Tales from UT-OH!: On Meeting a Terrorist Group in the Sierras… Stuck in the Snow with Tania

June 15, 2026June 13, 2026 / Curt Mekemson / 2 Comments

Peggy and I are presently traveling through Greece, Scotland and Northern Ireland. While we travel, I am posting stories that will be in my WordPress blog-a-book: UT-OH! Today’s tale is about a 1965 confrontation with a terrorist group on a remote road in the Sierra Nevada Mountains of California. Few things get much more Ut-Oh-ish.

The Symbionese Liberation Army released this photo with its star recruit.

“Death to the fascist insect that preys on the life of the people.” —Motto of the Symbionese Liberation Army

In the spring of 1975, two friends and I went on a scouting trip. We had driven up into the Sierra Nevada Mountains early in the spring to look for likely fishing holes. Trout season was only a few weeks away. The mountains were still coated with snow. Following Highway 50 up from Sacramento toward Lake Tahoe for 60 plus miles, we took Ice House Road into the ElDorado National Forest. We carefully made our way along the ever-narrowing road until a snow bank suggested that further progress was best left up to animals with big furry feet. We stopped and got out to stretch our legs.

We had wandered a few feet when a white van came roaring up from behind and tried to slip by the right side of our car without slowing down. Normally it wouldn’t have been more than an irritation, but the narrowness of the road combined with the snow left just enough room for one and one half cars. Not two. We watched in slow motion disbelief as the van barely missed our vehicle, slid into the snow, and became seriously stuck.

“Yes!” we said in unison, “There is justice in this world!” Right about then the side door of the van opened and disgorged a polyglot group of rough-looking characters. “Whoa,” I mumbled more quietly, “we had better keep our opinions to ourselves.” While two or three of the men bent down to look under the van, a not so rough, in fact an attractive young woman, disentangled herself from the group and came strolling over to where we were standing.

“I am in love,” Hunt mumbled. Phil and I joined the admiration society while an elusive thought began tugging at the back of my mind.

“Hi, guys,” she smiled at us, becoming even lovelier. “Do you have any guns in your car?”

My tiny elusive thought suddenly became a very large insistent nag. Attractive young women don’t normally start conversations by asking whether you are carrying weapons. Hunt, on the other hand, was beaming. He liked guns and— even more— he liked women that liked guns.

“I have a twenty-two along,” he announced proudly.

“Oh,” she replied, apparently a little disappointed at the size of Hunt’s gun. “My friends taught me how to shoot automatic weapons in the Bay Area. We are up here to practice.” It was stated with the same type of pride a new mother might talk about her child’s first steps or words. My large, insistent nag turned into a five-stage fire alert.

Meanwhile Hunt had suggested that he and his new friend take the twenty-two out for a little target practice since it was obvious that the van wasn’t going anywhere quickly. I don’t remember how I managed it, but I pulled my friends aside sans beauty for a very quick and quiet conversation.

“I am not one hundred percent sure,” I began, “but I think the young woman who likes big guns is Patty Hearst, aka Tania, and that her friends over at the van are members of the SLA. If I am right, we are in a very dangerous situation.”

The SLA, or Symbionese Liberation Army, was one of the more bizarre and misled of the radical groups to be born out of the ferment of the late 60s and early 70s. Viewing itself as an urban guerrilla movement, SLA’s first action of note had been to gun down Dr. Marcus Foster, the black Superintendent of Oakland Schools, and seriously wound his deputy, Robert Blackburn. Blackburn had earlier served as Peace Corps Director of Somalia and then gone on to work for the Philadelphia School System. He had recruited my first wife, Jo Ann, and me as teachers in Philadelphia when we left the Peace Corps. It would have been hard to find two people more committed to helping disadvantaged inner city kids in America than Foster and Blackburn.

SLA’s next major public statement was to kidnap Patty Hearst, heiress to the newspaper tycoon William Randolph Hearse, while she was a student at UC Berkeley. At some point, Patty switched from being an unwilling kidnap victim to willing participant in SLA and adopted the name of Tania (the name of Che Guevara’s girlfriend). The common assumptions were that Hearst was brainwashed or a victim of the Stockholm syndrome, a psychological response through which a kidnap victim comes to associate with his or her captors. Certainly, the young woman we talked with, was proud of her skill with automatic weapons and had the freedom to come over and chat with us. She was not an unwilling prisoner.

In 1974 Patty participated in a San Francisco bank robbery and then moved to Los Angeles with the SLA where several members of the group met their death in a fiery confrontation with LA police. Some 400 LAPD officers had surrounded a house occupied by SLA and emptied over 5,000 rounds into the structure. (Over kill?) Patty, who wasn’t there, watched the whole confrontation on television. She, along with William and Emily Harris, then fled to Pennsylvania for several months before making their way to Sacramento and another bank robbery.

There was enough similarity with Hearst and the SLA that I suggested we go over to the van and help the nice folks get unstuck— which we did. They drove up to the end of the road, turned around, carefully edged by our car and headed off down the mountain. We waved and smiled vigorously as they disappeared.

Was it Patty Hearst and the SLA? The timing was right, the young woman looked like Patty, and the group could have fit a description of the SLA. Patty reported later that the group had taken their van into the mountains for weapons practice. In May of 1975, the SLA robbed a bank in Sacramento (Carmichael) and a young mother, Myrna Opsahl, was shot and killed. Patty Hearst drove the get-a-way vehicle. It was one more sad and sordid event in the history of the SLA. In most ways this group of want-to-be revolutionaries was a group of losers. Their murder of Marcus Foster was regarded with disgust by most members of the radical community. It was their kidnapping of Patty Hearst and, even more so, the fiery shootout in LA that gave their organization legendary status.

As for Hearst, I have no doubt that the Stockholm syndrome played a role in her behavior. But I am also convinced there was more. The atmosphere of the time encouraged radical thinking and Patty, who was something of a rebel, was living in a cauldron of dissent at Berkeley. I suspect it wasn’t all that hard to slip into a role of radical chic.

Patty’s crime spree came to an end in the fall of 1965 when the FBI tracked her down in South San Francisco. Here she is shown with agents and in hand cuffs. (AP photo)

Wednesday’s Post: My friend Bob Bray gets lost in a snowstorm when we are out hunting. Night falls before we can find him…

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Tales from UT-OH: The Cow Elk Slammed on Her Brakes… Ten Feet in Front of Me!

June 10, 2026June 9, 2026 / Curt Mekemson / 3 Comments

Peggy and I are off journeying through Greece, Scotland and Ireland over the next several weeks, so there won’t be much time for blogging. I’ve decided to republish some of my favorite posts from the past 15 years that will eventually make it into the book I am blogging: UT-OH!.

Today’s post follows my adventure with the beaver in the Wind River Mountains of Wyoming. I drove south down into NewMexico for a backpacking trip into the Gila Wilderness of New Mexico next to the Cliff Dwellings National Monument in southern New Mexico.

Peggy photographed this herd of elk near the Redwoods.

