Memoirs of a Young Wanderer — Part Two

Trip 4 (Continued)

New Trip: Creede, The Sawmill

It took us a half day to unbolt the differential on my car, pull it out, and bolt in the new “used” one.

By early afternoon we were on the road again — heading into the big “D” (Dallas) where we were destined to encounter the huge rats mentioned above. After our evening meal we decided to drive into the night.

We cruised out of Dallas, Fort Worth, and on to Abilene. Finally, we got around to discussing work. So far we had just been wrapped up in the pleasure of travel through new territory and had failed to consider the fact that we had to do something to replenish the coffers. It was about this time that one of the guys mentioned that he knew a lumberman who was “cutting” (running a sawmill) in the mountains above Creede, Colorado. It was his suggestion that we turn north and go see him. It was his opinion that we could find work, a place to stay, good food, and thus replenish our funds. So we turned north and headed for Amarillo and the Texas Panhandle. Then we continued across the northeast section of New Mexico into Colorado. About Walsenberg we turned west and drove along the continental divide through Alamosa, Monte Vista, and Wagon Wheel.

Next Stop: Creede!!! — Clash

As we drew nearer to the town of Creede, the road changed from a blacktop to a dusty dirt road that sent huge pillars of dust soaring into the air as traffic churned along the road at dirt-road speeds. The source of the dust that was filling our car and choking us was an empty lumber truck trying to set a speed record. I had to get around him. So I put the peddle to the metal and at the first wide spot swung out to pass. Well, that was an easy pass. The guy driving the truck just pulled over and gave me plenty of room. Then one of the Copperhill guys said, “Hey, that’s Skip.” And so it was. By sheer luck we had stumbled upon our contact — the man that could give us a job, a place to sleep, and regular meals. The guy that knew Skip stuck his head out the window and started waving to get him to pull over, which he did.

The reason Skip stopped was: he thought we were the local law. Nothing could have been more bizarre. We were more likely to be the object of law enforcement action. The reason why he thought that was the long whip-like antenna on my car that resembled those used by law enforcement in those days. It was on the car when I bought it and I just never took it off. Anyway, it served a good purpose in this situation. We explained our situation to Skip. We just fell in behind Skip in his lumber truck and headed for the lumber camp.

Getting to the camp was not easy. It was located on top of the mountain, and we just groaned our way slowly up the steep mountain road. The scenery was spectacular: high mountains near 10,000 feet above sea level. We were enchanted by the beautiful mountain streams that crisscrossed the road. Occasionally we would stop at one of these streams and get water for the radiator. Given the high elevation the old car boiled the water from the radiator rather rapidly so we were forced to replenish the supply to keep the car from overheating. This was something we had to do every time we came up the mountain in the old Ford.

The trip up the mountain probably took the better part of an hour. Besides being hard on the car, the bumps and jolts were hard on the occupants of the car, but we survived. It was good to get to the lumber camp, but then we had something else to worry about. We still had no assurance that we would get a job. But that would come later. We got there just in time for the evening meal, and after introductions the mill owner invited us to stay for supper. This was something we were very glad to do.

For many people the notion of a lumber camp may not convey a very appetizing picture of mealtime. But I want to tell you, few tables on this planet could compare with the spread they laid out here: meats of various kind, vegetables, homemade cornbread and biscuits, mashed potatoes and gravy and a great variety of jams and jellies. There was a great abundance of everything. Even this crowd of hungry sawmill workers could not clean the table. The table conversation was lively with tales of the day’s exploits, trials and dangers. Gradually, the men got their fill and pushed away from the table. At this point it was well after dark. So they headed for their cabins — sawmill shacks that housed about 6 men each. Finally it came down to time to talk about whether we had a job or not.

The owner laid out the rules and expectations regarding the work and how long he expected us to stay on the job. We agreed to everything. I think he wanted to wait until after we saw how he would feed us before he offered us a job. After a meal like that, we couldn’t say no to his job offer.

So we were assigned to a cabin for the night. Another luxury in addition to a meal — a bed — of sorts, but warm and dry.

