Burning Man Was Born on a Beach in San Francisco

September 9, 2014January 24, 2015 / Curt Mekemson / 28 Comments

The Man at Burning Man this year stood some ten stories high and towered over the surrounding playa and Black Rock City.

A striking view of the iconic Golden Gate Bridge dominates the view from Baker Beach in San Francisco. It’s a romantic spot, a popular place to get married. Folks also get naked; it’s a nude beach. It was here that Larry Harvey and his friend Jerry James decided to host a bonfire in honor of the summer solstice in 1986. As to why they chose a nine-foot wooden effigy of a man (and his dog) to burn, Harvey remains mysteriously mum. Whatever the reason, it was out of the flames that Burning Man was born. Larry and his friends had such a great time they vowed to come back the next year with a bigger Man.

By 1990 the Man had grown to 40 feet tall and word of mouth had guaranteed that a sizable crowd was present for the solstice bonfire on Baker Beach. It wasn’t to be. Golden Gate Park police had decided that burning the Man posed a fire hazard to the Park and City. A single Park Ranger rolled in on a motorbike and said no go. You can’t be too careful, right? Fires were raging across Southern California.

The Man was taken apart and returned to the vacant lot he called home. The people who had come to watch the burn were angry. This might have marked the end of Burning Man, except for a bit of synchronicity. The Man had caught the attention of a group in San Francisco known as the Cacophony Society, an organization that specialized in outrageous pranks and strange outings known as zone trips. Several of its members, including Co-founder John Law, suggested to Larry that the place to burn the Man was in the remote Black Rock Desert of Northern Nevada. It would make an ideal zone trip— far out in the language of the 60’s. A Ryder Truck was rented for the Labor Day weekend and stuffed with the man plus personal gear. Cars were loaded with people and some 80-100 Burners headed off into the desert. The rest, as they say, is history.

Much had changed when I arrived at Black Rock City in 2004. Old timers spoke nostalgically about the good old days when there had been far fewer people and no rules. They were right; there were more people and more rules, but as far as I could tell things were still pretty rowdy— and magical. I was impressed. So I have been going back ever since. One of my first activities on returning to Black Rock City is to make the journey out to the Man. Since Larry dictates his dimensions, the Man always looks the same. Up until now, however, he has been perched on a different base each year, as shown in the examples below.

Last year’s man.

The Man on his pedestal in 2006.

This year, for the first time since 1995, the Man stood alone and had gained skin. He was magnificent, standing some ten stories or 100 feet tall. A group of tents, representing a souk/market place surrounded him. The souk reflected the 2014 Burning Man theme, Caravansary, and was supposed to be reminiscent of the ancient markets that grew up wherever caravan routes crossed.

The Man at Burning Man in 2014 and a mutant vehicle.

All eyes (and cameras) on the Man, a theme based mutant vehicle passes by. Note the tents of the market place surrounding the Man. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

The Man at Burning Man 2014 at the end of the avenue leading out from Center Camp.

The Man stands at the end of the avenue leading out from Center Camp. The building bathed in light behind the Man is the temple. The dome-shaped building off to the right is the Tower of Babel.

A photo of the Man at Burning Man in 2014 framed by the gateway that leads into the market place and Man.

Don Green, a friend who has been coming to Burning Man with me since 2005, took this photo of the Man, which is framed by the gateway that leads into the souk.

Sun shines through the head of the Man at Burning Man 2014. Photo by Tom Lovering.

Tom Lovering, who has been going on adventures with me since the mid-70s took this photo of the Man with the sun behind his head.

Man horse gives ride at Burning Man 2014.

Peggy hitches a ride on a hobby-horse/man in brief briefs at the souk. My favorite cow checks out a red topped man/woman/dummy in the background.

Wild eyed grass eating cow at Burning Man 2014.

The cow.

People headed ostriches at Burning Man 2014.

A number of murals/paintings decorated the walls of the souk. These people headed ostriches were sufficiently Burning Man strange.

What would a souk be without exotic drinks such as a snow cone. Beth Lovering, bathed in the red glow from the tent roof, discusses flavors with the Man from Minnesota.

What would a souk be without exotic drinks such as an icee. Beth Lovering, bathed in the red glow from the tent roof, discusses flavors with the Minnesota Man. Various regions including China, Japan, Russia, Taiwan, Lithuania and Argentina sponsored the various booths.

My favorite souk-like booth, Membranes of Marrakesh, was sponsored by the Utah region and featured drum making. Once again, the red tent roof imparts a red glow. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

Shelves feature drums in various stages of development.

I’ll conclude this blog with a photo I took of the Man at night, surrounded by the colors and activities of Burning Man. Magical is the word here. Next blog: We will watch the Man burn.

The Murals that Saved Chemainus… The Vancouver Island Adventure

August 16, 2014January 24, 2015 / Curt Mekemson / 25 Comments

Homeowner and muralist Dan Sawatzky painted this 3D steam engine chugging out of his house/studio in Chemainus on Vancouver Island, British Columbia. The Number 3 engine was used for hauling logs and is symbolic of the town’s historic lumber industry.

This is another reposting of an earlier Vancouver Island blog. Again, Peggy and I still involved in our kayak trip among the Orcas. I know many of my followers enjoy murals and Chemainus has some great ones. I’ll catch up on comments when Peggy and I get back home– before we zip off to Burning Man. –Curt

“You have to visit Chemainus and see its murals,” the woman from Qualicum Beach urged. We were on the Black Ball Ferry between Port Angeles, Washington and Victoria, British Columbia. While I hunkered down and read, Peggy made new friends. Fortunately, one of us is much more social than the other.

