A Bold Man

Trish is in Sacramento visiting her brother and attending an art show with BFF Holly, who lives in Portland.  So, I'm batching it for a few days.  I don't consider that a hardship at all, don't mind taking care of the dogs and fixing my own dinners.  I'm oh so appreciative of Trish's fine cooking, but her absence means I can indulge in foods that she doesn't much like - oyster stew, for instance.  I made it last night.  Yum!  Oyster stew was one of my dad's favorites, and a welcome change from our meat-dominated diet on the farm.  So, I grew up with it, liked it from the get-go.

The title of this post has an oyster connection, as you may know.  Here it is: He was a bold man that first ate an oyster.  Jonathon Swift c. 1700.  Even oyster lovers must admit that they look repugnant. The oysters, not the lovers.  A close friend is fond of saying that they look like small internal organs. Can't argue with that, never heard anyone declare them a thing of great - albeit understated - beauty.

My personal boldness level is limited.  Stewed, smoked and pan-fried, I'm all over it.  On the half shell, not so much.  I did try the half shell once, but only after a lengthy session of boldness bolstering.  It was in Madrid, the summer of 1983, while on one of the long Egyptian holiday breaks (I lived and worked in Alexandria, Egypt at the time).  Another single guy and I flew from Cairo via Athens to Madrid, spent a couple nights there, then rented a car and toured the Spanish riviera.

Madrid has numerous bars, called cuevas (caves), situated 2-3 flights of stairs below street level.  The cuevas are often visited by colorfully-costumed troubadour types who wander in, gather in a corner and play their instruments.  We visited a cueva and had one hell of a good time, shared our table with a hot Swedish tour guide who spoke both Spanish and English, and her bus driver, who spoke neither.  We'd buy the musicians a pitcher of sangria, then they'd buy one for us - and back and forth it went for several hours.

We staggered out of the cueva at 2 AM feeling no pain, ascended the stairs, and right there on the street was a guy selling oysters on the half shell.  My friend made a beeline for the oyster cart, bought a couple and snarfed 'em down.  I hesitated but finally succumbed and tried one myself.

Now, doesn't that look yummy?

An eye - less the eyeball - from some cadaver, 

and a large slimy loogie of unknown origin.

An oyster on the half shell looks like an enormous hocked-up loogie.  Feels like one in your mouth, too.  And it's cold so you know it can't be your loogie.  Uh-uh.  Somebody else hocked it up and spat it into that oyster shell.  It's best not to think about it.  Just tip the darn thing out of its shell, directly into your mouth and let it slither on down.  No chewing!  Chewing is verboten.  If a half-shell lover friend sees you chewing, you are beneath respect and will likely be un-friended.  Chagrin!  Horrors!

Once was enough.  Never again will I indulge - regardless of bottled boldness boosters.

So, who was that first bold man?  Or woman?  And, when did this great act of boldness occur?  We'll never know because the event took place long before recorded history.  The best guesstimate as to when is based on a 2007 discovery in a South African cave: anthropologists found evidence of shellfish consumption that dated back some 164,000 years.

Chloride, AZ

Chloride's General Store is the sum total of the 'retail district.'

We visited Chloride the same day we did Oatman.  Yet another boom and bust mining town, Chloride's name is derived from silver chloride, a white-ish translucent crystal also known as chlorargyrite.  Silver mining was primary but gold, lead, zinc and turquoise were also pursued.  In the late 1800s, there were about 75 mines in operation and the population was around 5000; in 2010 the population was 271.  

  

One of the alleged attractions in Chloride is 'lawn art.'

Lawn art, my ass!  Bunch of rusted out junk they were too lazy to take to the dump.  

This wall was as good as it got.

Murals above and below were painted by Roy Purcell in 1966.  They're located in a valley a mile out of town on the worst road ever.  I was unable to determine what Roy was smoking at the time, but it was obviously some darn good stuff.

Oatman, AZ

Oatman's population increased 114% between 2000 and 2010, an awesome growth percentage.  Less awesome than it appears at first blush, though, since only 63 people lived there in 2000.  Population peaked at 3500 in 1915-17 during the gold rush but then rapidly declined.

Nowadays, Oatman is a tourist attraction with staged gunfights, not-so-wild burros wandering the streets, funky tourist shops, one old hotel and a couple restaurants.  We did a day trip to Oatman a few days ago, along with my son Tod and his wife Char, who were in LHC for a 4-day visit.

Gunfight at high noon on main street, which is actually part of Historic Route 66.

Choose your ride: Polaris Slingshot reverse tricycle, SUV, burro or motorcycle.

There were about 20 burros in town.  The shops sell condensed hay cubes to tourists, who feed them to the burros.  There are thousands of wild burros in western Arizona, descendants of those that escaped or were let loose in the gold rush days.

The town is named after Olive Oatman, a white woman who was captured by Indians, aka Native Americans, and was later rescued (or was released or escaped, history is unclear).  Her chin was tattooed in the same manner as the character, Eva, in the TV series Hell on Wheels.

Tod and Char at the Oatman Hotel restaurant.  The walls and ceilings are covered with real paper currency, mostly ones, an estimated $100,000 worth.  The money is probably worth more than the 8-room hotel itself. 

Clark Gable and Carole Lombard honeymooned in this hotel, and Clark returned several times to gamble with the local miners.  Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn how much I lose.  I like the game and I like hanging with real men for a change.