I thought I was prepared for everything when I started my backpack trip into the Gila Wilderness. Little did I know…

My pack was loaded with a week’s worth of food and six topographic maps, more than enough to let me wander wherever I wanted and hopefully avoid getting lost. I had started off up the West Fork of the Gila River in the Cliff Dwellings National Monument, but soon came across a trail jogging out of the canyon to the right.

Looks good to me, I thought to myself and started climbing. I was determined that wherever I went for the week would be based on random decisions. So much of my wilderness experience had involved leading groups or scouting out potential routes for organized trips that the sense of abandon felt delicious.

Consequently, years later, it isn’t exactly clear to me where I went. I was more than happy to hike 4 to 5 miles in one direction and then 6 or 7 in another. The only thing I tried to avoid was backtracking. I do remember wandering through Woodland Park and Lilly Park as well as climbing in and out of several canyons.

Southern New Mexico is UFO Country, so I had brought along two science fiction books for evening and early morning entertainment. I was also carrying my usual field ID book and one serious read, Aldo Leopold’s “Sand Country Almanac.” Leopold had been responsible for the creation of the Gila Wilderness in 1924, making it the first specifically designated wilderness area in the United States, and, I might add, the world. People who love wild country and understand its intrinsic value owe a great debt to the man for his vision. I had read the book before but reading it again in the Gila Wilderness added a special significance. I declared a layover day so I could savor it all at once. I was camped on a small stream located in a minor canyon and hadn’t seen a soul for four days. It was the perfect setting for getting lost in a book.

At some time in the early afternoon, a loud “Woooeee” shattered the silence.

Big Bird, I thought to myself. Big Bird on steroids. Aldo Leopold would have been up in a flash to discover the source. Of course, he would have had his rifle with him. He was quite the hunter. As usual, my only weapon was a three-inch pocketknife. Still, the mountain man in me demanded I get off my lazy tail and go exploring. I grabbed my binoculars and climbed out of the canyon. I was greeted by a broad, flat expanse of Ponderosa Pines but no Big Bird. “Woooeee,” I heard receding into the distance. I put on my stalking cap and begin to sneak through the forest.

“Woooeee!” Big Bird shouted behind me. I whirled around only to catch a glimpse of something disappearing behind a bush. Big Bird it wasn’t. Nor was it the ghost of Geronimo, whose territory I was wandering through. It looked suspiciously like a cow elk that had morphed from stalkee to stalker. I wasn’t sure that I liked my new role but decided to play along.

“Woooeee,” I called out and jumped behind a Ponderosa.

“Woooeee,” I heard a delayed three minutes later. I stepped into the open to discover that my female companion had come out from behind her bush and was staring intently at my tree.

“Woooeee,” I shouted at her as she once again disappeared. We had a game. A cow elk was wooing me.

Years earlier I had discovered that much of the higher animal kingdom is quite curious about humans that don’t act like humans. I once had a similar experience to my elk chat with a coyote on the American River Parkway in Sacramento. First I would hide and then he would hide. Finally, out of frustration, the coyote plopped down in the middle of the trail, raised its head, and began howling. I plopped down in the trail as well, raised my head and joined him. We had quite the discussion.

The elk and I continued our game for about 15 minutes when I changed the rules. I sat down in plain sight with my back against the tree. Instead of hiding, she stood watching me for several minutes. I could tell the wheels were grinding away in her mind.

Suddenly she charged. I didn’t move from my seat but my adrenalin cranked up several notches. She was all of 10 feet away when she slammed on her brakes, lowered her head, stared me in the eye, and woooeeed again. Half fascinated and half frightened, I didn’t budge. Several hundred pounds of frustrated female were looming over me. I had zero doubt that she could kick the stuffing out of me. She held my gaze, snorted in disgust, shook her head, and trotted off.

While smaller than the bull elk, there is nothing puny about the females. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

Whatever conversation we had been having was over. I breathed a sigh of relief and returned to camp. My first chore was to get out my guidebook. Female elk, it noted, can become rather aggressive and dangerous in the spring when they have calves. I’d been both ignorant and lucky.

After dinner, I went for my evening walk following an animal path that ambled along beside the creek. I heard a snort and looked up. Five elk were standing on the canyon rim staring down at me. The old girl had recruited some buddies to check out the weird human. Unfortunately, this time I knew enough to be worried. I was an intruder in their territory, a possible threat to their precious babies.

My worry level turned to panic when all five came charging down the canyon wall. One moose had been scary; now I had the whole damn thundering herd! Running was out of the question. Think, Curtis, went dashing through my brain. The only thing I could dredge up was something I had fantasized I might do if charged by a grizzly bear in the wilds of Alaska. I started jumping up and down, scratching my armpits, pounding on my chest, and screaming ooh, ooh, ooh! It worked for great apes, why not me.

For the second time that day, I heard the screeching of elk brakes. This time there was no standing and staring, however. The herd turned as one and charged back over the canyon rim, disappearing into the night. Somewhat satisfied with myself, I returned to camp and the security of my tent.

I wandered around for another two days, keeping an eye out for UFO’s, steering clear of cow elk, and visiting sites where this or that pioneer had been killed by Apaches. The pioneers also did a pretty good job of killing off each other, not to mention the Indians. With my food running low, I finally ceased my wandering ways and hiked back to the National Monument.

NEXT BLOG: I finish my series on three of the backpack trips after my return from Alaska by going back to my first one: Backpacking into the Grand Canyon. After barely surviving my trip into the canyon, an unknown creature visits me in the night and dines on the edge of my sleeping bag.

Peggy and I are now at the site of Ancient Olympia on the Peloponnesian Peninsula where the Olympics were born in 776 BCE.. The large column is part of the Temple of Zeus completed in 456 BCE. The column was rebuilt for the Summer Olympics hosted by Greece in 2004.

Peggy uses her walking stick to demonstrate how javelins were thrown at the Ancient Olympics in Greece. Women, however, were not allowed into the games. An exception was made if you were the daughter of the gods. I had my suspicions…

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Dog Stew, Smelly Feet, a Rattlesnake and Hypothermia… The Story of How Bone Was Found: Part IV

June 1, 2026May 31, 2026 / Curt Mekemson / 4 Comments

Peggy and I are off journeying through Greece, Scotland and Ireland over the next several weeks, so there won’t be much time for blogging. Initially, I decided to put the blog on hold, but I’ve decided to republish some of my favorite posts that may eventually make it into UT-OH!.

Today’s post completes the tale of how Tom Lovering and I found a bone in the Sierra Nevada Montain Range and he/it began his transition to being Bone.

Bone has been wandering the world for close to 50 years. Given his nature, it is only natural that he would end up at Burning Man (14 times).

It was a pleasant hike down to Carson Pass on Highway 88 and relatively dry since we were on a south-facing slope.

Kit Carson came through here in February of 1844 along with John C. Fremont. It wasn’t pleasant then. The snow was deep and food was limited. They ended up dining off of their horses, mules and the camp dog. The dog apparently went quite well with pea soup. Later, the trail they discovered would become a major entry point for the 49ers and run through the foothill town of Diamond Springs where I was raised.

Frog Lake was a short jaunt off of the Tahoe-Yosemite/PCT near Carson Pass.

