The Family Guns

When I turned 13 years old my Dad gave me a .22 caliber rifle. It was a beautiful gun, a Remington long rifle semi-automatic. I could load 15 cartridges into the magazine and plink away. My Dad used the occasion to teach me firearm safety and how to properly hold, aim and shoot a rifle. We went out shooting at tin cans and "rabbit hunting" in the rural desert areas east of LA several times, although I never saw, much less shot at, a rabbit. I felt like a "man" owning my own gun, and I eagerly assumed the responsibility of possessing and handling a firearm. It definitely was a milestone in my life.

There is a story behind every family gun in my cabinet. These stories turn the guns into talismans that connect me to the past in an important and satisfying way. I'm not sure I can describe that feeling adequately. However, perhaps by telling the stories I can keep the legacy of these family guns alive for my children to enjoy and experience.

I believe my Dad acquired the .22 Remington long rifle semi-automatic back before I was born. If I was around I was probably less than 3 or 4 years old. He owned and operated a Chevron Service Station on University avenue in San Diego at the time, and that's where it all started ...

Eli actually did shoot some
 ground squirrels

A customer came in with a flat on his car. The flat was unrepairable. The guy had no money and offered Dad the rifle for security to replace the tire. Dad agreed, and scrounged up the best used tire he had.  He carried new ones but he decided to go with a used one that had some life left in it.  He mounted it on the man's car, the rifle changed hands, and the guy drove off...never to return with payment. 

Now I could make up lots of reasons for this, but that is a lot of the charm to the story. Why didn't the guy come back? The gun was in excellent condition, and was worth far more than the used tire. My dad loved to tell this story, I think in part because he really was helping this guy out, albeit at little financial risk to himself,  and he really ended up smelling like a rose!

When my nephew Eli Wilbanks was 13, I passed this rifle and it's story on to him. Now it will be his turn to pass it along someday.

Two triggers for two barrels. The front
trigger fires the left barrel, the rear 
trigger the right.

So, when big brother Don turned 13 (two years before me) Dad gave him a Montgomery Wards Hercules double barreled 20 gage shotgun. This was the gun that Dad received from his Dad (Grandad Wilbanks) when he was 13. The Hercules was made by Iver Johnson for Montgomery Wards. Production probably started just before 1920 and went until the early 1940s. The "Hercules" name was dropped around 1936 and it became known as the Iver Johnson Hammerless.

I ended up in possession of this beauty when I started hunting Quail in 1976. I asked Don if I could use it since I didn't own a shotgun, and in return I refinished the wooden forearm and stock. The steel parts have not been retouched and have the original finish. As a boy, Dad used to hunt quail (bobwhite quail) with it in Oklahoma over his dog "Jack" (no relation to my van). I believe Jack was an English Pointer. And I heard some great stories about his steady point. This gun still belongs to my big brother Don, I am just keeping it safe and in the family for him.

I refinished the forearm and stock, and put on a new recoil pad.
 

I got the bug to be a Forester when I was living in LA and going to West LA College. It took a while, but six years and three colleges later I graduated from Cal Poly San Luis Obispo with a degree in Natural Resource Management and enough Forestry credits to qualify under the Civil Service rules as a "Forester". At my graduation in June of 1976, my parents presented me with another "Family Gun" in commemoration of my accomplishment.

It is a 30-30 Winchester Model 1894 lever action Rifle. The 30-30 is chambered in .30-30 Winchester Center Fire (.30 WCF) caliber. The name comes from the 30-caliber bullet and 30 grains of smokeless powder used in the original loading. Winchester first marketed the .30-30 caliber in 1895 as an option for its Model 1894 lever-action rifle, which was designed by John Browning and produced from 1894–2006 and again from 2011–present. 

The saddle ring is for securing the rifle in a saddle scabbard so it doesn't come out with hard riding, or if the horse decides to buck!

This particular gun was manufactured sometime during the 1920's according to the serial number. My dad's Uncle Moody (Granddad's baby brother) gave it to him in the early 1950's when he lived in San Diego. Uncle Moody was a surveyor for Cal Trans, then the California Department of Transportation.  He came across the gun while doing a survey, reportedly in an old gravel pit. It was in pretty bad shape, but Dad had it cleaned up and killed a deer with it. He actually had the head mounted, and it knocked around the house for years. 

He named the deer "Throckmorton".  I think he pretty much lost his appetite for deer hunting after that, but the gun stayed in the closet. I remember firing it as a kid out in the desert. It was incredibly loud, and kicked like a mule. I think it may have scared John so bad the he hid behind the truck!

Dad took the gun to a local gunsmith prior to my graduation and had him totally restore and re-blue the metal parts and mechanisms. He personally refinished the wooden stock and forearm then added a commemorative plaque on the stock.

I was flabbergasted when I saw the gun! It is a real beauty. Interesting features are the steel saddle ring (missing on some of the more recent guns), the steel butt plate (today they are usually rubber to absorb the kick from firing), and an inscription on the barrel that proclaims it is made of  "nickel steel especially for smokeless powder." Today "smokeless powder" is the norm and the old "black powder" is a rarity pretty much restricted to hobbyists.  I have never shot anything with the gun, but it is probably my most prized of all.