Mt Whitney V

Day 4

The drive from Portal to Vegas takes about 5 hours.  We needed to get Patty to the airport by 2 PM for her return flight to Portland; I would take a later flight, using frequent flyer miles that were about to expire.  We'd sacked out early the night before (big surprise, huh?), woke up with the usual post-climb aches and stiffness, but exhilarated by our accomplishment - and ravenous for a hearty breakfast.

We headed out at 8:30 AM with Pat in the driver's seat.  The rest of us lounged around, enjoying the spaciousness of the RV, reviewing our climb, chatting about this and that. Around 11 AM, I popped into the shotgun seat and told Pat to look for a place to pull over so I could relieve him at the wheel.  A few minutes later we passed a sign that listed the mileage to various towns ahead, including Reno.  Reno?  What the hell?  Reno is hundreds of miles north of Vegas.  Shit!  We're headed the wrong way.  Have been for nearly an hour.

Pat may have been distracted by this sign when he made the wrong turn.

The guy who crash landed the plane surely was,
and he overestimated the length of the pull through.

I wonder if he did (pull through).

We stopped and switched drivers.  It would be a near thing and I'd have to drive well above posted speeds, but I was determined to make the airport by 2 PM.  I didn't, though.  We were just a few minutes too late.  No big deal, really.  Patty caught the later flight I was taking.

Beatty, NV (black arrow) is where we made the wrong turn

and headed north instead of south on US 95.

PS: I asked Mary Kay to help me with some of the details in this story, had to chuckle at her emailed response.  She called the trek a Death March, said it was inhumane.  She reminded me that she had injured her big toe somewhere along the trail, whacked it really good, lost the toenail later.  Sorry about that, MK.  You really should be more selective in your choice of hike coordinators.

The end.

Mt Whitney IV

Day 3, continued

We headed back down the trail, grateful to have gravity working for us instead of against us.  Steve developed a few foot blisters but not to worry: I had The Essentials!*  I dug out my moleskin and folding scissors, we got the blisters covered, and off we went.

About half way down, Pat and Steve ran out of water, but not to worry: I had The Essentials!  There was a small stream nearby so they filled their canteens with water and I treated it with water purification pills (iodine).  Iodine pills aren't noted for their ability to make water taste even remotely palatable, but do serve as a powerful reminder: next time, take 2 canteens of water instead of 1, dummy!  And off we went. 

 I told Patty we'd be back about 5 PM.  No way!  It would be well past 6 PM.  I was concerned about Patty becoming worried and sending out a search party.  Didn't want that to happen, so I decided to haul ass back to camp, about 3 miles distant at that point, and Mary Kay chose to accompany me. Steve and Pat would follow at a slower pace.  

MK and I moved along swiftly, nearly jogging, and bumped into Patty a half mile above camp; she'd come up the trail looking for us.  Dusk comes early when you're on the east side of a huge mountain.  It was pitch black when we hit camp, which meant Pat and Steve would have to do the last mile+ in total darkness.  My bad; I should have left  my headlamp with them.  Also my bad: I should have advised everyone well beforehand to bring their own Essentials.  

* The 10 Essentials: map, compass, sunglasses/sunscreen, extra clothing, flashlight, first aid supplies, fire starter, matches, knife, extra food.  Moleskin and water purification tablets are not mentioned but it's wise to have them, plus a few other emergency-oriented odds and ends.

The list above dates back to the 1930s.  It was revised and updated in 2003:

navigation, sun protection, insulation, illumination, first aid supplies, fire, tools, nutrition, hydration, emergency shelter.

Mt Whitney III

Day 3

We hit the trail at 3 AM, still black as the ace of spades.  I had a headlamp and led the way, taking it slow so nobody would stumble in the dark.  There was some moonlight after we left treeline so we picked up the pace a bit.  Patty stayed with us until full daylight, then dropped out and returned to camp.

L to R: Mary Kay, Patty, me, Pat; Steve took the picture.

About 10,000' altitude

We continued up the trail, taking short breaks every couple of hours, started really feeling the altitude above 12K, had mild headaches so kept it slow, took more breaks, drank more water.

Summit!

L to R: Mary Kay, Steve, me, Pat

We hit the summit around noon, took pix, ate our granola bars.  I found a flat spot, stretched out on the dirt and took a 20 minute nap.

The 'facility' at the summit was recently hit by lightning, was just a mess of sticks.

I thought it an excellent opportunity for me to parody The Thinker.

To be continued.

Mt Whitney II

Day 2

We called the RV owner at 9 AM, fridge still not fixed.  Called again an hour later; SOS.  We had to get rolling, couldn't wait any longer, so we called an RV rental place, checked out of the motel, drove to the rental place, did the paperwork, tossed our gear into the RV, returned the rental car, retrieved our groceries from the RV owner's home and, finally, hit the road.

En route we made a brief pit stop at Stovepipe Wells in Death Valley.  Pat wanted to buy a T-shirt like the one I'd bought in Death Valley several years prior, had Death Valley Yacht Club written on it, and a picture of a small boat mired in the sand.  They had numerous tourist T-shirts but no Yacht Clubs.  Eat your heart out, Bro.

We arrived at Whitney Portal Campground just before dusk, with barely enough time to locate the restrooms and trailhead before it became totally dark.  We settled in, stowed our gear and groceries and started preparing dinner.  We sacked out early, knowing we had a 2:30 AM wake up call.  And, also knowing that with only 8 hours of acclimation time vs the 36 hours we'd planned on, altitude sickness might be a problem.