There was nary a bar, restaurant or gas station near the Pass so we hiked on another three miles to Lake Winnemucca. Rain was threatening and I set up my tube tent, a large sheet of plastic shaped into a round tunnel. It wasn’t particularly sturdy, but it was light and dry.

Tom, on the other hand, was carrying a luxurious three-season tent. He stacked the women in head to toe and ended up smelling April’s feet all night. I suspect he rubbed them, as well.

The next day was all downhill: down to Fourth of July Lake, down to Summit City Canyon, and down Summit City Creek to Camp Irene on the Mokelumne River. After dropping 4000 feet in 14 miles, I found myself bone tired again. Camp Irene provided an attractive campsite but turned out to be rattlesnake country. We kept a careful eye out but I missed one when I went out to utilize nature’s restroom.

I had discovered the perfect toilet spot, dug my cat hole and was baring my behind when one buzzed at me. It’s amazing how fast you can pull up your pants. I was lucky the snake didn’t bite me on the butt. It had crawled into the hole. We avoided a fate neither of us would have wanted!

I grabbed a stick and chased him away with a couple of sharp prods for good measure. He was lucky I was something of a nature boy. Otherwise he would have been smashed. The next time I did any serious bathroom duty was when I was parked on a flush toilet at Lake Alpine.

Backpacking out of Camp Irene is a challenge. The 4000 feet we dropped the day before in 14 miles we were now expected to re-climb in five. Low clouds filled the canyon. It wasn’t raining but it was cold and damp. Somewhere in the mist a male grouse made its familiar ‘whump, whump, whump’ sound, working to attract a female companion. I empathized. Dripping wet Buck Bush grabbed at our legs.

To stay warm and dry we broke out our rain gear. Lynn moved from being cold and miserable to shivering and not caring. She was on the edge of hypothermia, a very dangerous state. The body loses its ability to maintain warmth and the rational mind ceases to function. Coordination spirals downward. It is very easy to die.

Tom and I acted quickly. I fired up my Svea stove and Tom had Lynn stand over it wearing her cagoule, a dress like poncho. We positioned the stove carefully. While this wasn’t a solution to hypothermia one found in survival guides, it worked. (The recommended solution is to break out your sleeping bag and crawl in naked with the victim.) Within minutes, Lynn was ready to tackle the rest of the mountain.

Hypothermia can strike fast but it can also be quickly cured… assuming of course you catch it in time. Tom was next.

“Curt,” he called plaintively from off in the brush where he had gone to pee. I rushed over and begin laughing. He had managed the first half of his chore but couldn’t zip his pants up. His mind was working fine but his coordination had gone south. He was all thumbs. I called Lynn over to help as I returned to the trail chuckling. There are some chores a trek leader doesn’t need to handle.

We hiked the rest of the way into Alpine Lake without undo difficulty. Since our ride wasn’t coming until the next day, we rented a one-room cabin to share. Rain poured down outside as we relived our adventures and made up tall tales way into the night. Our journey was winding down, but it wasn’t over.

I was shaking the dirt out of my pack at home when the bone fell out. Apparently I had been carrying it all the way from Winnemucca Lake. “Darn Lovering,” I thought to myself, “I am going to get even.” I decided to keep the bone. There would be an opportunity on a future trip to slip it back into Tom’s pack. I would have revenge!

And that’s it, the story of Bone’s discovery. It started like so many things in our lives often do, as a non-event. Bone didn’t come up as a subject during our night in the cabin. Naked jumping ladies, lost trails, swollen rivers, gorgeous country, rattlesnakes, the physical challenge, hypothermia and even the upside-down map were the stories of legend, not a small, insignificant bone that came from who knows what.

But time has the power to rewrite history. When Tom opened his suitcase in France at the beginning of a two-year exploration of Asia, Africa and Europe, he found a surprise, Bone. I had my revenge. When I moved to Alaska and was unpacking my boxes, who should fall out but Bone. The tales go on and on…

Next: Bone answers 10 questions people frequently ask him.

Bone on a 20 day raft trip down the Colorado River in 2010 through the Grand Canyon. He travelled with his own PFD. Here he is floating on the Little Colorado River.

Peggy and I are back in Athens. This morning we are heading down to Nafplio on the Peloponnesian Peninsula. This is a photo of the Parthenon that Peggy took when we were here last week.

Tales from UT-OH!: Bone Is Found… Part 4

May 29, 2026May 31, 2026 / Curt Mekemson / 13 Comments

Today, I am continuing the story of how Bone was found. Bone was just plain bone when I found him in a field of Corn Lilies.

A final view of Lake Aloha. Pyramid Peak, where Tom was married, is the far peak on the left. I took this photo during my PCT Trek.

I was up early the next morning and eager to hit the trail. My body was starting to adjust and feel good. More importantly, the resort at Echo Lake was calling. A quick breakfast and we were off.

I took the lead with Tom following and Terry trailing. Soon we had climbed out of Lake Aloha, passed Margery Lake and worked our way across Haypress Meadows where cattlemen once harvested grass for winter feed.

As we began our descent into Echo Lake, I left my companions and the Desolation Wilderness behind. The vision of cold beer and a hamburger drove me on. Lynn and April were supposed to rejoin us at the Echo Lake Resort.

There was a decision to make when I reached Echo Lake. I could continue to follow the Tahoe-Yosemite Trail around the upper and lower lakes or I could call the Lodge from a phone located at the end of Upper Lake. It would send a boat taxi to pick me up for five bucks. The trail was hot, dusty, and filled with day hikers. And I was ready to take a break from backpacking. I made the call.

A half hour later, the throbbing of the motorboat’s engine caught my attention as the boat worked its way up the lake. Soon it arrived, coughing slightly. The boat slowed and bumped into the pier. My ‘taxi driver’ was a 16-year old plus teenager who had managed to snag a great summer job.

“Hop on,” he told me. An elderly couple was along for the ride. I nodded at them. I was halfway between the boat and the pier when I heard a commotion.

“Over here, Curt,” a familiar voice shouted. I looked up. A few yards away alders hid another pier. Two very attractive and very naked women were jumping up and down to get my attention.

They succeeded.

It was April and Lynn. They had come over on an earlier boat and were working in a little sunbathing while waiting for us. The young boatman and the old man were all eyes. The elderly woman looked thoroughly irritated and glared at all of us, especially her husband.

“Uh, I think I’ll stay here,” I told my driver.

“Can I stay too?” he asked and grinned at me. The elderly man wisely stayed silent.

I joined the girls as the boat coughed its way back toward the resort. Tom showed up soon afterwards. We were waiting for Terry when the ranger showed up.

“There has been a complaint about naked women jumping up and down over here,” he told us.

“Boy, I wish I would have seen them,” Tom responded. I am not sure the ranger bought our story but he wandered off in search of other criminals.

The same boatman picked us up and told me that the first thing the elderly woman did when she got back was to complain loud and long about the perverted people across the lake. She even cornered a ranger. My new young friend speculated that the ranger came looking for us as an excuse to escape. “Or maybe he wanted to see the naked ladies,” I noted.