Qualicum Beach is next to Parksville, which was our destination. A thirty-minute conversation generated a long list of restaurants to visit and places to see. I was yanked out of my book to take notes.

Chemainus is an excellent recommendation. This thriving community is located in the Chemainus Valley on the east coast of Vancouver Island about an hour north of Victoria. In 1983 it came close to dying. The primary place of employment, a lumber mill, shut down. 700 of the town’s 4000 residents were thrown out of work.

This is the point where most communities give up. Business and political leaders spend their energy assigning blame instead of seeking solutions. Not so with Chemainus.

“Let’s cover the walls of our town with historic murals,” Karl Schultz urged. It would capture the community’s history, develop local pride, and hopefully encourage tourism. As always, there were naysayers, but Karl’s enthusiasm won out. Today Chemainus is world-famous for its murals and tens of thousands of tourists visit the town annually.

Since it was on our way and we had the time, Peggy and I decided to stop. Good decision. First, I love the story of the small community that has adopted the motto of “The Little Town that Did.” Second, I really like murals. Following are some our favorites out of the 39 (and increasing). For a complete tour visit www.chemainus.com/arts/murals/Chemainus–murals.htm.

A colorful 1948 view of Chemainus looking down Mill Street toward the bay.

Hong Hing arrived in Chemainus in 1915 and opened his waterfront store. Over time his store would serve as a laundry, grocery store, second-hand store, bootlegging establishment and gambling den. Declining business led him to close his store in 1950 and return to China where he married a younger woman and produced an heir. Black Cat, by the way, is an extinct brand of British/Canadian tobacco.

This mural captures the Chemainus Hospital in 1904 along with two nurses and the hospital cook.

What’s not to love about a band concert?

I’ve included this mural because of its history. In 1939 Chemainus celebrated its 50th anniversary. The float entered by the local Japanese-Canadian Community won first prize. By 1942 all of the community’s Japanese had been removed to Internment Camps. It is one of the darker pages of Canadian (and US) history.

Tent houses provided quick, inexpensive housing for the early loggers, fishermen and miners of Chemainus. When I was growing up in Diamond Springs California, one of my mother’s friends lived in a tent house. As a seven-year old, I was jealous.

This big guy’s face captures both the simplicity and the power of the mural art in Chemainus.

Dressed in their Sunday best, these early residents of Chemainus reflect a time when horses competed with ‘horseless’ carriages as the primary mode of transportation.

This Chemainus mural of First Nation people captures both the original inhabitants of Vancouver Island and their renaissance today. Peggy and I were both impressed and moved by the quality and quantity of First Nation Art during our visit to British Columbia.

First Nation Totem Poles… North to Alaska

August 12, 2014January 24, 2015 / Curt Mekemson / 24 Comments

The totem pole of Thunderbird and the Wild Woman of the Woods found in Duncan, British Columbia on Vancouver Island.

Third times a charm. Right? Peggy and I are out kayaking among the Orca whales up off the northern tip of Vancouver Island as this blog is posted. Or I should say reposted for the second time. It’s appropriate given our trip, however. We are in First Nation country and we once again drove through Duncan. And, as many of you know, I am a big fan of First Nation and Native American art. –Curt

Dzonoqua comes sneaking through the woods, hands outstretched, red lips pursed and whistling, “ooh, ooh” to attract small children who have wandered into the forests. Some stories say she eats the whiny ones. She is also known as the Wild Woman of the Woods or Mrs. Bigfoot. Her large, dangling breasts capture the spirit of Salmon. Thunderbird perches on her shoulders. His wings crash together and make thunder; his eyes shoot out lightning.

Peggy and I, along with our friends Ken and Leslie Lake, visited Duncan BC on Vancouver Island to check out the numerous totem poles carved by First Nation artists and placed throughout the town.

The close relation of First Nation people to Bear, Eagle, Raven, Whale, Owl, Wolf, Beaver, Salmon, Otter and other animals stretches back to ancient times. Families would adopt particular animals as their totems and then carve these animals into totem poles. The poles would serve to both protect and instruct the families. Some families were even known to shape shift into their totem animal. (Jacob, morphing into a wolf in the Twilight series, is a modern example.)

The arrival of whites in the Northwest had a devastating impact on the people and culture of the First Nation tribes. Disease wiped out whole populations. The practice of native religion and the carving of totem poles were prohibited. It wasn’t until the 1930s that the art of totem pole carving was revived.

It thrives today. Native artists continue to carve traditional themes but they have also extended their interpretations and honed their skills. While the totem poles and masks still serve as important mythic symbols to First Nation people, they have also become a source of pride to all who live in BC and the Northwest. I might add they have also become an important attraction for tourist dollars.

Duncan BC and native artists have done an excellent job of displaying totem poles representative of the north coast. Visiting the town, located on the Trans-Canada highway halfway between Victoria and Nanaimo on Vancouver Island, is well worth the stop.

To enhance your visit, I highly recommend stopping by the Visitor’s Center and picking up the book, “The Totem Walk of Duncan” written by Joan Chisholm and illustrated by Crysta Bouchard and R. Howe. For more information go to: http://www.downtownduncan.ca/duncan_totem_tourNEW.html

Thunderbird in flight. I loved the bright colors of this totem pole in Duncan BC.

This totem pole in Duncan BC shows the spirit of the First Nation artist in the eagle’s chest. Eagle rests on Whale and has Wolf carved on his flukes. Both Whale and Wolf provide powerful protection for the person resting his hands on the flukes.

This photo provides a detail of the totem pole above. Note the fine detail of the carved fingers.

