest thicket of brush and onward to the next tent.

You might be amazed how long it takes boys to awaken in the middle of the night, overcome the initial fright of being eaten by some huge rough monster, and then fight their way out of a sleeping bag on top of a cot with canvas draped over it, then out from under a canvas tent and stand up barefoot, and mostly in just underwear.  Then, although they knew what the problem was, they had to fight their way back under the tent fabric, find pants, shirts, socks, and shoes.  Finally, back out to get dressed.

Plenty of time for our team to have leveled their entire campsite and the next one beyond.

To add insult to injury as it were, just about the time they would get organized, they would charge into another campsite of fired up kinds and have to talk the situation down before they could continue hunting for us.

Well, the long and short of it is, we hit and dropped every tent in camp that night with the exception of the adults.  Staff included.

And when everyone was out running around (boys, youth leaders, adult leaders, and staff) trying to catch who had started the tent war, they found us in our camp busy putting our tents back up, loudly complaining about being awakened in the middle of the night. 

They also found “It” blissfully sleeping in their fully erect tents.

Wednesday and Thursday nights were pretty rough on “It” I suppose.  They had their tents dropped several times a night.  Must have been a traffic cop somewhere with a “pick a number” machine controlling the trail into their campsite.

By Friday night “IT” had decided to sleep under the stars.

And come to think of it, we sleep the sleep of the righteous all week.  Never actually had our tents dropped even once that trip.

Copyright © 2015 - Marty Vandermolen - All Rights Reserved

Kids Don’t Try this at Home

Looking back on some of the stories I have committed to paper, I feel like I need to offer up a warning or two.

In part because those most likely to read these stories are the future generations of Vandermolens, and failing to offer a warning could significantly reduce the likelihood of Vandermolen’s roaming the planet in a couple of generations.  Heck, I could conceivably even be hauled to Hague, Netherlands on genocide charges.

Also because I have watched the so called evolution of what passes for civilization, and I realize that failing to provide a warning is leaving me wide open for a lawsuit, especially a class-action lawsuit.  And let’s be honest, given the content of some of these stories, the courts are going to side with the Plaintiffs strictly in order to cover up the courts’ earlier incompetence.

And finally, because while to the greatest degree the statute of limitations has lapsed on these stories, the acceptance of society has run out as well, and many of these if re-enacted today would land a person in jail.  

So, without further ado, the disclaimer:

Kids, don’t try any of these at home.  Or at school, church, or inside any man-made structure.  Don’t consider attempting any of these in a park (city, county, state, or federal), or anywhere outdoors for that matter.  But especially not on the roadways, highways, and byways of this great land, or any other great land.  Heck, not even any not so great lands, although if the land really sucks…., nope, nope, sorry, drifting there, forget that last thought.  And whatever you do, never, ever, try any of this sideways.

None of these things were ever tried by professionals (mostly because professionals are far too smart for any of this stupidity) and the enthusiastic amateurs who accomplished these feats, often did so at the expense of hair, hearing, blood, bumps, bruises, blisters, broken bones, damaged joints, poked eyes, lost toe and finger nails, and various other physical injuries and ailments.  As well as punishment from parents, aunts, uncles, neighbors, unassociated adults in the community, teachers, youth group leaders, ministers, police, rowdy drunks, pissed of gangsters, and various and assorted ne’er-do-wells in general. 

And while those punishments and wounds often lend a touch of humor in the re-telling, it never, ever, lent any humor in the doing.  Well, not for the doer anyway (an exception must be made for the observers who often found the process side-splittingly hilarious).

Many of these tales, simplified for the expedient recording for posterity, tend to downplay the sheer lunacy of the initial idea, the abject ignorance of the laws of physics, of nature, and of animal and human psychology involved.  Not to mention the potential for truly significant long term damage.  To animate and inanimate alike. 

Finally, no named or unnamed individual is to be held responsible for the purported deeds herein related.  The parents, grandparents, relatives, neighbors, and others are neither to blame nor responsible for failing with their truly ceaseless efforts to keep us three from killing ourselves or visiting destruction on the world around us.

You have been warned, no matter how good an idea seems now in the retelling, no matter how fun and or funny, no matter how much you would like to see your sibling writhing in pain or punished with excommunication from the civilized world, don’t try any of these yourselves.

 

© Copyright 2015, Marty Vandermolen, all Rights Reserved

 

My First 50-Miler – Part V - Getting it done

The joys of watching a brother hobble forward without aggravating sun sensitized skin only lasted most of the first day back on the trail.  Truth be told, I expect he was getting just as much pleasure watching me struggle along as I was watching him.