The resort at Echo Lake, the dream of many a backpacker out on the trail. This photo is from my trek down the PCT.

We made it to the resort ourselves and celebrated our brief return to civilization with a hamburger and a cold beer (or was it more). My system complained about the third as we hiked on across Highway 50 and up to Benwood Meadow where we stopped for the night, some 34 miles from Meeks Bay.

Our fourth day started out as a typical backpack day. We climbed. It was gentle at first and then became more serious. Once again snow-covered large segments of the trail. We spread out and searched for tree blazes. I scrambled over a particularly steep section and found myself in a high meadow.

Something half buried in a field of young corn lilies caught my eye. A few days earlier it would have been covered with snow. Curiosity led me to detour through the still soggy ground. Mud sucked at my boots. My treasure turned out to be a disappointing, short, squat bone. Gnaw marks suggested it had been part of someone’s feast. I was about to toss it when a devious thought popped into my mind.

My wife, Peggy, and I took Bone back to the area where he was found. The snow was gone and the Corn Lillies large. He decided to take a nap. Or maybe he was sunbathing— naked.

“Trash,” I hollered at Tom and held up the bone. We had a game where if one person found a piece of trash, the other person had to carry it. But first you had to catch the other person.

Tom sprinted down the trail with me in pursuit. Unfortunately, we had made it over the mountain and our route ranged from flat to downhill. Tom was very fast. We had traveled two miles and were almost to Showers Lake before he stopped, concerned about leaving our companions behind. Very reluctantly, he took the bone and stuffed it in his pack.

“How can you classify a bone as trash,” he whined. I figured Tom would toss his new travelling companion as soon as I was out of sight.

Next: Dog stew, smelly feet and hypothermia.

Peggy and I are staying on the Greek Island of Tinos. As this photo from the charming town of Pyrgos suggests, there aren’t many tourists here. It’s the reason we chose the Island! There are, however…

UT-OH Tales: Tom Flunks Map Reading 101… How Bone was Found: Part 2

May 25, 2026May 24, 2026 / Curt Mekemson / 13 Comments

Today’s post is a continuation of my tale about how Bone was found south of Lake Tahoe along the Tahoe-Yosemite/Pacific Coast Trail.

Tom had a little more hair when we were backpacking together in the 70s.

I awoke with a Mountain Jay screeching at me from the safety of its perch in a Lodgepole Pine. A faint light announced the morning, but the sun still hid behind the mountains on the east side of Lake Tahoe. It was frosty cold and I burrowed into my bag, pretending for a few more moments that I didn’t have to get up. Nature drove me out.

I could ignore the faint light, I could ignore the Jay, and I could even ignore the stirrings of my companions, but I couldn’t ignore my insistent bladder. Among muttered good mornings, I wandered off into the woods and peed on a willow near where I had seen a coyote the evening before. I was marking my territory.

Back in camp Tom had his stove going. Lynn smiled at me. She, too, was a tall, good-looking woman. Terry had yet to emerge from her cocoon and April had replaced me out in the woods.

I heard a kersplash in Stony Ridge Lake and turned to watch as ripples spread out and announce that a trout had snatched its buggy breakfast. Briefly I regretted that I had left my fishing pole at home. The sun was now bathing the peaks above us in gentle light; ever so slowly it worked its way down the mountain.

Instant coffee, instant oatmeal and a handful of dried fruit made up breakfast. All too soon it was time to pack my gear and urge my still stiff muscles up the trail.

The troops were in high spirits. The sheer beauty of Desolation Wilderness demanded it. Our backpacking day would take us up to Phipps Pass, down in to the Velma Lakes, across to the Rubicon River, up Rockbound Valley, over Mosquito Pass and end at Lake Aloha, some 13 miles from Stony Ridge Lake. We took a few minutes to make sure our camp was clean.

Almost immediately we began to climb. Flashes of blue lupine, multi-colored columbine and cheerful monkey flowers eased our way along the switch-back trail. My pace of travel provided ample opportunity for appreciation. I caught a brief smell of mint at one point and wild onion at another.

We passed by two more small lakes and began our ascent of Phipps Pass. By this point I had moved in to granny gear and could hear my heart pounding in its cage, wanting to escape. Each step was a test of will. I kept moving. I had long since learned that the difficulty of starting outweighed the benefits of stopping. One step at a time I reached the top. A spectacular view rewarded my effort.

Peaks still buried under snow stretched off into the distance. The Sierra is a baby mountain range, the child of plate tectonics. Once, ancient seas covered the area. Volcanic activities left behind vast pools of subterranean granite. Crashing continental and oceanic plates lifted the granite into spectacular fault-block mountains, steep on the east and gentler on the west. The Ice Age brought glaciers that carved peaks, scooped out basins and left behind rocky moraines.

We stopped to catch our breath and enjoy the view. Soon we would begin our descent toward the Velma Lakes but first we worked our way around Phipps Peak. A series of lakes came into view. Tom and I immediately began to debate which was which.

A view of Middle Velma Lake early in the morning.

“And you expect us to depend on your trail finding skills?” Lynn asked. Tom whipped out his topographic map.

“See,” he said decidedly, allowing a note of triumph to enter his voice. While we were the best of friends, this didn’t eliminate an element of alpha male competition between us. He, after all, was the owner of an outdoor-wilderness store, and I, after all, was the leader of wilderness treks. I glanced at his map and an impish grin filled my face.

“Your map is upside down, Tom.” Oops.

We did agree to detour from the Tahoe-Yosemite Trail and go through Rockbound Valley. Heavy snow still covered the northern and eastern side of the mountains. It was unlikely to melt by the time of the Trek.

The trail we had planned to use followed the red PCT to Lake Aloha from the Velma Lakes. The route we chose instead followed the dotted lines. The Trekkers would have enough challenge backpacking 13 miles on their second day out. They didn’t need to slog through five miles of snow while muttering unprintable thoughts about me.

We started our descent into the Velmas carefully. It is hard not to think, “Oh boy, down hill!” after a hard climb. But going down is much tougher on your body than climbing. Stepping down is a form of free fall. Velocity and weight are focused on the joints of your legs and feet. Adding a 40-50 pound pack increases the problem.

It is easy to twist a knee or sprain an ankle, especially at the beginning of the season. And that was what happened. By the time we reached Middle Velma, April was limping.

“I stepped on a loose rock and slipped,” she explained in obvious pain.

While April soaked her foot in the cold lake water and broke out an Ace Bandage, Tom and I mulled over whether to go on or hike out. We arrived at a compromise. Lynn would hike out with April to Emerald Bay and the two of them would stay at a motel. They would rejoin Tom, Terry and me at Echo Lake some 18 miles down the trail.

Next: Raging rivers, kamikaze mosquitoes and a marriage on top of Pyramid Peak.

Peggy and I are now at the beginning of our month in Greece. We booked a VRBO at the Acropolis View Apartments for our first stop. They weren’t kidding. This is the view from our balcony.