The A5 is also called a "Humpback"
because of the distinctive shape of
the receiver

I have posted several times about my Grandad Wilbanks. One of my guns is passed down from him through my Dad. It is a 16 gauge Browning Model A5    (Auto-5) automatic shotgun. It was manufactured in Belgium and was the first successful semi-automatic shotgun ever produced. When my Dad gave me this gun, it could not shoot ammunition made in the USA. It could only function properly with a slightly shorter European shell. I had a gunsmith correct this problem, and the gun shoots great now. It was nicknamed the "Sweet Sixteen" because it's light weight facilitates the swinging of the gun to follow and lead the target bird. It is said that "you can swing it like your high school sweet heart!" Grandad probably purchased the gun in the late 1930's. it's a fantastic upland game bird gun.

I also refinished the wood on this gun. Grandad used it for bobwhite quail in Oklahoma. He shortened the barrel to widen the shot pattern and down birds from close range (over a pointer).

I own another "Humpback" A5. It is a beautifully engraved 12 Gauge gun that my brother in-law Buck gave me. His Dad Fenn passed it down to him. Buck told me that his Dad got the gun in trade. It has a 30 inch barrel, full choke, and shoots 3 inch magnum shotgun shells. It is designed for bringing down large birds from long range, a perfect gun for ducks and geese. I have never shot the gun.

Grandpa Fenn's A5 is beautifully engraved

I remember one time Buck mistakenly grabbed this gun instead of the regular A5 with a shorter barrel and more open choke. We were hunting Chukar partridge, basically a large quail, out in Nevada. He was wondering why his gun felt so heavy as we hiked up the steep rocky slopes to the ridges where the Chukar hang out. A bunch got up and Buck nailed two birds out of the group (a "double"). Both birds just evaporated in a cloud of feathers! He looked more closely at the gun and realized his mistake. After that he had to let the birds get further out before he shot so he would have something left of them to eat.

There should be no mistaking that 30 inch barrel!

Not long after Kim and I were married, I really got into hunting Chukar with my in-laws. Fenn was getting older, into his mid sixties, and he and Buck took me under their wing and taught me how to hunt these very wily birds. I think it was the Christmas after my first hunt with a borrowed gun that Fenn gave me a 12 gauge Remington 1100 semi-automatic shotgun. It was a beautiful gun and I was thrilled. It has a large enough chamber that it can fire either 2 3/4 inch or 3 inch magnum shells. So I purchased a 30 inch barrel with a full choke to switch it into a waterfowling piece when hunting ducks and geese. I have used the gun primarily to shoot Chukar however, and in fact gave it a nickname as the result of one successful day.

We were in extreme Northern Nevada, near the Oregon border one fall. Buck and I were hunting over a very fresh light snow that allowed us to actually track the birds. I followed one group for nearly an hour, and came out on top of a high ridge. All of a sudden the area around me erupted in wingbeats. I shot at four birds and hit three! I was absolutely exultant. From then on I called my trusty 1100 "Chukar Slayer"!

"Chukar Slayer" was my first new shotgun. It is a beauty. Notice the large chunk out of the forearm. That was caused when I fell in a rockpile during a particularly tough day hunting.

The Sierraville district employees pitched 
in and gifted me this beautiful Browning
Silver Hunter for my retirement.

When I announced my retirement from the Forest Service in late 2007, a couple of people told me that the District employees wanted to purchase a shotgun for me to commemorate my service. I was amazed and flattered that they would suggest such a generous gift. They wanted me to pick something out that I would like. I opted for a 12 gauge browning "Silver Hunter". It is a beautiful gun, designed for carrying in the field for upland game birds. It is a modern version of the original "A5".

I did use the gun on many hunting trips after I left the Forest service. My German Shorthair, Remmy, liked it too. Our favorite spot was the northeastern Sierra Valley south of Chilcoot. It is definitely the best shotgun I own. Maybe someday in the future it will have some of the same allure as my older more historic family heirlooms.

My Silver Hunter has a few battle scars. The scratches on the stock bear witness to the  rocky and treacherous terrain that is the bane of all Chukar hunters. However, the gun gave more than it got.

From 1990 to 1996 we lived "down river", in Somes Bar. It was my first assignment as a District Ranger. Sometimes being the decision maker on a Ranger District can be an unpopular position. Especially in situations where the law and/or Forest Service policy conflict with the desires of the local people. It can be very tricky to balance local versus overall public interests when making decisions. Sometime you just can't do it.

I purchased this Springfield Armory Model
1911 A-1 in Yreka California.

At the Ukonom District there was a large population of Indians whose ancestors had lived there literally "forever". There was no reservation, and the land use policies of the Forest Service were in direct conflict with the wants and desires of these native people. Hard as I tried, conflict between the Forest Service (personified by me) and the Karuk tribal members developed. At one point I was informed that one local Indian man had said he was "going to shoot" me. After consulting with my law enforcement officer I decided to acquire a CCW (Carry a Concealed Weapon) permit and buy a handgun for self (and family) defense.