The Work: Buckin’ Slabs

The next day I was introduced to work, hard work. My first job was “buckin’ slabs.” This was working right at the end of the saw track where the newly sawn lumber came off the track. But I didn’t touch the lumber. It was my job to catch the slabs and keep them from piling up around the saw where they might get in the way and create a problem for the sawyer. The sawyer was the man that actually operated the saw and produced lumber for market. He had a crew that loaded the huge logs onto the saw track and he guided the log into the saw.

Two things I didn’t like about my job: 1) it was very noisy. The saw just seemed to scream as it ripped through the green wood. 2) The other thing I didn’t like was just being so close to the saw. I could remember my grandfather’s stories about all the men in his neighborhood that walked into a saw like that and got decapitated, lost an arm, or sustained some other sort of injury. However, I didn’t let my qualms deter me from doing my job. It was the ticket to three great meals each day and a good dry place to sleep. Thus, the thoughts of the next meal kept me going.

Life at the Camp

The parts of this stop in my travels that stand out in my memory include watching the big trees fall, and feeling the earth shudder when they hit the ground and the limbs, leaves or pine needles blow away like an explosion.

Also, I liked another job they put me on called “cutting right-of-way.” This was necessary when they had to push a road into a new part of the forest they planned to cut. In this role I worked alone and I liked the feeling. Maybe they put me out here because I didn’t fit in.

Another little adventure I had on my own was my evening vespers. Often in the evening after dinner I would walk out to the edge of the canyon, sit on the rim and watch the last rays of the setting sun as it lit up the peaks, buttes, and canyon walls. It was a strange, beautiful world that seems to lift one out of all down-to-earth worldly concerns. It stirs the spirit and makes one glad to be there in time and space. This area was known as the Black Canyon of the Gunnison. You can find it on the map.

Inside Creede

On occasion, when we had a few hours of daylight left, we would pile into my old Ford and crawl down the mountain to Creede. Creede was built right at the mouth of a fantastic canyon. I will attach a picture of this. It is awesome!

One of the memorable facts that sticks in my mind about Creede is the little plaque in the floor of a local salon commemorating the spot where Bob Ford was killed. What makes this memorable is the fact that Bob Ford was the man that shot Jesse James in the back.

Creede, I guess, was proud of the fact that Ford got what was coming to him on that spot and made it a point to commemorate the event. Or, more likely, it was a tourist draw and help fill the town coffers. For more detail on the interesting history of Creede I recommend Wikipedia.

The People in the Camp — Mainly

The camp was full of interesting people, but I only got to know the people that lived in my shack. I will briefly review the ones that I remember.

The Burned Boy

One kid in my shack was quite heavily bandaged. His face and upper body had been severely burned and he was just getting healed to the point where he could do errands and light work. According to him he was involved in a “fight” one night in the shack and he was knocked into a burning kerosene lantern. The lantern shattered and spilled kerosene on him and, of course, since it was burning, the flaming liquid splashed over his face and body. Although he was healing, it appeared that he would be severely disfigured from the burn. Nevertheless, he was a tough young mountain man and took the pain and disfigurement in stride. That was Handsome — what was left of his face bore witness to his former good looks.

The Tunnel Rat

When I arrived at the camp I didn’t even know what a tunnel rat was. I would have assumed that it was a rat that lived in a tunnel. Well, there is more to it than that. A tunnel rat is an individual that does the basic, grubby work involved in tunnel construction. The reason he was now living on top of a mountain in the Colorado Rockies was that he got tired and scared of living with his face in the mud and dirt. So he found a job in the sunshine. Tunnel Rat was a drifter. He moved around the country from job to job. No family and no settled career. He would turn his hand to whatever was needed. I liked his manner.

The Hard Working and Dedicated

All of the people I met there were hardworking. Further, they took pride in the skills they possessed and in the quality of the work they did. They were also very safety conscious. From the man that cut the trees to the dozer operator, they were experts and they never forgot that. They didn’t want to injure anyone, and they didn’t want to get injured. Injuries that did occur happened after work in recreational fights. Fighting could be quite recreational. Otherwise life on top of a mountain in the deep woods could get boring.