UT-OH Tales… The Story of How Bone Was Found: Part 1

May 22, 2026May 22, 2026 / Curt Mekemson / 7 Comments

Peggy and I are off journeying through Greece, Scotland and Ireland over the next several weeks, so there won’t be much time for blogging. I’ll be sharing some of my favorite posts from the past 16 years that may eventually make it into UT-OH!.

Today’s post will kick off the tale of how Bone was originally found in a mountain meadow 49 years ago south of Lake Tahoe when he was still just a bone. For those of you who have been following Wandering through Time and Place for a while, you’ll be familiar with the slightly whacky, opinionated Bone. If you aren’t, he’s weird but fun, an antidote for our present weird but not so fun world.

Here he is with some of his companions. They like to dress up. Bone is on the left riding on the back of his best bud, Eeyore, who once saved him from hanging in Tombstone, Arizona. Next to him is his wife, the lovely Bonetta. He found her in a Florida swamp. They were married at Burning Man. On the right is George the Bush Devil. He is featured on the front of my book about the Peace Corps, *The Bush Devil Ate Sam*. Bone borrowed the masks from Peggy. This assemblage looks like it is right out of a horror movie, or a voodoo ceremony. Bone loved it. (Not shown: Baby Bone.)

It was the summer of 1977 and my wife was divorcing me. Apparently I lacked in stability, or at least in the desire to pursue the Great American Dream. She was right of course. I had absolutely zero desire to live in a large house in the suburbs. None of this made the divorce easy. I had been prepared to spend my life as a happily married man. (As I am today! Thank you, Peggy.)

To keep my mind occupied, I was working on the route for the Fourth Annual Sierra Trek, a challenging, nine-day 100-mile backpack trip in the Sierra Nevada Mountains that I had created as a pledge-based fund-raiser for the American Lung Association in Sacramento.

“So what’s your problem?” my friend Tom Lovering asked over a beer at the Fox and Goose Restaurant in Sacramento. He’d been-there-done-that with divorce and dated a number of women since. Tom owned Alpine West, an outdoor/wilderness store in Sacramento, and sponsored the Sierra Trek. His store was upstairs from the restaurant.

Tom, Bone and I are in front of the Fox and Goose at 10th and R Street in Sacramento in 2018, 41 years after Bone was found. Tom owned the Alpine West backpacking and wilderness specialty store at this location in 1977. Both the Goose and the Fox appear quite interested in Bone. It’s possible that the fox was thinking ‘food.’

I had persuaded Tom to go backpacking with me for six days to preview a section of the new route. Our plan was to start near Meeks Bay, Lake Tahoe and work our way southward 70 miles following the Tahoe-Yosemite Trail.

Tom had invited his girlfriend, Lynn, and Lynn was bringing along her friend Terry. Terry was nice, but not my type.

“I have a friend named April who wants to go backpacking,” Tom offered. “Why don’t I invite her to go as well? Maybe you two will hit it off.” The implication was it would help me get over the pending divorce.

A friend drove the five of us up to Meeks Bay. April was gorgeous and Tom was right. I followed her long legs and short shorts up the trail. My gloomy focus on the Soon-to-Be-Ex faded like a teenager’s blue jeans.

Hot feet and screaming fat cells were even more potent in forcing me to live, or at least suffer, in the moment. As usual, I’d done nothing to physically prepare for the first backpack trip of the season and I was paying the price.

We climbed a thousand feet and traveled six miles to reach our first night’s destination at Stony Ridge Lake. I crashed while Tom broke out some exotic concoction of potent alcohol made out of 190 proof ever-clear alcohol and Galliano Liqueur.

The Desolation Wilderness west of Lake Tahoe is filled with numerous small glacier-carved lakes and gorgeous granite peaks. This is Susie Lake.

After consuming enough of his ‘medicine’ to persuade my fat cells they had found Nirvana, I fired up my trusty Svea stove and started cooking our freeze-dried dinner. It wasn’t hard. Boil water, throw in noodles, add a packet of mystery ingredients, stir for ten minutes and pray that whatever you have created is edible. That night it didn’t matter.

Afterwards, we headed for our beds. The next day would be long. I slid into my down-filled mummy bag and looked up at what seemed like a million stars. There were no city lights or pollution to block my view and the moon had yet to appear.

I traced an imaginary line from the Big Dipper and found the North Star. It seemed far too faint for its illustrious history. A shooting star briefly captured my attention. Thoughts of divorce, short shorts, the next day’s route, a rock digging into my butt, and sore feet jostled around in my mind for attention.

Sleep finally crept into the bag and captured me.

Next Post: Tom flunks map reading 101.

Things that Go Bump In the Night… Backpacking with Socrates and Carlos Castaneda in the Sierra’s

May 20, 2026June 2, 2026 / Curt Mekemson / 13 Comments

Today, I am going to relate a story about going backpacking in 1972 with my Basset Hound Socrates. I took along a book I was reading by Carlos Castañeda that I had picked up at a bookstore in the Bay Area. He incorporated three things that had caught my interest at the time (and continue to): Cross-cultural experience, meditation, and wandering in the woods.

Socrates was not actually built for backpacking but he loved it. His grand daddy, so his papers claimed, had been the American-Canadian grand champion for his class. Socrates had no such ambitions. His two passions in life were digging and Milk Bones, although there was some question whether he preferred hotdogs. Both disappeared down his gullet ‘faster than a speeding bullet.’

Carlos Castaneda’s first book was published by the University of California Press in 1968 and considered an academic work of anthropology. It immediately caught my attention. Later, when his books were considered New Age instead of Academic, I still found his writing and message interesting.

About the time Socrates came into my life, I took up backpacking. While I normally backpacked with friends, I also enjoyed going out on my own. Naturally I decided that Soc should go backpacking with me on these excursions– you know, a guy and his dog type thing. So off we went to my all-time favorite spot in the Sierra Nevada Mountains of California, a small lake basin that had been carved out by glaciers north of the I–80 Freeway half way between Sacramento and Reno.

I’d driven up to the take off point at Grouse Ridge, hoisted my pack, and started off down the trail with Soc more or less tagging along. Usually it was less. His bloodhound-like nose often led to detours. I never worried about it. He knew where dinner was— and the same nose that led to his adventures always found me.

Plus, at the time, I was on a mission, practicing a hiking meditation that fit into Castaneda’s recommendations for enlightenment. “No words” I told myself. It was my mantra for the day. It must of have worked. I had backpacked for an hour, colors had become intense, and my sight sharpened to the point where I was noticing many things I would normally miss. I was on a meditative high. It was then I heard the voice. It was very clear and demanding. And internal. “Speak to me dammit!” Apparently, the part of my mind that is constantly chatting with itself, did not like to be ignored.

Grouse Ridge: The start of many adventures for generations of people. Peggy took this photo of me in 2017 when I was off on another solo adventure, getting in shape for my 2018, 75th Birthday, 750 mile backpack Trek down the Pacific Coast Trail. BTW, the PCT crosses I-80 on the other side of the far peaks on the left.

My goal for the trip was this beautiful little lake that I have returned to numerous times over the years. I’ve rarely found it occupied.