I bought a .45 caliber Springfield Armory 1911 A1 semi-automatic pistol at a store in Yreka. It was used and had been previously owned by a California Highway Patrolman. The gun was originally designed in competition for a US military contract in 1911. It was the standard sidearm for the US Armed Forces from 1911 all the way through World War II and into the 1990's. My Grandad was issued one, and carried it all through Europe during the war. It is an awesome gun, powerful and heavy. I am currently permitted to carry it concealed in Plumas County. It's not really the greatest gun to conceal due to it's size and weight, but I absolutely love it!

I kept this baby in the back of
Ol' Jack for years. 

The winter of 1976, when I got laid off from my temporary job as a timber marker and cruiser in California Hotsprings, Kim and I had all of our possessions (except our little calico cat, Persnickety) in storage at both of our folks homes. Aren't parents wonderful? We drove up to Lake Tahoe and stayed at the Barkley home for a bit, and then left the cat under the tender loving care of my mother-in-law. We headed out for an adventure that would last several months in "Ol Jack", my faithful VW bus.

Before we left, Kim's Grandfather, Carl T. Byrd, found out about our proposed travel and exploration plans and decided that we needed some protection. He pulled me aside and gave me his old Harrington and Richardson (H&R) 922 revolver. As the model number suggests, it is a nine shot revolver in .22 caliber. It is a very cool old gun. They were manufactured to be inexpensive and affordable. It is basically a small varmint gun or target shooting gun. It's not really made for self defense, although I would rather take one to a knife fight any day. The serial number suggests the gun was made in 1949. At one point the gun became quite corroded. Some moisture must have gotten into the old plastic case in which Grandpa Byrd gave it to me. I bought a gun bluing kit and cleaned it up. It is in good shape now, but you can see where it got pretty deeply etched in a few spots.

Smith & Wesson Masterpiece
.22 caliber revolver

The last gun I want to talk about is a BEAUTIFUL and pristine Smith & Wesson  H 22 Long Rifle CTG .22 caliber Model 17. It was made in about 1959, and it is known as the "Masterpiece". Apparently it is an extremely accurate and easy to handle revolver. I got this gun from my Aunt Lucille. She purchased it in 1960 as a gift to her husband, Uncle Frank. She said that she asked him what he wanted for his birthday, and this was it. She is not sure if he ever fired it, but she's certain that if he did, he didn't shoot it much. She wanted me to have it. I told her that I loved the gun, and that the next owner would be her namesake: Lucille Marcelle. This really pleased her.

I hope the stories behind my Family Guns make them more than just useful and interesting tools. I want them to connect my descendants with me, and also with our other family ancestors.

That's All!

Grandad's War

Signed to his son and daughter.

As long as I can remember, I knew that my Grandad Wilbanks was in the US Army in Europe during World War II. I knew he was in "Civil Affairs" and not a frontline combat soldier. He never gave me any details, but I remember looking at some war trophies that he brought home: a pair of artillery field glasses from a German officer, and a Nazi dagger. We played with these things as kids. We dropped the binoculars and made them unusable, and the dagger (which I still have) was busted up over time.  Thanks to us boys, the inlaid Nazi eagle and swastika symbol is missing, the scabbard is now dented and scarred, and the tip of the knife is broken off. We were so casual (as were my folks obviously) with our treatments of what today seem like treasures. I have discovered a lot about Granddad's service through his letters, photographs, and other documents. 

On May 8th, 1942, the Battle of the Corral Sea concluded in the South Pacific. As a result of the battle, the Japanese retired from the area and called off the invasion of Port Moresby, New Guinea. It is considered a major turning point in the Pacific War. In Europe, the Germans had reached their high water mark and would soon be defeated in the Battle of Stalingrad. The United States Army was still preparing for the invasion of North Africa. 

Also on that day, Grandad's National guard unit was activated and subsumed by the regular US Army. Initially as Captain in the field artillery, he received orders to report to Fort Sill, Oklahoma, for training and organization. 

Grandad and Grandmother Margaret had split up two years earlier and my Dad was living with him and attending school in Holdenville. He was 15 years old, and since Grandad was going to war he needed to join his mother and sister in California. So Grandad put his son on the train to California on May 23rd or 24th, and reported for duty on June 1st. His guard unit would be assigned to the 45th Infantry Division. 

The Native American symbol of the 
Thunderbird was the 45th Division Logo.

Grandad was probably selected for service in "Civil Affairs" because of his law degree and experience as a judge and attorney. At this phase of the war the Army knew it would need specialized soldiers to pacify and bring order to territories successfully liberated from the Axis Armies. Most of those recruited for this job were successful business people, followed second by civilian lawyers. As one Army historian wrote they were looking for people of good judgement  “requiring great administrative ability and experience, great wisdom, diplomacy, and qualities of leadership.” It took almost two years of transfers, training, and reassignments for Grandad to end up in England for his "final" Civil Affairs training. 

He arrived in Shrivenham, England, at the American School Center in February 1944 to prepare for his duties following behind the invasion forces. He thought the countryside beautiful as he wrote to Aunt Marjorie: "Small farms looking like parks. Lots of green grassland - but the weather cold as all get out." He continued his training and preparation there in England until September of 1944, 3 months after the D-Day invasion of Europe. 

A transport ship offloads a military
truck called a "Deuce and a half".