Altitude sickness had really kicked me in the ass early in the trip and I was still struggling with it on a daily basis.  I had oatmeal twice a day; going down and coming back up.  And to this day, while I will eat the stuff for breakfast while hunting and backpacking trips (only), as far as I am concerned oatmeal should only show up with raisins and nuts in cookie form, and never in a cup or bowl as breakfast.

All in all the worst memory of that first 50 was the altitude sickness.  I lost all of every breakfast, all of most dinners, and some part of every lunch.  Keeping up the strength to hump hills and carry a pack was damn unpleasant.  Barry helped in pulling weight off me as the other healthier boys used up meals from their packs, but one foot in front of the other never came easy that trip.

I had been to the Doctor’s office the Wednesday before the trip began for a full physical that was required for Scout summer camp scheduled for later that month.  And when I got home from the 50 Mom drug me back to the same Doctor to see why I had been sick all week.

The same nurse put me on the same height and weight scale.  And while I wouldn’t recommend duplicating my week, it was an effective weight loss plan.

Turns out I had grown 2 inches and dropped 35 pounds that week.  The Doc said the sickness was to be expected with the sudden growth spurt.

A couple of days out of Garner Basin I experienced my first high country thunderstorm.  Now, most of California has pretty drab lightning storms.  Mostly dull gray clouds and sheets of lightening that brighten a large expanse of sky, but show few individualized lightning bolts striking the ground.

Well, let me tell you, if you are above 10,000 feet, it can be a vastly different experience.

We were humping across a high treeless expanse when suddenly a storm blew up; actually blossomed right in front of our eyes.  One moment the sky was clear and blue, the next moment dark grey-black clouds were actually coalescing right in front of our eyes.

The sound of boys joking and hassling each other was instantly over-ridden by a hissing buzz.

The hair on our arms and back of our necks stood on end.

Everyone came to the same instant realization: Not only were we the tallest things around, but we were all wearing aluminum backpack frame/antennas strapped tightly to our backs, and most of us wore ours high, with the top of the frame about a foot over our head.  It didn’t take much thought to realize that if a lightning rod’s job was to attract the lightning to the rod and channel it down to the ground through the attached wire to keep the house from being damaged, we had a problem.  The only conductor on us was going to be our wet clothes and boots.

There was an instant war going on within me; my body screamed “Run”, but my Brain refused and said, “Drop, now, get rid of the pack”.

I am not sure which I would have ultimately chosen had I been alone, thankfully Mr. Green commanded everyone’s attention and made the decision for us.  He was in a position to see a high step rock ledge just off to one side and he hustled us all over to it.  We dumped out of our packs, grabbed our ponchos and moved several feet away from the packs and right up against the granite rock shelf.  There we hunkered in to wait out the storm.

What a half hour that was.

Lightning bolts laced between rock and cloud.  Rain fell like a wave breaking its curl.  Ear rupturing rents in the air pounded our senses, timed exactly to the strobe flashes of light.  The air smelled of fire and acrid ozone.  Hail piled up to cover the ground.

It was sudden, it was awesome, and thankfully it was brief.

That first 50-miler was filled with new experiences that helped me to grow and change, and there are not enough pages nor time to recount them all.  But, all in all, from trucks and gas pumps, to make believe bears and water slides, swimming, sunning, and hail, it was a grand adventure.  One of the best summer weeks of my life.

I have been on near countless other 50-milers over the years.  Some as a mere hiker (such as this) some as a youth leader, or route planner, or adult responsible for the lives and health of the team, and while each and every one has been memorable in its own way, none of them packed as many intensely memorable events as that first 50-miler. 

I wore that commemorative patch with pride for years.  And while I have long since given up the cloth symbol of that trip, I wear the experiences to this day.

 

 

© Copyright 2015, Marty Vandermolen, All Rights Reserved

Baby Birds

I’m the baby of the family. 

I used to take exception to that statement.  Heck, what 5, 10, or 15 year old wants to be called a baby.  At 5 and 10 it was not only gray haired aunts and uncles who called me that, my brothers did too. 

By 15, it wasn’t my brothers any longer.  Barry has introduced me as his big little brother for several decades now, and at well over 6 foot and tipping the scales at 275 pounds, it clearly has been the case.  But, like it or not, my later growth aside, I was born dead last.

 

Last born is a tough place to start in the natural world.

Were you aware that Snowy egret hatchlings often use their beaks to stab their younger siblings and then through them out of the nest?  Or Sand Tiger Shark embryos actually eat other sibling embryos while still inside the womb?  And Hyena cubs, heck, they even dig small narrow tunnels to drag each other down and fight in so the mother can’t stop them from killing the smaller, weaker ones off.

Given that “natural” perspective, my childhood was pretty standard, I guess.

 

When I was still crib bound, Jeff and Barry snuck some donuts into the room and stuffed my mouth full.  Only Mom’s timely checking and intervention kept me from choking to death on a donut.  And while they claimed it was all about how much they loved me and wanted me to have a special treat, subsequent events tend to lend what may be a more sinister light to the situation.