Sharing the lake with Soc was close to being totally alone. His concept of a quality wilderness experience was disappearing into the woods and seeing how many holes he could dig. He never seemed to catch anything so I am not sure of his motivation. I’d get up in the morning and cover his handiwork. I almost felt like I needed to file an environmental impact report. Socrates would end up limping back to the car with sore feet.

In the Carlos Castaneda book I’d brought along, Don Juan takes Carlos out into the middle of the Sonoran Desert on a pitch-black night and abandons him. Not long afterwards, the monsters come hunting. It wasn’t the best book for a solo night in the woods. As I read into the evening, I found myself paying more attention than usual to wilderness sounds. I ingested a little medicinal herb to lighten things up. It was the 70s, after all. Bad idea; instant paranoia set in. Soon I could hear the wind stalking me through the treetops. Monsters lurked in the water. An old snag turned into a ghoul.

A monster was reflected in the water. It’s on its side here. The Black Buttes are in the distance.

An old snag turned into a ghoul. Off in the distance something big and ugly was digging and snorting. Socrates, I hoped

“Here Soc,” I called. “Come here boy.”

The digging continued and grew more desperate.

“Come here!” I yelled. Still no response but now I could hear large claws scratching at granite.

“Does someone want a Milk Bone?” I added in a quiet, conversational voice.

The digging stopped. ‘Someone’ started coming through the brush toward me. Whatever it was, it was apparently interested in Milk Bones. Soc’s head, long body, and wagging tail made their way into the firelight. He might love digging, but he loved food more. There was a reason why my low-slung pooch weighed 70 pounds.

“Good boy,” I said while digging out a Milk Bone. I knew I was buying companionship, but it seemed like a good idea on this strange, dark night. Meanwhile, Socrates had started to drool in expectation. Soon he was shaking his head and shooting dog slobber off in a dozen directions. I ducked to avoid being slimed.

Unfortunately, my supply of Milk Bones was limited. I tied Soc up to assure his faithfulness. It was time for bed. I put the fire out and was greeted by a moonless, dark night. But hey, who needed the moon when I had my faithful companion and a million stars. I invited Socrates to snuggle up on my sleeping bag and laid my head down on the coat I was using for a pillow.

CRUNCH, CRUNCH, CRUNCH!

“What the F…!?” I shouted, sat up straight and grabbed for my flashlight. Socrates joined in by barking at my sleeping bag.

“No, Soc, out there,” I urged and pointed the flashlight off into the woods. Soc glanced up at me with a curious, what are you talking about look, and started barking at my pillow.

“Look Socrates,” I pleaded, “just pretend there is a garbage man out in the woods.” Soc had never met a garbage man he could resist barking at and I wanted his teeth pointed in the right direction. What Soc did with my advice was make three dog circles and plop down on my bag. I gave up and reluctantly laid my head back down on my pillow.

CRUNCH, CRUNCH, CRUNCH!

I sat straight up again. Soc growled at me for disturbing his rest and started barking at my sleeping bag again.

“Fine watch dog you are,” I growled right back at him while straining my ears for the smallest of sounds. When Soc shut up, I was rewarded with a faint ‘crunch, crunch, crunch.’ It was coming from under the sleeping bag. I had a proverbial monster under my bed!

Gradually it dawned on me that what I was hearing was a gopher tunneling his way through the ground, innocently on his way to some succulent root. I put my head down on my pillow. Sure enough, the ‘crunch’ became a ‘CRUNCH.’ The ground and the mystic weed were magnifying the sound. Soc had been right all along. I was lucky that he only barked at my sleeping bag and hadn’t started digging.

Don Juan would have appreciated how I had been tricked. Reality isn’t always what it seems.

In the next four posts, Curt relates the exciting tale of how I was found in a field of corn lilies along the Tahoe/Yosemite (Pacific Crest Trail). He called me trash!

UT-OH! Chapter 23: A Left Turn from the Right lane: Part 2… On Facing Nuclear Oblivion and Becoming an Agnostic

May 15, 2026May 17, 2026 / Curt Mekemson / 22 Comments

Being born in World War II, I am considered part of the Silent Generation instead of a Baby Boomer, those born between 1946 and 1964. The reality is that World War II babies are much more a part of the Baby Boomer Generation than the Silent Generation. (At least, I’ve never been accused of being silent.) It was the events of the 50s and 60s—particularly of the 60s— not the Great Depression and World War II that laid the foundation of who I would become. Four events that took place while I was at Sierra College expanded my world view and moved me from my conservative to a more liberal perspective.

In my last post, I gained a new perspective on what a minority meant, and learned that progress had negative as well as positive impacts. Today, I will look at the impact on my thinking caused by the Cuban Missile Crisis and the so called ‘Holy Wars’ down through the ages.

On Facing Nuclear Oblivion…

USS Yarnall naval destroyer with number 850 alongside Soviet cargo ship Poltava with crew on deck under cloudy sky — This is an AI generated map of areas in the US that were in range of the nuclear missiles that Khrushchev had installed in Cuba.

All of our young lives we had been raised under the threat of a nuclear cloud. We were constantly treated to photographs and television coverage of massive, doomsday explosions and their tale-tale clouds. They were more than an ut-oh, they were possibly the final UT-OH!

Atom bombs, which could destroy whole cities and kill millions of people, weren’t massive enough, however. We needed bigger bombs and we needed more. We needed hydrogen bombs. We ended up with enough nuclear weapons to kill everyone in the world and blast ourselves and the rest of life into times that would make the so-called Dark Ages seem like a Sunday picnic in the park. The logic was that it would serve as a deterrent to war, that it would bring peace. And to a degree, there was an element of truth in this. At least we haven’t used nuclear weapons— yet. But wars continue to rage.

The closest America came to the nuclear holocaust (that we know of) took place during two terrifying weeks in late October 1962. I, along with most of the student body and faculty at Sierra College, sat tethered to the radio in the Campus Center as our nation teetered on the edge of nuclear abyss. It all came about because a cigar chomping, right-wing dictator we liked had been replaced by a cigar chomping, left-wing dictator we didn’t. It was known as the Cuban Missile Crisis and has its own headlines in the history books as being a highlight of the Cold War.

Castro and his revolution provided a toehold for Communism in the Western Hemisphere. President Jack Kennedy responded by waging a crusade to get rid of him that had started with alleged assassination attempts using Mafia hit men and ended in the fiasco known as the Bay of Pigs. Castro had then called on Uncle Khrushchev to loan him something that might make the USA back off. Russia had responded by offering nuclear missiles.

The thought of having nuclear missiles capable of reaching the areas shown on the diagram above made the folks in Washington rightfully nervous. So Kennedy set up a blockade of Cuba. Fortunately, aided by promises that the US wouldn’t invade Cuba and that we would remove our missiles from Turkey, Khrushchev blinked.

From that point on in my life, I became convinced that here had to be solutions to solving international differences beyond blowing each other off the map. Nation states rattling sabers is one thing; rattling nuclear bombs and other forms of mass destruction is something else. They might be used. I joined the International Club at Sierra and became a fan of the United Nations. (Photo from 1963 Sierra college Annual. I’m second back middle row.)