"Well, at long last I am 'somewhere in France' " he wrote. It took three days after boarding ship to cross the channel and prepare to unload. They lifted loaded trucks, and Jeeps onto huge barges ("fifty or sixty to a barge") with "big cranes on the ship", they "climbed down rope ladders to the barge", got in their vehicles and headed for shore. Grandad had his "bed role and other stuff in (his) own jeep with driver and his equipment." The barges "nosed up to the beach and (they) all drove off and away."

By November of 1944, Grandad was in Tirlemont, Belgium, under the Ninth Army assisting in setting up training for the temporary occupation of the city of Düsseldorf. 

In December of 1944, he was on a mission to Haccourt, Belgium, (between Liege and Maastricht). They had guard duty at the Muese River bridge-heads. South of them, the German Army launched a massive counterattack, that became known as the "Battle of the Bulge", through the Ardennes Forest.  I don't know how close the combat actually came to Grandad. However, Dad told me a story about a close encounter with some unexpected German Tanks which may have been true, since Grandad was in the area.

In January, 1945, after the American Army pushed the Germans back out of Belgium, Grandad's unit got orders to do civil affairs work in Marche, Belgium, to help them recover from the destruction of the "Bulge". There is very little correspondence during this time and all the way up to March of 1945. I'm guessing he was pretty busy. However, in March he was complaining about being back at the training center in Tirlemont, Belgium. "Have nothing much to do now - back in the Military Gov. Training Center. The 'training' is mostly a joke - we are all fed up with 'training' but anxious to be at work."

He got his wish just a few days later. On March 7th, he was on the move. In a letter to Margaret he wrote: "Am in Germany, and do not think there will be any going back to Belgium, France or Holland, but that future moves will be across the Rhine and further into Germany. We came through a part of Holland just recently liberated - the flags were out and many civilians were waving to us as we came along." It was a different story as he passed through German villages and towns. They "were like ghost towns - not a civilian in sight. The few remaining in town stay inside houses and in cellars all the time except 2 hours per day when one woman per family may go out for food, water, and fuel."

US tanks advance through the
streets of Düsseldorf 

By the end of March his unit had reached the city of  Düsseldorf, on the west bank of the Rhine River, with the German's still in control of the east bank. "We see a lot of fireworks every night. We (I mean our Army) have machine guns on this bank
(about 200 yards from where we live) and Germans have some on the other bank. Just a few minutes ago they shot a burst of tracer bullets (which are red and you can see them in the dark - look like Fourth of July fireworks) over our house. However, the Germans do not shoot back much."

From Düsseldorf Grandad moved southwest into Bavaria. He was billeted in Uffenheim just east of Nuremburg for a while. Eventually he ended up in Regensburg on the Danube River. 

Grandad and his interpreter in 
Uffenheim, Germany

On May 8th, the Germans surrendered. "Well, today is V-Day, but just like any other day here. A few days ago we received a false report that the war was over and all proceeded to celebrate - but today and tonight it seems like no one is feeling like any celebrations." Actually, May 8th was the second surrender for the Germans. The day before they had surrendered to the US Army. Stalin was very upset, and demanded a second ceremony in Berlin on May 8th with high level Soviet representation. Perhaps the "false reports" had to do with the original surrender earlier.

Grandad settled into a routine. They moved into the Hotel Karmeliten (it was demolished in 2012). "I have a nice large comfortable room - good bed, but it sure is a lonesome, tiresome life over here." "Have been fairly busy last few days. All our large team is together here and I do nothing but legal work. advise when necessary and conduct military court for trial of civilians." Most of the cases were curfew violations. "When a violator comes before me it is 30 days in jail and 250 Reich Mark fine. Tough Ain't I? Well we have to let them know we mean business. They are used to being treated with toughness. They construe kindness as 'weakness'".

The Hotel Karmeliten in April 1945.
Grandad's room was "the 4th and 5th window
to your left from the corner of the building on 3rd floor."

The hotel Karmeliten in 2012, just prior to
demolition.

Grandad and his newly
confiscated car. "About the 
size of an Oldsmobile."

Grandad completed his service there in Regensburg on the Danube River. He eventually was assigned a civilian car that had been confiscated from a "German

SS Lawyer". It was a large, very nice car, and he was relieved to not have to use a Jeep anymore. He was assigned a German driver who spoke no English, but they managed to communicate well enough to get where he wanted to go. The man had been a non-commissioned officer in the German Army for six years, and was also a good mechanic. They got along well despite the language barrier. "He thinks more of that car I believe than he does of his wife. Sure takes good care of it. Keeps it washed and shined every day." The job as Grandad's driver was probably the best thing that could have happened to this man. A good paying job in a devastated country was an absolute and literal life saver. I'm sure he was working extra hard to keep it.

Standing on a "pontoon bridge over the Danube. Notice the bombed and demolished bridge in the background? That is upstream from where I was standing."

There was a "secluded place on the Knab River that runs into the Danube about 7 or 8 miles" away where Grandad and his fellow soldiers occasionally went to sunbathe, swim and relax.