Later on in life I finally overcame my extreme phobia of donuts while working at the Livermore Bakery.  Bless those generous souls for their gentle steadfast supportive role in helping me to gain closure. 

 

Also before I could walk my mother found me stiff as a board and unresponsive in my crib.  My parents rushed me off to the hospital which ultimately included a stint in the Oakland Children’s Hospital.  There I languished for some time, fed intravenously until I miraculously recovered.  The doctors never could tell my parents what had caused the problem.  It might be interesting to note that my brothers were nowhere in attendance when I finally recovered.

And while I wouldn’t deign to claim they tried to kill me, again, that time, I would note that forensic science was barely in its infancy back then and fingerprint analysis, epithelial cell analysis, and advanced toxics detection was simply not very good.  Just saying.    

 

Of course, if I got started telling stories of all the times Barry and Jeff pushed me into trying some dangerous stunt first, we would be here all day.  Yep, the old “Let’s get Marty to…” was pretty common place when it came to jumping from bridges, lighting homemade cannons, and sneaking into yards that might be protected by large ferocious fanged animals. 

 

So, for me, it was “Grow Big or Die”. 

Self Defense as it were. 

And while it was never certain that I wouldn’t succumb to the fate of those poor pin-feathered egrets, instinct drove me onward.

Now if I could just figure out how to stop it.

 

© Copyright 2015, Marty Vandermolen, All Rights Reserved

My First 50-Miler - Part IV – Garner Basin for “Dummies”

Finally exiting the avalanche shoot after coming down off of Garner pass along the upper end of Garner Basin, it was obvious that we had to work our way around the lake to the far end before we were going to find a good camping location.

Most high mountain lakes are buried deep up into a rugged valley.  Rocks, sliding and fracturing off of the cliff faces, fall and jumble in the bottom of the narrow valley.  Time and weather, and brush growth and leaves are pushed down the valley by springtime melts and summer thunderstorms, finally creating a dam usually fairly close to the mouth of the valley where it has branched off of a larger wider valley.

That dam slows the flow of each successive year’s run off, building higher and higher ramparts, causing the creation of a lake.  The rampart area each year gets thicker and thicker, and ultimately creates a broad relatively level outflow area where trees and brush take root and grow.  But the upper end of the lake and the sides remain right up against the base of the cliffs that form the valley. 

As we worked our way around the western side of the lake, the first thing that caught our eye was the 20 foot high “BSA Troop XXX” spray painted on the face of the eastern cliffs (I will not cite the number for tarring the good generations of that troop that had nothing to do with this stupidity).  And while the effort to climb the cliff face, not to mention the additional carry load of all the spray paint cans was impressive, I had to wonder about the wisdom of spray painting a granite cliff face in a protected National Park.

On finally working our way to the outfall creek and camping area, we found that the same dummies had cleaned dozens of fish in the creek at the campground.  Literally; in the creek, leaving rotting gills and guts and heads covering the bottom rocks of the creek and fouling the water source for those downstream and unaware of the extensive level of decaying flesh in the water source. 

And to cap it all, they had chopped up a number of small trees and left their empty paint cans cluttered around to boot.

Intentionally defacing a cliff, fouling a water source, hacking up trees, and leaving the place littered with cans; not only is it morally wrong, but is against the tenets of your organization, and you have gone out of your way to sign your work to make sure you get credit for it all?

Now, you have to be a special kind of idiot to do all that.  Kinda like the imbecile I would later run across who tried to use his report card to fake out a dollar bill changer, but that is a story for another time.

Much to our dismay, the adults had us all do the right thing.  We spent the next several hours digging holes, sifting fish offal out of the stream, crushing and bagging spray cans, and doing our best to return the area to useable condition for the next groups to come through.  That effectively used up all of the swimming time we boys had planned, but, since the following day was to be a “Lay-over” day where we would not be hiking but staying at the same camp, there was not a complete revolt.

The following morning, after breakfast, camp chores and washing out dirty clothes, we boys played cards and built wooden boat models while we waited for the day to warm up enough to go swimming.

You see, lake water at 10,000 feet is cold.  Really, really cold.  I have swum in lakes that had the lower ends of glaciers dipped into them.  And lakes that had ice floating around in lazy circles.  I have literally come out of the water after a brief swim with my skin tinted blue, and my teeth chattering. 

So, swimming at altitude was always more about the jump and the splash than it was about the laps.

Once the day had warmed up, we all grabbed our cut-offs and a tee shirt to use as a towel and headed back around the lake up the trail towards the pass to a spot we had seen the day before on the way down lake.