My rock that was Peter relocates itself on an active fault zone…

My father’s greatest concern had little to do with the first three changes in my world view. It was the fourth that gave him sleepless nights. His family’s deep faith dated all the way back to the beginning of Presbyterianism in Scotland. Much to his delight, I had become seriously religious in high school. I was the senior acolyte, a junior lay reader, carried the cross, and even sang solos with the choir at the Episcopal Church in Placerville. I was a believer. There was even talk of my becoming a minister.

The Episcopal Church in Placerville played a significant role in my life for 10 years. I’ve always been grateful for its help in getting me through my teenage years. BTW, my first real job was the church’s janitor which I became at 13.

That changed when I went to college. In 1961 I picked up a Barnes and Noble-published book at the Sierra College bookstore on comparative religions and learned about Mithraism and Zoroastrianism. I caught a glimpse of how much of our great monotheistic religions were based on earlier belief systems or mythologies. The strong religious convictions of my teenage years began to crack.

Studying history had a much greater impact. In reading about the Roman Empire, I learned that the nature of Christ’s divinity was determined by vote at the Council of Nicaea in 325 CE in a bare knuckled political battle, not the most holy of environments. Even more disturbing, I was also learning about Crusades, Jihads, Inquisitions, and various other ‘Holy Wars.’ Doing unto others in the name of God, Allah, Jehovah, Christ, etc. seemed close to a commandment.

For all of the good religion has done down through the ages, and there is a great deal, it has also been a factor in much of the world’s violence and intolerance. I came to the conclusion that there was a fly in the ointment, a fatal flaw in religion that may yet bring about the Armageddon that so many fundamentalists believe in. Belief that a particular religion is the only true faith is one thing. Believing that adherents have an obligation to impose it on others— regardless of cost— is something else. It doesn’t leave much room for ‘Peace on Earth Goodwill toward Men.’

So here I was in mid-1963, a budding peacenik with international leanings, something of an agnostic, environmentally concerned, and committed to civil and human rights. I had definitely become more liberal in my perspective. I had made a left turn from the right lane. I figured I was ready for Berkeley. (Not)

In our next post on Monday, we will explore the beauty of the Northern Highlands of Costa Rica as shown by waterfalls.

UT-OH! Chapter 23: A Left Turn from the Right Lane:Part 1… On Being a Minority, and Becoming an Environmentalist

May 13, 2026May 13, 2026 / Curt Mekemson / 9 Comments

I found this photo by Ansel Adams in the 1963 Sierra College Annual a bit ironic. The Sunset International Petroleum Company had bought an ad in the *Sierran* to promote “a new community coming into being on land so beautiful it takes your breath away.” Bulldozers were cutting roads through the land while trees were being cut down and boulders removed to make way for houses.

I am going to plagiarize myself by stealing some stories from my book: The Bush Devil Ate Sam. This really isn’t plagiarism, of course, since I am stealing from myself. Still, I feel a tad guilty, but I have three good reasons.

There are UT-OHs! in the book that deserve to be included here.
It’s a way of introducing readers to The Bush Devil Ate Sam.
While the Bush Devil is primarily about my experience as a Peace Corps Volunteer, it also about the 60s, a very interesting time in America’s history with important messages for today. I am presently revising the Bush Devil to include the time when I returned to the US in 1967 and worked for the Peace Corps in public affairs and recruitment for three years. It will complete my perspective on the 60s from 1961 to 1970.

The next two posts will explore four of the major issues of the era, and how they changed my view of the world at Sierra College.

Making A Left Turn from the Right Lane…

Pop, my father, once bemoaned the fact that I went to Berkeley. He blamed it for radicalizing the budding young conservative Christian Republican I was when I graduated from high school. He was partially right. I didn’t participate in occupying the Administration Building at Sierra College, give speeches while standing on the Dean’s Desk, or sing We Shall Overcome while sitting on the floor with Joan Baez— as I did at Berkeley. But the truth is, it was my Sierra experience that expanded my world view and moved me from my conservative to a more liberal perspective. Berkeley simply jogged the meter a few degrees to the left.

Most of these experiences took place outside of the classroom, which is where much of my learning took place, as well.

On learning I was a minority…

The process of liberalization started during the first hour on my first day at Sierra. It was a tradition to kick off the school year with an event called Howdy Day. As part of it, the faculty had arranged for a speaker: Dr. No Yong Park, an Asian man with a Harvard education.

He stood up in front of a sea of mainly white faces and smiled like he had access to secrets we didn’t.

“You think I look funny?” our speaker asked with a grin. His question was greeted by a titter of nervous laughter. As naive as we were, we still knew enough to be made uncomfortable by such a question.

“Well I think you look funny,” he went on, to much more laughter, “and there are a lot more of me who think you look funny than there are of you who think I look funny.”

It jolted my perspective. The Civil Rights movement was gaining momentum in the South in the early 60s, and I was sympathetic with its objectives. Providing people with equal rights regardless of race, sex, religion or other arbitrary factors, seemed like the correct thing to do. I also had a vague concept that we all lose in the long run when we limit a person or group’s ability to succeed because of prejudice.

But I had never perceived of myself as being a minority. Instead, I belonged to an exclusive club. In 1961 white people dominated the US and the US was the most powerful nation in the world. It was easy to assume that this was how things should be. The fact that it might be otherwise put a new spin on the issue. What if I, or my children or grandchildren ended up in a situation where we were in the minority and lacked power? I added enlightened self-interest to my list of reasons for supporting human and civil rights.

Pave it and paint it green… (Words from the 1970 iconic Joni Mitchell song, Big Yellow Taxi.)

Another concept I was introduced to at Sierra was environmental activism, some nine years before Earth Day I. For this, I owe thanks to Danny Langford. Dan liked to talk and could fit more words into a minute than I could five. One Monday morning, he proudly informed me that he had spent his weekend pulling up surveyor stakes in a new development called El Dorado Hills.

“You did what?” I asked in a shocked and disapproving voice.

“I pulled up stakes to discourage a developer from building houses,” he responded in greater detail assuming it would make sense to me. It didn’t. Why would someone want to discourage a developer? It seemed positively Anti-American. My Republican roots were offended to the core.

“Why would you pull a destructive stunt like that?” I demanded to know as I thought of a whole day or possibly several days of surveyor work going down the drain.

“It’s a beautiful area,” Dan responded, “covered with oak trees and grass. They are going to cut down the trees, plant houses, and pave over the grass.”

Suddenly, what Dan was talking about made sense. I wasn’t about to join him on one of his destructive forays, but his comments made me think about how fast we were paving over California. Although I was only 20, many of the places I had wandered so happily as a kid had already met their unhappy demise at the business end of a bulldozer. Progress was how this effort was defined and progress was a sacred American tradition. For the first time in my life, a question had been inserted into my mind about its value.

Possibly there were other costs that needed to be considered and weighed in our blind rush toward the future. It would be nine years before I made the leap into being a full-time environmental activist, but the seed had been planted.

In my next UT-OH! post I describe two more events at I experienced while at Sierra that changed my perspective on the world. One was the Cuban Missile Crisis that threatened a nuclear attack on the US. The second was learning about how much Christianity was based on older mythology and the devastation caused by religious wars down through the ages.