"A view of a portion of the Cathedral of Regensburg, taken by me, Sunday June 3rd, 1945"

Souvenir program from "Organization
 Day" September 18, 1945

On September 18th, 1945, Grandad's detachment celebrated their establishment (anniversary) with a large dinner there in Regensburg. He went deer hunting with several of the other men to bring back venison for the main course. Grandad missed... but others we able to bag plenty for the large crowd attending (around 100). The souvenir program, which he sent to his daughter (Aunt Marjorie) included a timeline describing the important events and tasks his unit had undertaken. It has a lot of detailed information that made it possible for me to put this whole story together.

Grandad stayed and worked out of Regensburg for the rest of his wartime duties. He finally came home in 1946 and was discharged from the Army on May 25th. He went on to marry his second wife, Theta Gee (we called her "Granny") in 1947. Not long after the war, he joined the Veteran's Administration as a legal counselor. 

After such an eventful life, thank goodness Grandmother Margaret had saved this trail of pictures, letters and old stories.  It has truly been a gift to be able to sift though this treasure trove of family history:  a meager but oh so valuable legacy of part of the difference my Grandad made in the world. Thanks for ALL your service Colonel Wilbanks!

That's All!

It seems like such a long time ago...

 This last week I spent quite a bit of time going through a lot of old photos and correspondence of my Grandmother Margaret Ellen Red Wilbanks. My cousin Gordon Luce found the materials and knowing of my interest in our family history, gave them to me.

Looking at old family pictures from as far back as the early 1900's and reading letters written to my grandmother as far back as the 1930's gave me a ton of insight into my Dad's side of the family that I have never had before. They told a story. But sometimes the story was frustratingly incomplete. an unidentified person in a photograph, reference to someone obviously important but unknown to me in a letter. In the end, I am so grateful to have the opportunity to see this story, even though it is incomplete.

Ellen Adair Carey (left) and her sister
Ann. Ellen was Grandmother Margaret
Ellen Red Wilbanks' Grandmother.

I wonder if some day in the future an ancestor will stumble upon this family information, with the excitement and interest that has possessed me. Will they wish they had more info? Or will they be less interested, and perhaps move on to more pressing matters.

More pressing matters. As I look back on my life, the "more pressing matters" definitely change over the years. When I was much younger and my extended family was mostly alive to recount stories and answer questions, it wasn't a "Pressing matter" to me. So I mostly relied on the knowledge I gained through "osmosis" from my parents and grandparents. Stories told not through interrogation, but those that came up in the course of everyday life. Perhaps a few "proud moments" related to me at various times. After many years, and as the older members of my family passed on, I had the sense that I had a pretty solid feel for my extended family's history. Going through boxes and bags of old photos, records, and correspondence made me realize how much deeper the story was.

It also got me to thinking: how complete would my story be to my kids and descendants. I have written a few blogs about "things" in my life. Perhaps, I need to get a little more organized and tell the story as best I can. Somehow there is comfort in the thought that future Wilbanks' wouldn't be wondering and wishing they had asked me more questions while I was still around to answer them.

I was born in 1952 in San Diego California. I was the second son of four. My older brother, Thomas Donald Wilbanks III (Donnie), had been the first born two years earlier. He had been a "breach baby" delivered by my Mom with great difficulty. The doctor advised that I should be delivered via caesarian section, and my Mom readily agreed. I wrote about my earliest memories in an earlier blog. However, I want to recount the general events of my early life as I remember them. Many of these earliest memories are from what I learned from my folks.

I lived in San Diego for the first four or five years of my life. We lived in a small stucco house in the suburban area of La Mesa. I have disjointed memories of playing in a park sand box where I happened to excavate some cat droppings from the neighborhood wanderers. They seemed pretty interesting to me. Luckily my watchful Mom caught me before I put them in my mouth to see what they tasted like. Maggie wasn't so lucky with the bloated ticks from our dog Trooper!

That's me on the right standing up. Oddly
that's the same technique I use today!
Don's on the left

I believe it was here in La Mesa (perhaps later after we moved to North Hollywood) that I had a close call with Dad's "Toro" power lawnmower. As I remember it, it was a beautiful, sunny southern California weekend day and Dad was cutting the grass. He was emptying the grass catching bag into a pile on the side of the house. We might have been storing it there to compost into the garden later. I'm not sure what the final disposition was. But what little boys would not be fascinated by a giant pile of grass clippings to play on. Donnie and I went to it like bees to honey. 

Dad walked the huge growling orange mowing machine back and forth across the lawn while my big brother and I played. The scent of fresh cut grass and engine exhaust dominated. We soon discovered it was fun to pick up handfuls of grass from the big pile and heave them at each other. We were both running around barefoot, shirtless, and wearing shorts. The "grass-ball" fight distracted us completely from everything else. 

Suddenly the game became who could hit the other with a fistful of grass, and escape from being hit by a retaliatory toss. I'd hit my older brother with a grassy missile, but before I could run out of range he would nail me with another green glob. This went on for a bit, Donnie patiently waiting with his pre-loaded pasture ammo for me to approach and fling a load his way, then instantly targeting me before I could get away. I reloaded, determined this time to fling the vegetative grenade and flee so quickly that he would miss me. 

This was our house in North Hollywood.
 Looks like brother John standing by the tree
in the background.

Unfortunately for me, Dad was just approaching with the mower to dump another load when I threw, instantly turned to escape...and ran right into the machine. 