This totem pole was meant as a thank you from one chief to another. Raven perches on top and delivers the pole. Eagle is under Raven and represents the power of the chief, a member of the Eagle Clan. The chief’s son is next. His open hand symbolizes “thank you.” Raven, like Coyote of the Southwest, is a trickster. Both are among my favorite mythological animals.

Most totem poles are highly symbolic. This is a heraldic pole. The frog on top represents wisdom, the bear below power and courage, and the seal a spiritual being that can travel easily between spiritual and physical realms. The red and black mean strength and protection. I see it as one pole accomplishes all.

The bear’s tongue and wide grin caught my attention in this Duncan BC totem pole. I thought at first he might be sampling the guy he is holding in his paws. Apparently it means he is about to shape shift.

I am struck by the sheer power captured in some of Duncan BC totem poles. This eagle is an excellent example.

A different perspective on Bear. I enjoyed looking at and photographing the specific faces seen on the Duncan BC totem poles.

If it weren’t sacrilegious, I’d name this totem pole face smiley.

And finally, a Duncan BC totem pole I simply couldn’t resist. How could anyone say no to a pose and eyes like this?

NEXT BLOG: We cross the border into Canada and are reintroduced to the delicate art of carving with a chainsaw.

A Journey Underground… Oregon Caves National Monument

July 24, 2014January 24, 2015 / Curt Mekemson / 34 Comments

Rock formations in Oregon Caves National Monument.

Unusual rock formations created by minerals from dripping water led the Oregon Caves to be set aside as a national treasure in the early 1900s.

Claustrophobia: A fear of confined places

Acrophobia came up in my blog about Mt. Whitney. No surprise there, thousands of feet are between the hiker and a rather unfortunate landing. Splat! It’s a reasonable fear. Claustrophobia is just as real as fears go, but more irrational. The odds of being squished in a tight space— unless you are Indiana Jones or a misplaced wookie caught in a starship’s garbage disposal unit— are between slim and none. Don’t sweat it, right?

Try telling that to someone who is claustrophobic. I suggest you don’t stand between her and the exit. I get it. I am not particularly fond of enclosed spaces myself, whether they are physical or mental. I don’t like driving through tunnels and I hate freeway construction where imposing cement barriers shrink down to your vehicle’s width and provide a view of what hell is like. And that’s even before the gigantic truck comes barreling down on you and breathes fire up your tail pipe because you insist on driving 45 MPH in a 45 MPH zone. At least I can take my revenge when they put up plastic cones instead of cement barriers, as Peggy might tell you. Crunch. Curt strikes another blow for freedom.

Where does this leave me with caving, or spelunking, as the sophisticates call it? How do I feel about getting down on my belly and crawling through a space my skinny fourteen-year-old body would have gotten stuck in several hundred feet under ground? Not a problem; it’s not on my to-do list. But for some unfathomable reason, the standard well-known cave tours don’t bother me. In fact, I find them fascinating. Stalactites and stalagmites tickle my fancy and stir my imagination.

Photo showing how stalactites grow in Oregon Cave National Monument.

These small stalactites show tiny drops of mineral laden water that come down from a tube in the center of the stalactite. They will add about an inch of growth in a thousand years. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

This photo from Oregon Cave National Monument shows the development of stalactites (coming down) and stalagmites (coming up). Eventually they meet, as demonstrating on the left. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

This photo from Oregon Cave National Monument shows the development of stalactites (coming down) and stalagmites (going up). Eventually they meet, as demonstrated on the left. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

So when Peggy suggested we head off to the Oregon Cave National Monument for her birthday a couple of weeks ago, I readily agreed. We’d been talking about it ever since we moved to Oregon. Except for the last few miles of the road that shot up a mountain and redefined the meaning of curves, the hour and a half drive was quite pleasant.

A ranger greeted us and gave us the bad news. We should expect a two-hour wait. He also wanted to know if we had been in any eastern caves in the last five years. If so— no go. White nose syndrome was wiping out eastern bats. So far their western cousins had lucked out. It had been six years since we had visited Mammoth Cave in Kentucky. We were in by a cat’s whisker.

Our wait turned out to be just over an hour. There was barely time for lunch and a look through the visitor’s center before we found ourselves at the cave entrance shivering from a blast of 44˚ F air. “Cave’s breathe,” our guide stated. He also told us about the 500 narrow stairs we would be negotiating and the low ceilings. I would be bent over double with my size 14 shoes balanced precariously on wet slippery rocks. I looked enviously at a small girl who would be standing up straight with her feet resting solidly on the narrow stone steps. She gave me an impish grin.

Stone steps in Oregon Caves National Monument

Dimly lit stone steps make their way up from what is known as Ghost Cave. The narrowest ones were about half the depth of my size 14 shoes. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

The Oregon Caves are somewhat unusual in that they are made out of marble. Once upon a time they were a coral reef far out in the Pacific. Plate tectonics sent the Pacific Plate diving under North America and scraped off portions of the ocean floor some 100 million years ago, adding new land to the continent. The tremendous heat and pressure involved changed the lime into marble. Folding, faulting and water created the caves.

This map shows the location of Oregon Caves National Monument. (Center Right)

Lit up stalactites in Oregon Caves National Monument.

Artificial lighting adds to the magic of caves.

Another example of the impact of lighting. The rock on the left had been signed by all of the members of a geology class that had visited in the 1800s. Strict rules are now in place to protect the cave.

Unusual stone structure in Oregon Caves National Monument.

This unusual structure caught my camera’s attention.

Ghostly rock waterfall at Oregon Caves National Monument.

Peggy captured this ghostly rock waterfall. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

Cave exit at Oregon Caves National Monument.

A view of where we came out from our 90 minute tour.

Standing on top of the mountain that contains Oregon Caves National Monument.