This illustration from the Smithsonian Magazine shows the extent of the threat posed by Russian nuclear warheads installed in Cuba during the Cuban Missile Crisis.

UT-OH! Chapter 22: The Pick-Ax Caper Where a Beaver Loses Its Head (sort of)

May 8, 2026May 11, 2026 / Curt Mekemson / 7 Comments

My college education consisted of two very different experiences. The first was at Sierra Community College, which had a student population of around 1600 students in 1961. The second was at UC Berkeley with a population of over 30,000 plus. I’m glad I went to Sierra first. Berkeley was complicated. It was easy for a country boy to get lost.

I knew all of my professors at Sierra and a significant portion of the students. I even ended up as Student Body President my sophomore year. There were a variety of projects I undertook. The weirdest was responsibility for a pick-ax. Our cross-town rival was American River College in Sacramento. Like most such rivalries, ours was consummated in an annual football game. The winner received undying glory— and the coveted Pick-ax.

“Why a pick-ax?” I had asked. Who wouldn’t? I was told it was because of the area’s 49er heritage. Northern California is steeped in history of the 1849 Gold Rush. Picks, along with shovels and gold pans, were the go-to tools that miners wielded in their endless search for gold. The gold discovery site at Sutter’s Mill, Coloma was a mere 30 miles from campus.

The day before a football game with A.R., a bonfire rally was held on campus. A local lumber company in Auburn, Cal-Ida, provided the lumber and a truck to haul it. One of my jobs as president was to drive it. “You will have to post a guard at the bonfire site, Curt,” the Dean of the college told me. “American River might try to light the wood in advance of the rally.” The two women who appear to be beating back the crowd are actually cheerleaders setting the mood for the game. (Photo from the 1963 Annual of Sierra College.)

The 1962 Executive Council at Sierra College. I’m in the upper row second from left. (Photo from the 1963 Annual of Sierra College.)

We had won the previous year’s game so we had the Pick-ax. It was my sacred responsibility to carry it to the game. A special ceremony would be held during A.R.’s Homecoming Dance where we would formally give up or retain the Ax depending on who won. One more thing: In addition to possibly lighting our bonfire early, there was a good chance that A.R. would try to steal the Ax. It was a tradition between the two colleges: Whoever lost it tried to steal it back. My job was to protect it— with my life if necessary, I was informed.

I recruited a few guys to help with the protection detail including my friend Hunt Warner. He’s on the lower right. Hunt, with my encouragement, had run for and won the Freshman Class Presidency. These were his fellow officers. In the small world category, it was Hunt who had hosted the beer party the night I was called away to fight the forest fire. Brian Morris, sitting next to him, was stepson of Mike DeNatly, Placerville’s Chief of Police who had threatened me with arrest the day of my graduation from high school. (Photo from the 1963 Annual of Sierra College.)

To reduce the possibility of theft, we arrived a few minutes before the game was supposed to start, and moved watchfully along the walkway in front of the stands. I was surrounded by muscle power and carried the Ax firmly in my hands. About half way down walkway, my former girlfriend from high school, D, was sitting in the front row. After graduating from high school, she had come to Sierra, too, and was a freshman.

“Hi, Curt,” she greeted me with a large smile. I swear she was purring. Instant regrets of lost opportunities and more than a little guilt played tag among my memory cells. “Can I see the Pick-ax?” she asked.

“No, sorry D,” I responded. “I am supposed to protect it with my life.”

“Oh come on,” she urged, “what possible harm can it do?”

I gave in. What harm could it do? UT-OH!

I must admit the theft was neatly planned. The guy sitting next to her grabbed the Pick-ax, leapt over the railing, and handed it off to another guy who was waiting. That guy dashed across the field with a burst of speed that almost guaranteed he was the anchor on A.R.’s championship relay team.

My security team jumped the rail in hot pursuit, but they didn’t stand a chance. They were recruited for their size, not speed. By the time they reached the opposite bleachers, the Pick-ax had disappeared into an ocean of A.R. supporters. A thousand voices roared approval. Pursuing the ax would have been suicidal.

Well, needless to say, I felt terrible. I had failed in my duty, been done in by a pretty smile.

At half time, the A.R. mascot, who happened to be a diminutive woman dressed up as a beaver, came prancing over to our side of the stands, taunting us with the fact A.R. had stolen the Ax. She strolled by and flipped me off with her tail.

“Grab the Beaver.” I ordered my muscle men in a moment of sheer inspiration. And they did— gently.

“Let go of me you son-of-a-bitching goons,” she screamed in un-lady like beaver prose. The air turned blue.

“Gnaw on it, Beaver,” I growled as I took hold of her papier-mâché head and lifted it off. The invective level increased tenfold. The little Beaverette had an incredible vocabulary.

“Quick,” I urged Hunt, “make this beaver head disappear for the time being.”

We lost the game, I am not sorry to say. Had we won, my losing the Pick-ax would have been a much more serious crime, punishable by banishment from Sierra. As it was, A.R. had simply obtained the Ax an hour early. And I had the beaver head— well hidden.

I made my way through the dispersing crowd to the dance. The floor was already packed with gyrating Beavers. The bandleader willingly turned over his microphone when I looked official and said that I had an important announcement to make.

“Hello everyone, my name is Curtis Mekemson and I am President of the Student Body of Sierra College,” I jumped in. There was immediate silence. “I came here to present you with your Ax but you already have it.” (Laughter) “But,” I went on with a pregnant pause, “I have your Beaver Head.” (More laughter)

The crowd was in a good mood. They had won the game and could afford to be generous to this enemy within their midst.

“Getting it was not easy. Do you have any idea of the extended vocabulary of your Beaverette?” (Extensive laughter) “I do, however, wish to apologize to her and note that the language was justified. Having your head ripped off is never a pleasant experience. As for my defense, she flapped her tail at me one too many times. In wrapping this up, I have a proposition for you. Do you want your beaver head back?”

“YES!” was the resounding answer.

“Okay,” I replied. “If you will send an appropriate delegation up to Sierra next Wednesday at noon, I will personally return the head.”

That was that. Arrangements were made for A.R. to appear at the Sierra College Campus Center the following week. The day came and the Center was packed. I had turned the head over to our cafeteria staff for a special presentation.

The A.R. delegation showed up at noon on the dot. I welcomed them to our campus, complimented them on their victory and encouraged them to enjoy the Pick-ax for the short year they would have it. I also urged they keep it well guarded.

“And now,” I announced, “it is time to bring out the Beaver Head.”

Out from the cafeteria came a formal procession, complete with the campus cook and her assistants. The Beaver Head had been carefully arranged on a huge platter that included all of the trimmings for a feast. The piece-de-resistance was an apple carefully inserted into the Beaver’s mouth, like a roasted pig. Needless to say, a great time was had by all, including the A.R. delegation.

D’s revenge over my dropping her in high school, and my debacle with the Pick-ax had been turned into a minor victory, for both of us.

Wandering through Time and Place

Exploring the world with Curtis and Peggy Mekemson

Memoirs