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

May 20, 2026June 2, 2026 / Curt Mekemson / 8 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 may eventually make it into UT-OH!.

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 21: A Raging Forest Fire, Evel Knievel, a Rocket Scientist, and a Big Dog Date… Part 2

May 6, 2026May 5, 2026 / Curt Mekemson / 8 Comments

Idaho Falls on the Snake River is known for its beautiful falls. There are several. Thus the city’s name.

The easiest way to get across the Snake River is on this bridge.

Daredevil Evel Knievel opted to jump across it in a modified motor/rocket cycle built by rocket scientist Robert Truax.

A Sports Illustrated cover that featured Knievel in the Snake River canyon.

Summer 1961: In my last post, I got up the nerve to ask a rocket scientist’s daughter for a Saturday night date to the California State Fair, spent a long week waiting, worked in a pear orchard for 9 hours on Friday, joined friends for a night of chugging beer that evening, and then left the party at midnight to fight a raging forest fire— all before the date. I am continuing the story today as I tell the tale of the longest weekend in my life...

One hour later I was in a mustering hall in Placerville filled with men being divided up into fire-fighting teams. By 2 a.m. I was clinging to the side of a steep canyon with one hand desperately holding onto a manzanita bush while my free hand wielded the short, heavy mattock. Our team had been assigned the responsibility of clearing a firebreak along the canyon rim. The whole sky was lit up in front of us by an inferno that was relentlessly marching toward our location. It encouraged fast chopping. Full speed ahead and damn the blisters.

It was not our night to play toast, however. The wind switched direction and we completed our firebreak. Somewhere around five a.m., a very welcome soul had shown up with water to refill our empty canteens. At seven we were told to take a break for breakfast. We returned to the staging area where men and machines competed for space, and the earlier night’s chaos had been whipped into a semblance of order. More importantly, a highly efficient cooking crew was turning out mountains of mouth-watering food. Starvation would not be a problem.

After breakfast, our next assignment was dealing with small spot fires left behind by the main conflagration that was now trying to burn itself out. We marched through the mini-Armageddon with back pumps spraying anything that smoked. A change in wind direction might fan these dying embers into flames and a new outbreak. It was hot, dirty work, but lacked the intensity of the night before.

A late lunch came and went. Afterwards our crew chief made us an offer I couldn’t refuse. The worst danger appeared to be over. Only mop-up work remained to be done. While our services were still needed, we could be relieved if we had other pressing responsibilities. I decided that Kathy was a ‘pressing responsibility.’ It was 2 p.m. and I had been fighting fire for 12 hours. There was just time to get home, beautify, and make it to Kathy’s home in Cameron Park by 5.

I won’t say the date was anticlimactic, because it wasn’t. Kathy was as charming as I expected and going to fairs has always been one of my favorite activities. Among the things that attract me are pigs and goats. I’m fascinated by pig behavior, especially at feeding time. I love to watch them squeal, snort, shove, and snap their way to the food pan. I particularly enjoy the ones that place both front feet solidly in the middle of the common food dish and glare defiantly around at fellow pigs. It’s so human. As for goats, I like their friendly curiosity and the way they come over to be scratched and nibble at your shirt.

Goats have always been one of my top reasons for visiting fairs. This fellow was very curious about my camera. Shortly afterwards, he tried to nibble on my shirt.

I took Kathy to the animal barn. It’s a must-do on fair dates. Wiser heads might counsel this is not the way to impress a new woman friend, but I’ve always figured if my friend didn’t have a sense of humor about the animals, it was unlikely she would have a sense of humor about me.

A highlight of the evening was winning Kathy a car-filling stuffed dog. As a ten-year old kid, I once spent a couple weeks before the El Dorado County Fair practicing the game of toss a dime in a dish and win a prize. Each night I would religiously get out my plates and two dollars’ worth of dimes and toss away. I learned a little back flip trick that actually allowed the dime to stay in the dish. When the Fair came, I was loaded for bear, or at least stuffed bear. I picked out the booth that featured the animals I liked and bought a dollar’s worth of dimes. My very first dime managed to stick.