Tour over, Peggy and I stand on top of the mountain that contains the caves. This photo gives a perspective on the surrounding countryside.

NEXT BLOG: Peggy and I are headed off for a brief hiking tour at Mt. Rainier National Park for the next several days so I may be out of computer range. When I come back I will report on my recent experience as a chicken farmer: The Chicken Whisperer.

Mono Lake: Four Trillion Brine Shrimp Call It Home… the Desert Series

July 20, 2014January 24, 2015 / Curt Mekemson / 30 Comments

Strange towers made of lime, tufa, give Mono Lake its unique personality.

Towers made of lime known as tufa give Mono Lake its unique personality.

To say the least, Mono Lake is a strange place. Some people even call it weird. Once upon a time, back when glaciers stretched across North America, it was part of a series of large lakes that covered much of modern-day Eastern California, Nevada and Utah, a region that is now primarily desert. Left behind as a remnant by retreating glaciers, Mono Lake is at least 760,000 years old and could be as old as three million years, making it one of the oldest lakes in North America.

What flows into Mono Lake, stays. There are no outlets. As a result, the lake is 2-3 times as salty as the ocean. Swimmers don’t have to worry about sinking. In fact the lake contains some 280 million tons of dissolved salts, which makes it even too salty for fish. An effort to introduce trout left them belly up on the surface, like the proverbial dead gold-fish destined for a close encounter with the family toilet.

Algae, brine shrimp, and alkali flies thrive in the water, however. The thumbnail-sized shrimp population is estimated to be somewhere between 4 and 6 trillion in the summer. Historically, the fly pupae served as a major source of food for the Kutzadika’a Indians. In fact, the name for the tribe means fly eater.

Today, both the flies and shrimp provide food for some two million birds that migrate through the area. One visitor, Wilson’s Phalarope, a tiny, fist-sized shorebird, takes advantage of the gourmet flies to double its weight and grow a new set of feathers before journeying 3000 miles to South America— a feat that is accomplished in three days of nonstop flying at speeds of over 40 miles per hour.

It isn’t flies, shrimp, birds, or salt water that Mono Lake is famous for, however. It’s tufa, the fantastical, fairy-like structures that grow in the lake and appeal to photographers from around the world. Calcium-rich water bubbling up from underwater springs combines with the lakes carbonate-rich waters in a chemical reaction to create the lime-based structures. Towers as high as 30 feet can be built under water through this process in a time span that may involve centuries.

The reason these towers are visible today is due to the unquenchable thirst of millions of people in Los Angeles. This thirst came close to destroying Mono Lake, as it did the Owens River and Owens Valley south of Mono Lake. Starting in 1941 the politically formidable Los Angeles Water and Power Company tapped into the streams flowing into Mono Lake and sent the water on a one-way, 330 mile journey south, reducing water in the lake from 4.3 million acre feet in 1941 to 2.1 million acre feet in 1982.

The United States Navy also posed a threat to Mono Lake by carrying out a series of under water explosion tests during the Cold War. The plaque at the site described these explosions as top-secret seismic tests. Whether the navy was searching for a way to predict earthquakes and tsunamis or cause them is the question. Fortunately, public pressure and concerns for public safety led to the navy abandoning its activities at Mono Lake in the late 50s/early 60s.

It was the growing environmental movement of the 70s and the Mono Lake Organization that eventually forced the Los Angeles Power and Water Company to reduce the amount of water it was exporting from Mono Lake’s tributaries. Today the lake is on the way to recovering its pre 1941 water levels (assuming it isn’t wiped out by global warming and drought). Mono Lake is found just north of Lee Vining off of Highway 395. Following Highway 120 west out of Lee Vining will take travelers into Yosemite National Park.

The Sierra Nevada Mountains provide a scenic backdrop in the west for Mono Lake. Highway 395 runs slog the base of the foothills. Tufa can be seen emerging from the lake.

The Sierra Nevada Mountains provide a scenic backdrop in the west for Mono Lake. Highway 395 runs along the base of the foothills. Tufa can be seen emerging from the lake.

Following Highway 120 east off of Highway 395 will bring visitors to Mono Lake's South Tufa Trail where the photos in they blog were taken.

Following Highway 120 east off of Highway 395 will bring visitors to Mono Lake’s South Tufa Trail where the photos in this blog were taken. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

Prior to Los Angeles tapping into the streams that provide water to Mono Lake, this tufa tower would have been underwater. Now it sits on dry land.

Reflections add extra character to this often photographed tufa island in Mono Lake. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

Reflections add extra character to this often photographed tufa island in Mono Lake— as they do in the next two photos. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

I thought of this tufa tower as a frog face topped off by a frog hat. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

Tufa towers located at Mono Lake, California near Lee Vining.

A tufa family? (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

A final view of the Sierra Nevada Mountains framed by tufa towers at Mono Lake.

NEXT BLOG: Having finished our desert series, Peggy and I return to Oregon and visit Oregon Caves National Monument.

Mt. Whitney: 14,505 feet— Or Is that 14,496.811 Feet… But Who’s Counting?

July 15, 2014January 24, 2015 / Curt Mekemson / 35 Comments

Highway 395 is one of America’s most scenic drives. This view looking up at Mt. Whitney, center top, is one of the reasons why.

Highway 395, with its panoramic views of the eastern Sierra Nevada Mountains, is one of the most scenic highways in the United States. I will admit to a degree of prejudice, however. John Muir called the High Sierras the Range of Light. I think of them as ‘home.’ I have backpacked up and down the range numerous times. The mountains call to me in a way that no city or town does.

Driving up California's Highway 395 provides and ever changing perspective of the eastern Sierra Nevada Mountains.