There we had seen a solid topped rock face that was maybe 35 feet above the water with two or three different height levels closer down.  And when we had walked by, we had dropped several large rocks and from the deep “kerump” sound they made hitting the surface, and the clear water and being able to count the seconds as the rock faded down to rest on the bottom, we knew it was deep enough to jump.

We spent a great deal of time joking with each other, wrestling, and jumping in to swim rapidly back to shore, climb up and do it all over.  After some time, we were all pretty winded and we settled in to “sun-dry”.  When you are carrying everything you have on your back, the weight of any single item becomes very important.  And as much as we used big towels at home swimming in the rock quarries and beaches, those towels were far too heavy to carry out backpacking.  So you used a tee shirt as a towel, or better yet, just splashed some water on a stretch of granite to wash off the dirt and then lay out in the sun and let he sun dry you and warm you at the same time.

The thing to know about that is, just like there is less oxygen in each breath, there is less “stuff” between you and the sun at 10,000 feet than there is down here in the low lands.  And with less stuff blocking the sun, you could burn skin really fast and real easy.  Especially skin that seldom was exposed to sun.

Now, being boys, in the prime of our teens and being out in the wilderness, we often just stripped down naked to go swimming.  And as long as you held your hands strategically, the sudden deceleration of various body parts was not a problem when you hit the water.

Well, we all climbed out, naked and blue, and chattering to lie in the sun.  Water dries fast up there and before long one of the older boys says we had all better put something on so we don’t get burnt.

One of the Vandermolens decides that nope, he is going to keep at it and get himself an “all-over” tan.  So he lays there tender parts and all exposed to the “gentle tanning rays” of the sun for what in truth was probably not more than 30 minutes.  Course, several of the guys kept telling him that he was going to get fried, but heck, it was his body and he didn’t feel anything, so he just kept on soaking in those wonderful rays. 

Turns out he probably should have covered up a good 25 minutes before he did.

And while I won’t directly say which one of us it was, I will admit to finding it extraordinarily funny watching him try to waddle down the trail, wincing with every step, with both hands holding the front of his jeans pulled forward on either side of the zipper all that next day.  Seemed like the slightest pressure or chafing was excruciating from where I stood.

Did I have any compassion?

Hell no.

I was his younger brother.

© Copyright 2015, Marty Vandermolen, All Rights Reserved

My First 50-Miler Part III – A Rocky Wilderness

The first day on the trail was pretty unremarkable; or at least pretty unmemorable. 

Perhaps it is because we four were trying to “lie low” and earn the adults forgetfulness.  Perhaps it is because the first day of a long hike is so taxing on a body that is not completely used to the altitude and the physical stress. 

I do remember getting in the swing of the hike.  Trudging along, focusing on moving one foot forward at a time.  Adjusting pack straps and equipment.  Dipping a cupful of water each time we crossed a creek.  I had been hiking with my brothers and father for a few years already by this time, so it wasn’t completely unfamiliar to me and I morphed into the routine pretty readily.

The second day found us deep in a rugged canyon, paralleling Bubb’s Creek.  Beautiful green bushes, with a high flowing creek running the last of the snow melt out of the high up country downward towards the hundreds of square miles of farmland that give the Central Valley of California the reputation of one of the world’s great agricultural resources.

White granite rock in boulders and slabs jumbled and piled along the base of cliffs and along the creek bed.  Stout pine trees and heavy low brush piled along the path and up in to the fallen slabs of rock fronting the cliff faces.  Chipmunks and Marmots scurried about under the edges of the brush seeking out berries and left over pine nuts.  Jays and sparrows flashed through the sunlight shafts, with now and then a hummingbird hovering inquisitively next to a brightly colored backpack or patch.    

Still deep in the valley, next to Bubb’s creek, there was a wide spot that we hit in early afternoon.  And while it was not the originally planned time to end the day’s hiking, since we had started on the trail just about full dawn, it was the spot that we had planned to spend the night.

We boys gladly fell out of line and set up our shelters and campsites.

Bubb’s creek flowed over a long solid stretch of granite right next to the campsite area.  The creek was about 20 feet wide and no more than 4” deep along that stretch.  Moving very fast across the water polished granite, it ran for a couple hundred yards at a fairly steep angle.  A nature made waterslide that ended in a deep pool.

The sun was still shining and high enough that we would have sun for several more hours, so, once camp was set, we all changed into our cut-off jeans and grabbed our sleeping pads to head for the creek.   What a wonderful way to spend an afternoon.  Insulite pads in hand we scrambled to the top of the slide area, waded out to mid-stream, and flopped down on our pads to shoot down the creek at what felt like a million miles an hour.

Branches and leaves flailing past in a blur, rocks on the side of the creek bed seeming to streak towards you, only to “veer” out of the way and miss you at the last second.  Time after time, as fast as we could get from bottom to top; laughing and joking, the quintessencial summertime experience for a boy.