Luckily I stopped short of ramming my bare feet into the spinning blades of the grass eating monster. However, I couldn't stop my momentum, and flopped forward onto the mower. I remember the loud noise and vibration of the little 4 cycle engine and the sudden stop as my Dad quickly shut it down. I was sprawled over the top of the thing, my belly lying directly on the hot muffler. The pain was incredible. Dad grabbed me, yanked me back onto my feet, and saw the skin of my belly starting to blister.

The next thing I remember is being in the emergency room, with the doctor explaining to Mom and Dad how to care for my second and third degree burns.

I had been "branded" by the cooling fins on the engine's cylinder head. The pattern was that of four or so parallel strips of badly burned tissue. I remember Dad telling me that it looked like a tiger had clawed me, and that I could make up a cool story to tell all my friends about how I had wrestled with a tiger. Oddly, this seemed very comforting to me.

The burn healed without complication, and became quite a topic of conversation as I grew up. I usually told folks the truth. It finally became hardly noticeable, unless it was summer, and the contrast with my tan would still provide enough contrast to see it. It made some interesting conversations on a few dates to the beach. Even today you can still see a very faint scar. A reminder of that day I wrestled with the tiger that had somehow escaped from the zoo...OK, it was a grass fight with my big brother... and a lawnmower. Geeez!

That's All...for now!

A Journey Through Time

I began my career with the US Forest Service in 1976 as a seasonal worker on the timber crew. We were "Cruise-Markers". Our job was to mark and measure trees that were designated for cutting and sale to a lumber company. My boss was a man named Don Errington. I was introduced to Don (by Rich Platt) just prior to my graduation from Cal Poly SLO with a degree in natural resource management. Don hired me as a seasonal employee on the Hot Springs Ranger District of the Sequoia National Forest. Kim and I spent that summer there together in a little single wide trailer . After that summer, Don got a promotion and transferred to the Eldorado National Forest out of Pollock Pines and I followed him there for another season as a temporary employee.

In 1978 I received a career appointment with the Forest Service there thanks to a big assist from Mr. Errington. My job title was "Junior Forester". As a "JF" (the Forest Service is big into acronyms!) my duties were varied and designed to give me a strong foundation with the agency's timber management mission. I ran the marking crew, supervised logging contracts, prepared timber contracts, learned to fight fire, and assisted in reforestation (planting and caring for trees). My personal career mission was to steward and conserve public forests for the use and enjoyment of Americans. I was a raving environmentalist, before it became synonymous with anti-development/anti-capitalist tree hugging.

I retired after 30 years in 2008, but my time with Don Errington there on the Pacific Ranger District influenced me more than any other episode of my tenure with the "Forest Circus". Amazingly, Don is still hard at work, managing the timber resource there on the Pacific District. He chose to stay with that job rather than accept a promotion to more desk-oriented work. I had not seen Don since my retirement, and I often wondered how some of the projects we worked on turned out, especially how the thousands of little trees we planted did. So, last Tuesday I met Don at his office in Fresh Pond, just off Highway 50 to take a "ride through the woods" together. It was an amazing day.

Don and I had a fantastic day. He has been a huge influence in my life.

I arrived at the Ranger Station in Fresh Pond at about 9:30 am. After a few handshakes and hugs we piled into a government rig and headed out. Don and I started with a quick ride through the aftermath of last summer's Caldor Fire to get a feel for how restoration efforts were going. There are tens of thousands of acres that need site preparation and planting. Today, there are few if any "JF's" to help out and learn their craft. The Forest Service is struggling with the will and the wherewithal to get that herculean task started let alone completed. Time will tell, but getting a thriving young forest re-established quickly accrues all of the benefits that the forest provides including carbon capture. Seems like sooner should be better.

We drove back on to my old district on the Wright’s Lake Road, crossing highway50 near Kyburz where Kim taught school for a few years.  We navigated up through a fire that I helped to fight in 1981: the Wright's Fire. Many of the plantations of young trees that I helped establish after this fire had been burned again during Caldor. However, it appears that many of the trees were large enough (10 to 14 inches around and 20 to 40 feet tall) to withstand the fire and should  survive. I felt some pride seeing that a young forest that I had helped establish had become somewhat fire resilient. Now, after surviving the Caldor fire this young forest will grow into an even more resilient state. 

As we drove, I recognized some landmarks, like large boulders and ridges that remained unchanged, but the forest vegetation we were driving through was unrecognizable. It had changed so much over the years, thicker and more overgrown, I would have gotten completely lost if I'd had to drive. 

From the Wright's Lake Road, we turned onto the Icehouse Road heading towards Icehouse Reservoir. As we drove, some blurry memories begin to materialize in my mind. We crested a rise, and as Icehouse reservoir came into view, the images began to clarify: 

It was an early spring morning in 1979 along the shore of the lake. The mist was rising off the water as the sun peeked above the mountainous horizon that encircled us. We always got an early start when planting trees. The cooler and moister the air, the less shock to the sensitive little one year old baby pine seedlings. Of course, those early 4 o'clock mornings kind of maximized the shock to my system, but that was beside the point. 