Driving up California’s Highway 395 provides an ever-changing perspective of the eastern Sierra Nevada Mountains.

Another view of the Sierra Nevada Mountains along highway 395. This seems to fit Muir’s Range of Light description. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

I celebrated my 60^th birthday by backpacking over 300 miles down the spine of the Sierras, I started at Squaw Valley, which is north-west of Lake Tahoe, and ended by climbing up Mt. Whitney. It was my sixth trip up Whitney. I figured it would be a fitting way to kick off my sixth decade.

View of Mt. Whitney from the west including Curtis Mekemson.

Wrapping up five weeks of backpacking, my final climb looms in the distance. The curved mountain just to the right of my head is Whitney. I will be sitting on top the next day. The Sierras are fault block mountains, climbing gradually on their western slope and dropping off rapidly in the east. (Photo by Jay Dallen.)

Curtis Mekemson sitting on top of Mt. Whitney.

And here I am on top, complete with a large grin. The Owens Valley and Highway 395 lie some 10,000 feet below. (Photo by Jay Dallen.)

Looking north form Mt. Whitney up the crest of the Sierra Nevada Mountains that I had just hiked through following the Pacific Crest and John Muir Trails.

Looking north from Mt. Whitney up the crest of the Sierra Nevada Mountains where I had just backpacked following the Pacific Crest and John Muir Trails.

View looking down from the top of Mt. Whitney. Photo by Curtis Mekemson.

Another view from the top of Mt. Whitney.

The mountain’s claim to fame is being the highest mountain in the contiguous United States. It stands at 14,505 feet (4,421 meters). My friends in Alaska are quick to point out that Mt. McKinley/Denali is 20,322 feet. Mt. Shasta, where I began this particular series, is 14, 180 feet. And finally, for comparison, Mt. Everest, the world’s highest mountain, tops out at 29,029 feet (8,848 meters).

Mt. Shasta.

Once the snow has melted, climbing Whitney does not require any technical climbing skills. A good trail leads to the top. According to the plaque on top, it is the highest trail in the United States. It was started in 1928 and completed in 1930. The plaque used to (and still may) claim that the mountain is 14, 496.811 feet high, which would seem pretty darn accurate, especially given the .811 feet. Apparently modern measuring techniques have added a few feet. Not that it matters, unless you happen to be the person climbing those last nine feet.

Getting to the top requires stamina, lots of it. The eastern route up the mountain starts at Whitney Portal and climbs 6000 feet. That’s a bunch of up, and the higher you climb, the thinner the air becomes. Most people slow way down near the top as their bodies fight to get enough oxygen.

I’ve always started from the west since I am either ending or in the middle of a backpack trip. There are two advantages. Most important, I’ve already spent several days hiking at higher elevations. My body has both toughened up and adjusted to thinner air. Second, by starting at Guitar Lake, the climb is only 4,000 feet. Still that’s 4000 feet up and 6,000 feet down on a 15-mile day carrying a 40-pound pack— hardly a walk in the park. (Grin)

The reason for climbing the mountain, beyond being able to say you have, is the spectacular scenery. I wouldn’t recommend the trip for anyone with acrophobia (fear of heights), however, given that all of the views involve looking down several thousand feet.

Jay Dallen standing on the edge of Mt. Whitney.

My nephew, Jay Dallen, stands on the edge of a thousand foot precipice and looks down. He obviously does not suffer from acrophobia. Different people joined me on each of my five-week segments. Jay was 16 at the time.

The Alabama Hills, featured in the photo below, are located just outside of Lone Pine at the base of Mt. Whitney. Over 300 movies, mainly Westerns, have been filmed in the area. Almost every major Hollywood cowboy from the 1920s up to the present have made movies there. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

A final view of Mt. Whitney. This one features the Alabama Hills, the site of many early movies featuring the likes of Hop-a-long Cassidy and the Lone Ranger.

A final view of Mt. Whitney. This one features the Alabama Hills, the site of many Western movies featuring everyone from Tom Mix, Hop-along Cassidy and Roy Rogers to John Wayne and Johnny Depp. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

“Goodbye God. I am going to Bodie.” Ghost Towns of the Old West

July 8, 2014January 24, 2015 / Curt Mekemson / 63 Comments

Tattered curtains, a cracked window, and a reflection of weather warn buildings capture the essence of the Old West ghost town of Bodie, California.

Ghostly curtains, a cracked window, and a reflection of weather worn buildings capture the essence of Bodie, California.

“Goodbye God, I am going to Bodie,” was a statement made by a ten-year old in her journal when her family took her to Bodie during its glory days as a gold rush town.

She was right to be concerned. There was plenty of sin to go around as various bad men of the Old West came together with gold seekers and other adventurers in the 1870s. Killings took place almost daily. The fire station would toll the age of the person killed. Robberies, stagecoach holdups and barroom brawls filled in around the edges. It’s “a sea of sin lashed by the tempests of lust and passion,” Reverend F.M. Warrington noted.

And if that weren’t enough, there was the weather to contend with. Winter could bring snows as deep as 20 feet, winds up to 100 miles per hour, and temperatures that dropped to 30˚ F below zero. Freezing to death was on the list of things that might kill you.

Today Bodie is maintained in a state of “arrested decay” as a California State Historical Park. This makes it substantially different from Rhyolite, where things are more or less allowed to fall apart. Most of Bodie’s buildings are still intact– even though some may need a little help. (Grin)

Propped up outhouse in the ghost town of Bodie, California.

Decay doesn’t get much more ‘arrested’ than this propped up outhouse. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

Leaning building in the Bodie State Park ghost town. Photo by Curtis Mekemson.

This building is a little confused about which direction it wants to lean. The support beam it is ‘leaning into’ is on the left.