The next morning found us on the trail early once more.  Just a short distance up Bubb’s creek we left that main trail and began a climb that would take all morning.  I don’t rightly know how high that pass was, but it was the pass that lead to Garner Basin. 

Uphill with a pack on your back, often in the full sun of an alpine mountain is a hot tiring way to get anywhere. 

Worse still was that beginning the night before I had been experiencing altitude sickness.  I threw up dinner, and again breakfast.  I was running on empty.  A condition I was to come to know very well on this first 50-miler.  But on this day, headed up hill, I was at the end.   Near the top, likely a half mile or so from the pass itself, I hit my personal wall.  Not in fact, but in emotional, psychological truth.  I had climbed all I could climb.

I will never forget Barry stopping and tying my backpack to his.  Nor watching him struggle the combined two packs into the air and onto his back.  Nor his solid one foot at a time completion of the climb while I rather shame-faced followed.  In later years, I myself would lose count of the times I strapped a second pack onto my own and carried it up a hill, having done so for boys and other adults as well.

But on that day, I forgave Barry for all the incurred taunting and harassment he had shown me over the years of growing up.  On that day, I worshipped the ground he walked on.    

We ate lunch on the top of Garner Pass.  Mountains and valleys spread before us as far as the eye could see.  Uncounted acres of barren and rugged granite, gleaming white in the noon-day sun.  Near and far were the emerald and sapphire blue of high mountain lakes and streams.  No tree grew up that high.  Barely any brush.  And yet, even here we found a number of fat, furry Marmots.  Sneaking and creeping through the rocks and trying to get close enough to a backpack to rob it of some treasured food. 

It was difficult to believe that those fuzzy critters could find and steal enough food to not only live on, but store up enough to last the snow bound winters.  But I have meet many on rock strewn passes as high as 12,000 feet in my life.  So hard to believe or not, I have to accept that it is true.

On the summit, right next to the “trail” that led down into Garner basin we found a set of Mule pack boards with the name “Bob” stenciled on them.  The pack boards looked as if they had been there a long time.  I remember us boys arguing about how and why a packer would leave a set of pack boards behind while we munched on our beef jerky, peanuts, and dried fruit.

Lunch over, and Garner Lake just below us, calling our names for a long afternoon swim, we boosted our packs off the ground and started down the trail.

Trail would be an overstatement to most civilized people, but I have been on worse now and again since then.  While in truthful disclosure I have to admit not often.

This trail was really a sting of marginally connected flat spots in the middle of what was obviously and active avalanche shoot.  Probably even an active rock slide zone.  There were places that if it wasn’t for a hand hold or two, you could be sure of falling.  And other spots where we all but slide 6 or 7 feet down smooth slabs.

About half way down we found the answer to why the pack boards were left on top of the pass. 

Apparently, during a rest break, Bob had stepped off of the edge up above because wedged deep in a crevasse we found a Mule skull.  Clean and bleached white.  We thought it only fitting, both because of the pack boards up on top of the pass and the dangers of descending the trail, that we dig Bob’s skull out and we mount it right next to the trail for all to see. 

At least until the next avalanche.

© Copyright 2015, Marty Vandermolen, All Rights Reserved

My First “50-miler” – Part II –Barely Bears

All in all we rolled into the campsites that we would be using for the night about 1:30 in the afternoon.

Under direction of the older boys, we all set about removing gear from the two pickups, setting up our separate patrol sites and reluctantly settled down to play cards and read the afternoon away. 

First day on a trip like this is always the hardest on a boy.  No boy who likes to hike, camp, swim and fish wants to sit quietly in a campground among giant trees while birds, squirrels and chipmunks run hither and yon.  Nature is calling.  Every cell and fiber within the boy is answering; boys want to run and play, run, wrestle, and challenge themselves.

But starting the morning at 350 feet above sea level, and being at over 7,000 by shortly after lunch throws a real stress on a body.  Heck, each breath has 1/3^rd less oxygen.  And to a running, playing wrestling body that actually needs more, that is a crisis.

The crisis manifests itself as “altitude sickness” which is really simply, oxygen deprivation.  Head ache, nausea, and tiredness, and other physical symptoms are the common result.

The wonderful thing about this is that (within altitude limits) the body typically has an astounding ability to adapt.  Deeper indrawn breath, squeeze the spleen reservoir and get more blood into the system, create some additional hemoglobin, and presto, you can be up and running in no time. 

Most people adapt in a matter of hours.

After “wasting” out afternoon and preparing diner, the adults decided that all us boys needed to go and listen to the Ranger presentation at the campground’s campfire.  Boring stuff we boys thought.  Heck, sounded just like school.