We arrived at the planting site around 5am. The sound of slamming truck doors echoed across the reservoir as we parked and began loading up our planting bags with their precious cargo. The previous summer the area had been prepared for planting. It had been a large brush field, with few if any trees, primarily composed of "Whitethorn" (Ceanothus Cordulatas). It's a nasty bush with long, very sharp spines that tended to get buried into our legs when we had to hike through it. Sometimes we wouldn’t realize that the thorn was embedded in our leg until it festered and popped out on its own. That might take a week or more. The Whitethorn where we were planting had been dense, tall, and thriving, all indicators that this area could support excellent tree growth. We pushed all the whitethorn into piles with a bulldozer tractor and burned the piles leaving a large open area with rich deep soil to plant our trees in. 

So, for planting that day, we used a tool called a "Hoedad". You swung the Hoedad into the ground to cut an 8 to ten inch deep slit, pried it open, inserted the baby tree, then stomped it closed tightly around the roots. It was hard work. We worked all day swinging our Hoedads, I'd kneel to insert the seedling, stand up, take four strides (12 foot spacing) to the next planting spot, then do it all again. Hundreds of times...over and over. It was fun, sort of...NOT! But I wasn't doing it for fun, I wanted to make the world a better place, protect our planet, improve people’s lives, yada, yada, yada! The best part was getting back home a little early and cracking open an ice-cold beer!

 

The Hoedad is an effective but cruel tool!

It was just one area of many that I planted over the course of 7 years on the Pacific District. I remember that we applied some herbicides to the area a year or so after we planted it, but after that I never returned. But Don and I knew the general location of that project, and we felt that we were getting close.

The chip sealed road wound down closer to the reservoir. It had been just a dirt and gravel road back when I had worked here. There have been many improvements to the area around the reservoir. As camping and outdoor recreation have gotten more popular, the roads have been much improved, campgrounds modernized and expanded, and new units added. 

The trees growing in and around the
campground were well spaced and
probably up to 80 feet tall.

We pulled the truck up to a campground entrance. The ubiquitous brown and yellow Forest Service sign announced "Strawberry Point Campground". There were many well-spaced young pine trees with the occasional incense cedar and white fir interspersed amongst them. It was a very attractive spot. The gate was open, so we turned in. As we slowly cruised the campground loop, attempting to get closer to the shoreline, we realized that this was the site of that planting project so many years before. It was amazing! The pines that I had helped to plant and nurture had grown to between one to two feet in diameter. 

Here is a campsite nestled in amongst
 the trees that I planted.

At some point maybe 15 years ago, someone had thought this was a nice spot and would make an attractive campground. So, they built it. Scattering picnic tables, fire rings, and bear proof food storage boxes in the shade of the now 60- to 80-foot-tall pines. It was amazing. We stopped the truck to get a closer look, and to revel in the success of our efforts those many years ago. It is hard to describe the feeling that came over me. To see a young forest that I had helped to regenerate from a field of thorny brush, that had been selected as a spot for people to come and enjoy nature and be rejuvenated from their everyday lives. It doesn’t' get much better than that! 

This tree was over a foot in diameter

Many times in my life I have thought about how to make a lasting difference to improve the world. My career was dedicated to that proposition. Putting out wildfires, designing projects to make the forests more healthy and fire resistant, influencing regional (and a few times National) policy to help other Forest Service managers do a better job, and of course planting trees.

It was a great run, and I am proud of what I accomplished. But to see a young forest that I helped to plant thriving was absolutely amazing. We visited several other areas that day, and maybe I'll add some pictures to another post, but this one has got to be done. I started it months ago.

Thanks Mr. Errington! You are one of many people that influenced my career and life in the USFS. I took a lot in from you and others, and put it to good use.

That's All!

 

Grateful Thoughts from Mom

 

I am brought to tears by the beauty of this day.  I cherish this feeling - a feeling that I’m not in touch with enough, and so I am taking a minute to capture it.

It’s cold today, January 19^th, 2023.  We’ve been hit by a series of storms, termed “atmospheric rivers” by those in the know.  It’s been a time of dramatic, exciting storms.  A time spent plowing and shoveling, and enjoying evenings contently snuggled in our cozy, beautifully re-organized and re-decorated home.  Our nest is now so calming and peaceful, with soft piano music playing in the background – it’s enough to make even me not want to travel!!  

(Did I just say that? LOL!)

It's indescribably delicious to be snuggled
in our cozy nest, looking out at our beautiful valley :)

It's as if we’ve added two whole rooms to our home – rooms I just want to be in.  Silly as it sounds, I just want to be in my closet!!!  My amazingly capable husband has so completely re-worked our closet that now it is truly a room, rather than a tiny, dark space.  I was unhappy with it, but I didn’t realize what a remarkable difference it could make to my moods to have it be so spacious and uncluttered.  Yes – I LOVE my closet and I am very blessed to be spending my life with such a clever man!!

And then there’s our fireplace room – a room we seldom used, preferring instead our larger “green room”, which holds the TV and which incorporates heart of our home: the kitchen.  Now suddenly the fireplace room, with it’s smaller more intimate couch, peaceful “lantern-ish lamp”, and it’s two unique chairs, has become a warm and peaceful space that beckons to me.  Add to this our beautiful soapstone woodstove, radiating that unique “woodstove warmth” that gently embraces the room and ... WOW!!  It’s not a place of entertainment and work, like the green room.  It’s a place that says, “Come – sit and relax.  Stay all day!!”  We have never before had such a space in our home.  It truly is as if we have a “whole nother” room, and I am so drawn to it ... it’s kind of a problem when it comes to getting things done!!