Building held up by support beams at Bodie State Park in California.

A building that apparently needed a lot of help. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

Bones of building at Bodie State Park in California.

Almost beyond help, this building relies on its neighbor for support. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

Bodie is located east of the Sierra Nevada Mountains off of Highway 395 near the town of Bridgeport. A paved side road that soon turns to dirt delivers visitors to the ghost town. When we arrived, Mono County was seriously engaged in tearing up the dirt section of the road. Our truck was not happy. (I assume they have put the road back together by now.) Peggy and I got ‘lost’ leaving the town. It is really hard to do. I chalk it up to subconsciously wanting to avoid another personal encounter with the Mono County Highway Department. Anyway, we explored 20 or so miles of dirt road before finding our way back to the highway.

Mining equipment at Bodie State Historical Park in California.

As expected, one place to find old mining equipment is in old mining towns. The cages seen beneath the head frame were used to lift miners into and out of the mines.

Place setting covered in dust at Bodie State Historical Park.

I’ll classify this as a ‘still life’ photo. Apparently it’s been still for decades. It’s what happens when you are late for dinner.

Old bed at Bodie State Historic Park in California.

Why does ‘spring into action’ come to mind?

An old truck at Bodie State Historical Park in California.

This truck had character including the yellow rim on the back wheel. I assume the roped door was to keep kids (both small and big) out of the vehicle.

Old car remains at Bodie State Historical Park in California.

This car was more open for inspection.

Prairie dog at Bodie State Historical Park in California.

Speaking of inspection, a prairie dog stopped his busy rounds of grass chomping to check us out. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

Shell gas station at Bodie State Historical Park in California.

A Shell gas station.

Old Shell gas sign at Bodie Historical Park in California

Apparently someone was upset about the increased cost of gas. Maybe it had jumped from fifteen to sixteen cents a gallon.

Methodist Church is Bodie State Historical Park in California.

The end of the bad old days in the West was often signified by the building of a church. It appears they weren’t quite over in Bodie however. An oil cloth painting of the Ten Commandants in the Methodist Church that hung behind the altar was stolen. So much for “Thou shalt not steal.”

The morgue at Bodie State Historical Park in California.

If there are haunted places in Bodie, the morgue is a prime location. The featured casket provides a window to view the deceased. A Bible rests on the table. Or maybe it is a copy of Mortuary Science for Dummies.

Old power pole in the ghost town of Bodie.

This power pole seemed sufficiently ghostly to reside in a ghost town.

House of mine worker at Bodie ghost town.

Peggy stands in front of one of the shacks where a miner lived.

The J.S. Caine residence at Bodie State Historical Park in California.

Here she stands in front of the house of the guy who owned the mine.

The International Order of Odd Fellows Hall. I’d almost join for the name alone.

A wider view of Bodie. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

Getting lost on the way out of Bodie wasn’t bad considering the scenery.

We did become a little concerned as evening approached and we were still wandering around on our dirt road. But eventually we arrived in Bridgeport and could declare our detour another adventure.

NEXT BLOG: We journey up California’s beautiful Highway 395 and stop to admire Mt. Whitney, the highest mountain in the contiguous United States. And, I might add, a mountain I have climbed six times.

Rhyolite’s Neighbor: The Goldwell Open Air Museum… The Desert Series

July 5, 2014January 24, 2015 / Curt Mekemson / 24 Comments

A tall, naked, pink lady is visible from the Nevada ghost town of Rhyolite. Known as the The Venus of Nevada, this 1992 work by Hugo Heyrman is part of the Goldwell Open Air Museum.

A tall, pink lady is visible from the Nevada ghost town of Rhyolite. Known as the Venus of Nevada, this 1992 work by Hugo Heyrman is part of the Goldwell Open Air Museum.

The first time we drove into Rhyolite, I noticed a tall, naked lady with blond hair next door to the town. And no, I hadn’t consumed any peyote or other hallucinogenic drugs normally found in deserts and used by shamans to enter places that might be inhabited by tall, naked, pink ladies. I was gazing down at the Goldwell Open Air Museum, a truly unique art museum in the world of art museums.

Goldwell was started in 1984 by the Dutch artist Albert Szukalski as a way to display ghostly figures he created by wrapping live models in wet plaster. Soon, other Dutch artists joined him in his efforts to create a sculpture museum in the desert. Today, a Nevada non-profit organization cares for the museum and supports on-site artistic endeavors.

I’ve blogged about the museum before and I will undoubtedly blog about it again. Why? I’ll let the photos tell the story.

Albert Szukalski’s work, The Last Supper, was the first sculpture created for the Goldwell Open Air Museum. The mountains and clouds provide a dramatic backdrop for the sculpture.

Albert Szukalski's Last Supper sculpture at the Goldwell Open Air Museum just east of Death Valley National Park.

Using Davinci’s fresco of the Last Supper as a model, Szukalski wanted a desert setting for his sculpture. Here, the ghostly figures are seen from behind.

Lady Desert and the Last Supper sculptures at the Goldwell Open Air Museum located east of Death Valley.

Lady Desert, the Venus of Nevada, is located behind the Last Supper. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

Looking up at Lady Desert at the Goldwell Open Air Museum in Nevada.

Hugo Heyrman used cinder blocks in his creation of the Venus of Nevada to represent the pixellated, technological world we live in. I found this perspective interesting. Peggy just shook her head.

Ghost Rider Sculpture by Albert Szukalski at the Goldwell Open Air Museum east of Death Valley.

A local resident of the nearby town of Beatty donated his bike and his body for this sculpture by Albert Szukalski. He served as the model by allowing wet, plaster infused burlap to be draped over his body.The sculpture is appropriately named Ghost Rider.