And after-all, a week-long 50 mile backpack trip in the wild mountains has no business sounding like school.

So we boys tried and tried to get out of it, but to no avail.

As it turned out, the adults probably wished they had listened to our objections and left us back in camp.

Darkness fell and dinner was over, we boys glumly shuffled over to the campfire bowl with the adults.  Foolish songs and boring jokes were the mainstay of the program until one of the rangers got up and started talking about bears.

Finally, something we boys found interesting.

The ranger talked about how big, how many, what they ate, what they shouldn’t eat, how they shouldn’t be fed and about their raiding camp at night and rummaging through the garbage cans.  He went on to tell the campers that it was best to stay inside tents, campers, or vans if they saw one at night.  To make sure their dogs were quiet and didn’t provoke a bear, and to never confront one themselves.  That ranger closed out the campfire reminding everyone to have a great time at the park and to remember to keep their food out of sight.

Now that part of the campfire program inspired some interesting possibilities.

There were a couple hushed conversations held in the troop ranks as the adults herded us back to camp and then sent us all to bed.  Being intelligent (as opposed to smart) men, they also immediately tucked into their tents and sleeping bags as they understood the rigors their middle aged bodies going to be stressed by beginning in the morning.

Not so us boys.

After waiting an interminable 10 minutes or so, 4 of us got up; Tim Moxon who was Barry’s age, Barry, Jeff, and I.  We slipped out of camp and headed for the campfire bowl.  Once there Jeff and I slipped into heavy dark ponchos and climbed onto Barry and Tim’s shoulders respectively.  The ponchos effectively merged our body outline into the outline of the boy carrying us.

With the dark night, and from a distance all anyone would see was two large upright figures that were about 8 feet tall lumbering through the camp.

Barry and Tim set off, a bit wobbly due to the lowered oxygen and increased weight they were carrying.  But the staggering improved the over-all effect.  As soon as we got back to the main camp road, Barry and Tim started growling and kicking garbage cans and making all kinds of racquet.

Joy ensued.

Okay, more like panic on the part of the campers.  

Lanterns were unceremoniously quenched.

Fires were left burning, marsh mellows were thrown far and wide.

People scattered, chairs were knocked over, food and garbage was left on tables.

Small children and little dogs were grabbed by the scruff of the neck and yanked into camper vans, pickup shells, and trailers.

Mothers shushed kids at volumes that could be heard the next campground over, fathers abjectly apologized for being too cheap to buy that new camper.  I have often thought that we boys were probably due some commission from RV dealers around California that fall.

And the troop adults?  While they may not have been a smart enough to foresee what we had in mind, they weren’t stupid by any stretch.  Hearing the clamor and row going on all over camp, they came on the run.  They knew darn well that they were “responsible” for the two bears that were so obviously terrorizing camp.  

Corralled, skinned, and reamed, the four of us slunk back to camp to sit under guard until the wee hours of the morning when the adults drug the entire troop out of the sack, made us all pack up without breakfast, and steal out of camp before dawn broke.

And wow, were the rest of the boys pissed at us.  

Not because they had to get up early; and not because they missed breakfast, but because we didn’t wake them up and take them along on the “Great Garbage Can Raid”.

 

Copyright ©2015 Marty Vandermolen, All Rights Reserved

My First "50-Miler" - Part I - Are We There Yet?

My brother’s and I were active members of one of Livermore’s Boy Scout troops.

For those of you who have little to no experience with Boy Scouts, it might be useful to know that it is in essence an organization of young “criminals-to-be” that the stalwart men within the community attempt to outwit (a conundrum in itself as it assumes the boys have any wits in the first place) and keep so busy that the boys never really accomplish anything criminal, regardless of general inclination.

One has to marvel at the men’s continued confidence in their own abilities, especially in light of over-whelming evidence (at least back then) that every boy was naturally drawn to the “dark side”.  

Certainly, the idea of a Luke Skywalker living among us was beyond our imagination before George “Goodie” Lucas came on the scene.

Being the youngest of the brother’s I’d had to wait ever so impatiently for my chance to join the gang on my first 50 mile long backpack trip.  That trip was into Kings Canyon National Park, out of the valley, up along Bubb’s Creek, through Garner basin, and around and out.  And while I have hiked many beautiful and inspiring “50-milers” since, that one, that one and the memories it calls up remains on top of my “Hikes” list.

The planning was done, the food was bought.  We young boys had humped around town, up creek and down dale trailing the older boys getting into “condition”.  Packs had been filled to the seams, weighted, loads reshuffled, and lists checked.  

That first morning of the trip dawned bright and clear.  All the boys gathered at the First Presbyterian Church in town and dumped everything out of their packs, emptied pack pockets and pants pockets, and placed everything that they would own for the next week plus neatly out on the ground to be checked and double checked, first by the patrol leader, then by one of the senior boys.  A system, tried and true to assure that no one was able to forget anything of importance.