The Restless Ones

Me and my contingent of the Copperhill Gang. The boys got bored. They threatened to steal my car if I didn’t —

“Open up the throttle, get me out of Colorado.” — Ted

Back to Copperhill. So, we left.

Trip 5

Complete the Loop! — (Delaware)

Back to Valley Forge

I was ready to head back to East Tennessee and I invited Dale to come with me. I don’t know what my plan was. Most likely I didn’t have one. But Dale joined me and on my way back to Valley Forge my faithful car broke down just outside of Greeneville, TN. So I hitched a ride into town and found a used car dealer I had tried to sell the car to earlier and told him I would take his offer. He was still willing to do the deal, so I took the money and Dale and I went around the corner to the bus station and bought tickets back to Cleveland. This was as close as we could get to Copperhill. We had to hitchhike the rest of the way. That took all night.

Also, we stopped in Knoxville and spent part of my car money on a set of new clothes for both of us — jeans and shirts — dressed like brothers. Turned right around and then after I got Dale home, I headed back to VF and school.

This involved an unwanted hitchhiking experience. Standing all night by a poorly traveled road — no one would stop. What sane person would stop in the middle of the night? Finally — daylight and a lift. Got Dale back to Ducktown/Tanner. Dale got a car and transported me back to Valley Forge. Wasn’t that nice of him — he certainly didn’t have to do it.

“All for one and one for all.”

Back to the service station.

Back to school.

Sound familiar?

Trip 6

Roads: Money for College / The Sixth Trip

The Sixth Ramble: I am an experienced rambler by this point in time. If rambling were an accepted program, I would have a PhD in rambling.

The Immediate Motivation: Tennessee State Highway Patrol

Travel Stimulus: “I fought the law …” — and the law won!

This tale got its start late one night on a twisting mountain road in the hills of eastern Tennessee as I was trying (apparently not too well) to negotiate the very tight curves as I dropped down the mountain side at a rather high rate of speed. (I’ve always enjoyed the sensation produced by putting a car through tight curves at excessive rates of speed. Not to the point of losing control of course. Excessive (I admit), but not impossible to do. In fact it was something quite common among the young men of my community in that day.

Everything was going really well. I was swinging right out of one curve into another. It felt so good — kind of like a symphony. Drifting, somewhat, into the lane for oncoming traffic (a sour note). However, this late at night there was no traffic. I was the only thing on the road. Until — there it was… and centrifugal force was having its way with me, and the car just would not stay on my side of the road. But I did manage to miss the oncoming car. I sometimes thought of myself as the Chopin of night-front auto driving, (maybe Mozart). The technique I used here was for the right front wheel to go over the edge of the pavement, checking the car’s movement.

Now, while missing another car at that rate of speed and still managing to stay on the roadway is a good thing — as far as it goes. And I was thankful for that. The problem was: the car I missed was a Tennessee Highway Patrol Car — driven by a patrolman with the reputation for being the meanest, most unreasonable, unforgiving Cop (cop in reference to this man deserves capitalization) in the region with more than one axe to grind. In addition, my passenger was one of the cop’s favorite antagonists. That cop was good. He avoided getting smacked by my car, turned around and had his red lights (yes, this was a long time ago — now it’s blue lights) flashing, lighting up the inside of my car and creating imaginary scenes of fearful hours — or days in the local jail — or worse. Further, this meant that my tuition money was down the drain. Again.

I pulled over (screeched to a stop) — of course — right at the very scene where one of my high school class mates had lead a couple of pursuing cops to a tragic end. He had made the curve, they didn’t. One died, the other was crippled for life, and he (the friend) entered exile. Bad omen! In a moment I was looking into the patrolman’s flashlight, wondering what all the fuss was about. He was alive and I was alive. There was no property damage. What’s the big deal?

The lecture/interrogation probably didn’t take long, but given my state of anxiety it seemed to last half the night. After the lecture, he handed me a ticket the size of which wiped out all the funds for college tuition and books for the next school term.