Every lonely desert prospector needs a penguin for company, right? Wait, isn’t that a donkey? The artist Fred Bervoets decided on a penguin for his tribute to Shorty Harris at the Goldwell Open Air Museum. Shorty was a legendary prospector who worked the Rhyolite area.

Couch by Sophie Siegmann at the Goldwell Open Air Museum in Nevada.

This couch by Sofie Siegmann is titled “Sit Here.”

the Sit Here couch by Sophie Siegmann at the Goldwell Open Air Museum near Beatty, Nevada.

So Peggy did. The buildings in the background are located in the ghost town of Rhyolite.

Detail on couch sculpture at Goldwell Open Air Museum.

The back of the couch featured this face. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

Statue of Icara by Dre Peters at the Goldwell Open Air Museum.

Dre Peeters named his hand carved statue Icara, a female equivalent of Icarus, the legendary Greek boy who flew too close to the sun.

Wagon wheel at the Goldwell Open Air Museum near Beatty, Nevada.

An old wagon was located at the base of the Icara, so naturally I had to take a photo of its wheel. It makes a fitting end for this blog about an art museum located next to a ghost town.

NEXT BLOG: Off to the well know California ghost town of Bodie.

Ghost Towns of the Old West: Rhyolite… The Desert Series

July 2, 2014January 24, 2015 / Curt Mekemson / 28 Comments

Old grave at the ghost town of Rhyolite outside of Death Valley.

What better way to introduce a ghost town than to show where the ghosts live? This is one of the better kept grave sites in the Rhyolite cemetery. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

What’s a desert without a ghost town or two?

Boom and bust are the go-to words when it comes to creating ghost towns in the desert. Gold, or some other valuable mineral is found. Miners, developers, speculators and others burning with get-rich-quick-itis rush in where angels fear to tread (wisely so). Eventually the vein runs out. Unless the town has other ways of providing a livelihood, people leave. The ghosts are left behind. That’s the story of Rhyolite.

Boom! At the beginning of January in 1905, Rhyolite was a non-town of two people. They struck it rich. Two weeks later the population had grown to 1200 people. By 1907 somewhere between 4,000 and 8,000 people called the place home. Apparently no one was interested in doing an accurate census count. But the small city had banks, a school, its own railroad, a hospital, an opera house, some 50 saloons and a generous smattering of ladies of the evening with hearts of gold, or at least pockets filled with gold coins. There was electricity, running water, and telephones.

Charles Schwab, the steel magnate, (as opposed to Charles Schwab of brokerage house fame) was the money behind the development of Rhyolite. Thomas Edison, who was responsible for inventing the electric lights that lit up the town, once called Schwab a master hustler. It fit, but Schwab’s hustling in Rhyolite failed to pan out (to use an old gold mining term).

Bust! In 1907, a British mining engineer discovered that the ‘fabulously high-grade ore’ mine Schwab had bought was actually filled with low-grade ore. By 1910 the banks were closed. The last train left town in 1916. A motor tour organized by the LA Times in 1922 found only one person remaining in the town, a 94-year-old man who died two years later. Rhyolite began its career as a ghost town.

For enquiring minds that want to know, Rhyolite is located approximately 120 miles north of Las Vegas and sits on the eastern edge of Death Valley, just outside the small Nevada town of Beatty. It is named after an igneous rock common throughout the area.

An old truck in the ghost town of Rhyolite, Nevada.

Ghost truck in Rhyolite. Its engine had long since departed.

Interior of old truck in Rhyolite, Nevada.

I was torn over which interior photograph I would use, but opted for the steering wheel and dashboard. It, and the faded surrounding mountains struck me as ghostly. The odometer had stopped at 45,438 miles. Or make that 45,438.5. It was rolling over to 45,439 when its roving days ended.

Cook Bank in the ghost town of Rhyolite, Nevada.

Once the pride of Rhyolite, the Cook Bank’s floors were marble and its windows were stain glass.

Almost everything of value was ripped out of the Cook Bank and Rhyolite in general. Many of the buildings in nearby Beatty, owe their existence to this pilferage. It led me to wonder why the fine bricks on top of the Cook Bank were still there. Were they a little difficult to reach, a little perilous to remove? (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

School in the ghost town of Rhyolite, Nevada.

I asked Peggy, a retired elementary school principal, to pose for me in front of Rhyolite’s school. Her hair, which totally has a mind of its own, had been teased by the desert wind.

Rattlesnake warning sign in Rhyolite, Nevada.

We laughed. If the reasonable approach doesn’t work, try another. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

They say it is better to be on the inside looking out than the outside looking in. I don’t think it matters in Rhyolite. But I did like the composition that pulls you out toward the mountains.

HD and LD Porter sign in Rhyolite, Nevada.

A rather classy sign that is lucky it didn’t end up in an antique shop somewhere.

The old railway station at Rhyolite, Nevada.

Speaking of classy, Rhyolite’s railway station was, and still is an attractive building. Over the years it morphed into a hotel, casino, souvenir shop, all connected to Rhyolite’s ghost town status. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

Old rail found near the ghost town of Rhyolite.

Most of the rails leading up to the station were pulled out and used during World War I, but I did find this old one in a junk pile behind the station.

One of the more intriguing buildings in Rhyolite, from my perspective, is this old caboose that was once used on the Las Vegas to Salt Lake line. It was reborn as a service station in Rhyolite to serve the visitors that came to visit the ghost town and probably the casino.

An inside view of the caboose located at Rhyolite, Nevada.

Looking inside the caboose.

Tom Kelly's hose made of glass bottles in Rhyolite, Nevada.