Packs carefully reloaded, patrol by patrol loaded our gear into the cars and trucks that were to carry us from Livermore up into the Sierra Nevada Mountains.

Once the gear was loaded, we boys were parceled up and assigned specific cars and seats for the trip.

I was lucky enough to be assigned to Scoutmaster Lasher’s pickup truck.

Now, for most boys, that may not have seemed much like an honor.  Pickup trucks back then even ones that weren’t already 20 years old, were not the luxury yachts that they are today.  And Mr. Lasher’s, well, you could say it was past its prime.  Worn red paint, gaps in the floor that you could see the road through, drafty, noisy, with over-stuffed bouncy front bench seat.  

Pure heaven for a guy like me; after-all, just about that time I had bought my first car, a 1935 Ford Pickup that came home in pieces.  In fact, more pieces than it needed, but that is a different tale.  

I can’t say I remember a lot about the 240 miles and 5 hours of sun baked travel from Livermore to Kings Canyon.  At least not until we were rolling up the last of the uphill grades on the way into the park and Mr. Lasher said: “Uh Oh, almost out of gas”.  

For those of you who have lived all your lives in relatively conquered terrain, a word or two about the Sierra’s around the area of the park.  Those mountains are high, and steep, and rough.  During the nice comfortable days of summer, you have to drive 85 miles north, or 115 miles south of the park entrance just to find a place tame enough that man could build a road across those mountains.  

And we were about to run out of gas.

I learned a good lesson about not worrying about what you can’t change that day.  In a cracking voice I asked Mr. Lasher what we were going to do.  To which he responded; “Well, assuming we can top this rise right in front of us, we’ll just coast downhill into the campground and worry about gas next weekend when the trip is over”.

And we topped that rise.

And we ran out of gas.

And we coasted downhill.

About half way down, on the right shoulder of the road, squeezed up tight against a granite wall that must have gone straight up about 500 feet, there was an old two-pump  gas station.  One with very old and very tall gas pumps.  Getting out of the truck, Mr Lasher looked at me and said; “You pump”.

And that is what I did.  You see, those old pumps were literally just that.  On the upright pump body, hinged at ground level was a long handle with a rubber grip.  You grabbed that thing and pulled it out towards you, and pushed it back in, over and over, and while you were doing that you were manually pulling gasoline out of the tank in the ground and filling a tall clear glass jar that was the top of the pump.  The side of the jar was marked in ½ gallon markings.  From 0 up to 15 gallons.   

The gas in the jar “gurgles” as you pull the handle out, and gushes upward as you push the handle in.  Sunlight fractures and sparkles, and makes wavy undulations and rainbows on the ground.  

I’d like to pump a tankful of gas like that again someday.  A wonder it was, sure enough.

Once I had pumped the gas level up to 12 gallons, Mr. Lasher told me to stop, and I watched as he inserted the gas nozzles into his truck tank and pulled the grip handle.  Down dropped the slightly redish, honey hued liquid level.  The falling gasoline quickly set up the first whirlpool effect I think I had ever seen outside of grungy bathwater slurping down the drain after a much hated bath.

The rest of the cars had headed on down into the campground to begin setting up, so Mr Lasher and I jumped back in his truck and we coasted the rest of the way down to the valley floor before he started the engine and we set off in search of the rest of the troop and our campsite for the night.

 

© Copyright 2015 Marty Vandermolen, all rights reserved.  

I used to like my chili hot.

I have always enjoyed the flavors and spices of a good slow cooked Chili.  Beans and meat, tomatoes and spices; pair that up with some warm cornbread, a touch of molasses to soak into the bread, and a glass of cold milk...that is as good as eatin’ gets as far as I am concerned.  Always has been, hope it always will be.

When mom made chili for a meal back at home, she served it up in large bowls, and right in front of my place she always placed a big can of Shilling’s Chili Powder.  Chili, garlic, salt, and a mess of other things I expect.  Cause Mom knew I liked my chili hot, way too hot for the rest of the family.  In fact I would stir more added seasoning into my bowl than mom had used in the whole pot.

Best chili I ever had? Easy, some venison meat chili made by Mrs Luce, friends of my parents.  Back when I was maybe 9 or 10.

Hottest chili I ever had? Also easy; I started cooking at a young age, and by the time I had moved out on my own I was full on experimenting with my foods.  Didn’t follow any recipes then, just made it up as I went and added to it a little at a time.  

Chili was one of the first things I worked up. 

Over a number of months I perfected my own chili recipe.  Rich and flavorful, used Italian sausage and ground beef for the meat, tomato base simmered way down.  Fresh garlic, black pepper, salt, a bit of fresh oregano, and 35 hand chopped dried Birds Eye Chili pods.