The view from our new "Fireplace Room" retreat

And so I am feeling especially at peace in my home, which is certainly a big part of why I am enchanted by this day.  Add to that fact that the atmospheric rivers have passed for now, and the sun has burst forth.  Last night brought us a scant 4 inches of fresh, light snow which has artfully draped itself over our world creating a picture I am incapable of describing.  The views surrounding our lovely home truly amaze me.  The brilliantly shining sun highlights the snowy landscape with dazzling sparkles.  The sage brush is but random smooth humps rising above the smooth surface of the field, like icebergs in Antarctica!!  The trees, thoroughly flocked, gently bend beneath their winter cloak looking for all the world like Dr. Seuss creations.  Even the fenceposts add to the delight of the view from my windows:  They are topped with big tilting hats of snow – it looks as if they are tipping their caps to me, saying, “Ain’t life grand, Ma’am?”  And the mountains – AHHHH … the distant snowcapped mountains.  My home is truly a beautiful, peaceful place.  Out here in the open space, with such vast vistas extending in every direction, one truly has room to breathe. 

"Ain't life GRAND!!"

I am enchanted, and so grateful for by my blessed life, and the peace and beauty that surrounds me.

Memories

The sky was a charcoal blanket littered with twinkling points of light. The puzzle shapes of tree canopies blotted out the charcoal sky in places with absolute blackness. The still night air in the forest was crisp, cold and sweet. The distant sound of traffic was the only clue that I was at my Aunt and Uncle's house in Tahoe as opposed to standing in the forest primeval. 

It all seemed strangely familiar to me, stirring some memory deep within me. Of course I am no stranger to the forested mountains and valleys around the lake. But this memory seemed more distant.

In my sleeping bag, staring up at an identical velvet sky in the Trinity Alps 14 years ago, I lay considering my career as a "Forest Ranger". I would retire within the year, but here I was camped out with a Hotshot crew, fighting a monster forest fire in the vast wilderness. I was a Division Supervisor assigned to a three mile section of fire-line, and we had been camped out ("spiked") for over a week.

As I lay there pondering, I realized that this truly was the realization of one of my long time dreams. I had been very interested and active in fighting forest fires since my first year as a seasonal worker on the Sequoia National Forest in 1976. Having worked in timber management, engineering, and as a District Ranger, rather than in Fire management it was a long and difficult path to earning the qualification of Division Supervisor. Along that path, my greatest enjoyment always came in overnight assignments out in the forest.

Me, after spending all
night on my first fire.

The crew I was working with was from the Sierra National Forest. A "Hotshot Crew". The absolute elite of the wildland fire fighting world. Some Hotshots have a reputation of treating Division Supervisors with disdain, as by and large they are much more experienced in their craft than most anybody. This crew was great to work with. After a few days we had truly bonded.

I remember the day of our first shift. We finished line construction at a point about a mile from where we had selected our campsite. It was about 6:00, time to march home. As we walked, the crew superintendent ("supe") lead the way, and I followed behind the last crewman. We were walking along the Pacific Crest Trail, and it really wasn't walking. I found myself almost jogging to keep up with the crew. It occurred to me that this was most likely a test to see what I had. I pushed my 55 year old legs as hard as I could and actually managed to stay up with everyone. Later I found out from the crew supe that I had duly impressed his guys (and a couple of girls) , so I guess I passed.

The best times were spent around the camp fire in the evenings and mornings. I got to know peoples stories, laughed together, and shared some of my story as well. They taught me some interesting tricks as well. Like how to boil water by filling a plastic water bottle and placing it into the red hot coals until the the bubbling started. I figured they were pulling my leg, so I was very skeptical...but it worked! Several folks used this method to brew the instant coffee that came in their Meals Ready to Eat (MRE's). They treated me extremely well by sharing fresh ground coffee brewed on a Jet Boil stove with me each morning. It was fabulous, as only good camp coffee can be.

Each night after eating dinner and BS'ing around the campfire, I would retire to my sleeping site at the foot of a huge Red Fir, take off my boots, rub Asper Cream into my aching feet, and snuggle down into my bag. I would gaze up at a charcoal sky, through the darkened tree canopies at the twinkling stars and think about how lucky I was to be there.

After nine days, the powers that be in fire camp decided that I needed to come back to camp to get "refreshed". I wasn't happy about trading the campfire, fresh clear mornings, and cold crisp, silent nights for the crowds, floodlights and constantly running generators of fire camp. A shower is worth only so much.

Me, after flying back to
camp from my 
assignment in the
wilderness.

I hiked up the ridge to a helispot, and was picked up for transport back to base. As I debarked from the chopper, I realized how dirty, grimy and grizzly I was. It actually felt kind of cool. I wore my filthy fire clothes, and grizzled grey beard with pride as I walked to my vehicle for the ride back to the camp proper. As I walked I thought back to my very first fire assignment, a lightning fire, somewhere on the Sequoia National Forest. I'd come a long way!

That's All!