“Even little kids win here,” the carnie shouted as he tossed me a bear. He wasn’t nearly as excited when I won the second bear. On the third, he banned me from the booth. It was one of my prouder moments. I sold the bears to the older brother of one of my friends for $10. He wanted to give one to his girlfriend but couldn’t win one. I had all the makings of becoming a great capitalist.

Unfortunately, I had lost the knack of dime toss by the time of my date with Kathy and the dishes had shrunk considerably. A tiny plate in the middle, slightly larger than a dime, was reserved for the bigger animals you were required to win to impress a girl.

I decided I would have better luck at a ball toss where all the prizes were large. This is the game where you have to fit large softballs into small, numbered squares. You win if the numbers add up to more or less than specified high and low numbers. Naturally, it is almost impossible to do on skill given the size of the squares and the bounciness of the balls. It is also close to impossible to win on luck. So I did the next best thing, I cheated. I helped the ball behave by leaning over the barrier when the carnie was otherwise occupied. The crowd, seeing what I was up to, participated by distracting him.

“We have a winner,” the carnie shouted as he paraded around his booth with the large stuffed animal. “Everyone’s a winner at my booth.” Sure. I’d bet a hundred bucks no one else had won one that day. We walked away laughing.

Eventually the evening came to an end. I loaded Kathy and her large stuffed dog into my 56 Chevy and headed back up Highway 50. I delivered her home ten minutes early. We chatted away happily until midnight. Then the lights started blinking.

“What?” I asked Kathy.

“Oh, it’s just Mother,” Kathy explained somewhat embarrassed. “She always starts blinking the lights after I return from a date.” That was a first for me. I reluctantly said goodnight to Kathy as she and her large stuffed dog went inside, and I started my drive back to Diamond.

It was a successful conclusion to a day that had started 42 hours earlier and included 9 hours of working in the orchard, 5 hours of partying, 12 hours of firefighting, 7 hours of mundane activities, and the 7 hour date with Kathy. I was one tired puppy and just managed to make it home without passing out.

We had one more date that summer, a day trip into the foothills above Diamond. It was my territory, so to speak, the boonies, far away from the world of rockets. Or so I thought. It turned out that her grandmother lived up near Pleasant Valley, on the edge of the same canyon where Caldor had once run its logging trains. Her father occasionally used the property for his hobby, shooting off rockets he had built. His dream was to create inexpensive rockets that would make space more affordable and could be retrieved for use again. And it was this dream that would eventually team him up with Evel Knievel, a man whose name was synonymous with daredevil.

During his life, Knievel made some 275 motorcycle jumps over cars, busses, and trucks. Fifteen of the jumps involved spectacular accidents. He suffered numerous concussions and shattered his pelvis three times. Overall, he broke 35 bones. Maybe he should have pursued a much tamer sport, such as playing NFL football.

But regardless of the injuries, he was always on the lookout for new ways to upgrade his act, obtain more publicity, and increase his income. Mainly this involved adding more vehicles to leap (for a number of years, he held the world record of 19 cars), but he also had a dream of jumping the Grand Canyon. The National Park Service wasn’t enthusiastic about the idea, however, which eventually led him to Idaho’s Snake River in 1974— and to Robert Truax. Knievel’s Harley wasn’t up for 1700-foot jump across the river. Truax offered to build him a rocket-cycle he could sit on that would. The jump failed after the parachute deployed prematurely, but Knievel survived with minor injuries.

That, however, was far into the future. Kathy and I enjoyed the date, returned home, and began to prepare for heading off to college.

The blast off of Evel’s attempted jump across the Snake River. It may be the only rocket ship ever that came with wheels.

Friday’s Post: The revenge of the EX.

Wandering through Time and Place

Exploring the world with Curtis and Peggy Mekemson

blog a book on Word Press

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

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

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

UT-OH Chapter 21: A Raging Forest Fire, Evel Knievel, a Rocket Scientist, and a Big Dog Date… Part 2