The heat didn’t hit you immediately, lots of spicy flavor, but not caustic, until a bit after you swallowed.  Then the heat kicked in and had you looking for a cool drink.  Never had a problem with my stomach, no heartburn, acid reflux, whatever.  Just a solid warming food.

My wife convinced me to write the recipe down one time so she could take it to work and share it.  None of her co-workers were willing to make it for fear of melting down their pots.

Yep, I was pretty happy with that recipe. 

Then one day when eating lunch at a Chinese restaurant, I came to know Birds Eye chili better than ever. 

I had ordered a nice spicy Szechuan dish.  My plate came to the table, aromatic, hot, and tasty.  Arrayed across the top of the meat and vegetables were 6 Bird’s Eye dried chili pods.  Looking close I could see a number of diced bits of chili pod mixed throughout the dish as well.  The ones on top were there mostly for decoration.  Oh, and maybe for the more cast iron among us to take one at a time for a bite with just a little extra blaze.

Although I didn’t know this then, dried Bird’s Eye Chili line up right around 325,000 Scovile units each.  That means that each one of those 6 dried chili on the top was equal to about 130 Jalapeno for those of you who also need a bit of reference.

As was my habit, then and now, I had a book with me to read while chowing down.  I’ve lived all my life with too many interests and too little time.  So reading while I ate lunch became an early habit for me.

I thought I was carefully filling each forkful, moving those dried chili off to the side as the rest of the seasoning was actually pretty dead on and good.  I was working up a nice light sweat.  You know, the kind that makes your forehead feel just a touch cool.

Long about the end of the plate, fully engrossed in what I was reading, I messed up on that carefully filling the fork part.  Chomped down and felt a change in texture.  Looked away from the book and to the plate and noticed that only 2 of the chili remained.

Now, having cooked with those things, I knew they ran pretty hot.  But being young and prideful, I figured it wouldn’t be anything I couldn’t handle.  In a way I was right.

But trust me on this, I don’t ever want to “handle” that again.

So, instead of spitting them out onto the fork, I just chewed away.  And truth be told, that chewing helped to reinforce my foolish belief that this was not going to be too bad.  I mean, hey, if you can chew it and it doesn’t burn…it must be okay to swallow, right?

Wrong!!!

Literally less than a quarter of a second after I swallowed I realized I had made a very, very serious mistake.

Back to that Jalapeno reference; I had in essence chewed up and eaten 520 jalapeno peppers.  All in a single swallow.

Now, it really didn’t burn, or at least, I didn’t feel that.

Could be because my heart rate had immediately gone sky high; 200 beats a minute if not more.  Full on, “ran the marathon and was chased across the finish line by a large pack of cheetahs that couldn’t quite keep up” mode; Bruising the inside of my rib cage level of hammering.  I wondered if my heart was going to explode.  No, really, I don’t mean that figuratively, I really thought it was going to explode.

And that in itself would not have been a problem if it wasn’t for the gallons of sweat that were literally sheeting off of my forehead and running into my eyes, dripping off of my nose.  Right at the table, in the middle of lunchtime, at the height of the noontime crowd.

Now, you would think that all that salt sweat in the eyes would have hurt.  And maybe it did.  But at that moment I was too busy trying not to gag and throw up.  No use messing up everyone else’s nice lunch just because I had screwed up mine.  Figured I had better get to the bathroom and started to stand up.

Just about one second after swallowing and right as I was standing up, my vision faded out.  Kinda like at the end of the Bugs Bunny cartoon, you know, when everything is rapidly narrowed within a field of black coming from the outside edges and narrowing to a tighter and tighter circle until the entire view just slams shut.  Never have I experienced anything like it.  Found out after the fact that when your blood pressure goes through the roof, not only does it pop the mercury out of the sphygmomanometer, the excessive pressure squeezes the optic nerve until it can’t transmit “pictures” to your brain any longer.

Blind, sweating, gagging, I felt my way to the men’s room (thankfully a small restaurant that I frequented regularly.

There, I ran water and splashed it on my face, hung on death-gripped to the sink, focused tirelessly on not spewing all over the bathroom, and wishing fervently to be able to see again someday in the distant future.

All in all my vision was blacked out for several minutes, my heart ran the equivalent of three “Iron-mans”, and my stomach muscles were exhausted before the effects of that forkful began to subside.

And while you might think being blind, bruised inside, and sore were the worst of it, it wasn’t.  And no, it’s not what you are thinking.  That wasn’t an issue at all.

Nope, worst of it is, I can barely tolerate “medium” salsa these days, and that great chili recipe that I created?

Haven’t even considered making it since.

©2015 Marty Vandermolen, All Rights Reserved