This house made of 30,00 glass bottles (mainly alcohol related– not surprising considering a couple of thousand thirsty miners), may be Rhyolite’s most famous building. 76-year-old Tom Kelly built it in 1905-06 and then auctioned it off at $5.00 a ticket.

Bottles used to make the Bottle House in the ghost town of Rhyolite, Nevada.

A close up of the bottles. The marks on the bottom indicate the company that made the bottles. AB stands for American Bottling Company, for example. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

Hostetter Bitters Bottle used in the Bottle House at Rhyolite, Nevada.

A few bottles are more prominently displayed, such as this Dr. J. Hostetter Bitters bottle. While it was sold to cure what ailed your tummy, it contained up to 47 % alcohol. Earlier, Hostetter had sold the bitters to Union soldiers during the Civil War to fight off diseases they might catch while chasing Confederates through southern swamps.

A final ghostly reminder from the Rhyolite graveyard.

NEXT BLOG: Traveling a couple of hundred yards west of Rhyolite, we visit the Goldwell Open Air Museum

The Panamint Range of Death Valley: A Rattlesnake, Flowers, and Very Large Kilns… The Desert Series

June 28, 2014January 24, 2015 / Curt Mekemson / 30 Comments

We found this rather handsome fellow on our way up to Wildrose in Death Valley. Check out the shadow! (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

I crossed over the Panamint Range once on a bicycle. It wasn’t fun. Or let me put it this way, the nine-mile climb up out of Panamint Valley wasn’t fun. It was at the beginning of my 10,000-mile solo trip around the US. I only had seven days of cycling behind me so I was still getting in shape (massive understatement). Adding to the challenge, I was carrying over 50 pounds of gear, everything I needed to survive six months on the open road.

Standing out of the saddle in my lowest gear, and exerting every bit of muscle power I could, I averaged two miles an hour. And yes, it would have been much easier to get off my bike and push. But I am a stubborn when it comes to things physical. The ride down, on the other hand, was lovely and about 20 times as fast.

Our Toyota Tacoma thought nothing of the climb out of Death Valley to the Emigrant Canyon Road and on to Wildrose Canyon. In fact the pickup loves a challenge and likes to be on the road as much as Peggy and I do. Or maybe I am anthropomorphizing a bit too much here. (And don’t you just love that word, all 18 letters of it.)

We were lollygagging along on the Wildrose road and stopping often to photograph flowers when we passed the rattlesnake. Peggy was driving. “Stop, back up,” I urged. Laughing, Peggy complied. She’s used to my fascination with rattlesnakes. I’ve had dozens of encounters over the years. One of my favorite tricks is to get down on my belly in front of them to take photos as they crawl toward me. Unfortunately, my headshots are usually blurry. Could it be that I am backing up too fast?

Panamint Rattlesnake in the Panamint Mountains, Death valley.

Having determined that we weren’t edible, the large snake went on his way. Isn’t the head magnificent? It shouts pit viper.(Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

This guy was a beauty, a Panamint rattler (Crotalus stephensi), and I would guess almost record size. He was on the driver’s side of the truck so I handed Peggy her camera and she snapped three shots. And then, before I could get out to the truck for some close-ups, she stepped on the gas and we were out of there. Can you imagine that? I whined for an hour.

The flowers soon assuaged my disappointment, however. At our elevation of around 5,000-7,000 feet, they were everywhere. While we were too late to catch flowers blooming in the valley, our trips up to Dante’s View and Wildrose more than made up for it.

Desert flowers in the Panamint Range of Death Valley.

I was taken by this old desert road that cut off the main road and was covered with flowers as far as the eye could see.

Hill covered with flowers in the Panamint Range of Death Valley.

And how about this hillside?

Prickly poppies growing in the Panamint Range of Death Valley.

These prickly poppies were attractive. Petals were tissue paper thin. The red beetle was quite busy.

I don’t know what this striking yellow beauty was. Maybe one of my readers can identify it. (Finally found it in one of my field guides. It’s called Desert Plume and is a member of the mustard family.)

Lupine growing in the Panamint Range of Death Valley.

This lupine, however, is an old friend. It is common throughout the west. Peggy is even growing some. What was amazing about this plant was its size. I would say around four feet tall.

Beyond the rattlesnake and the flowers, the highlight of the tour was the ten charcoal kilns built in by the Modoc Consolidated Mining Company in 1877 to prepare charcoal to be used in smelters at its lead-silver mine about 25 miles away. Local pinion pines and junipers were cut down and hauled to the kilns. It took approximately four cords of wood to fill one kiln. After 6-8 days for burning and another 5 days for cooling the charcoal was then transported by an army of jackasses.

The kilns, which were used for about three years, have sat quietly for over a century. Navajo Indian stonemasons from Arizona restored the kilns in 1971. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

An interesting aside is that George Hearst was the principal investor in the mining company. His son, William Randolph Hearst, would go on to found the Hearst media empire. And it was his great grand-daughter, Patty Hearst, who was kidnapped by the Symbionese Liberation Army in the 70s. Where this is going is that I met Patty and her abductors in the Sierra Nevada Mountains. I was up with some friends scouting out streams for trout fishing when a van roared around us and got stuck in a snow bank, which we found rather amusing. A group of folks came tumbled out of the van including a young woman who came over to talk with us while her companions tried to dig out of the snow.

“Do you have any guns in your car?” she asked. “My friends have been teaching me how to shoot automatic weapons in the Bay Area and we are up here for practice today.” That’s when the alarm bells started going off for me. We were talking to Patty Hearst and her ‘friends’ were SLA members. When Patty wandered off to check on the van’s progress, I whispered my concerns to my friends and suggested we help get the van on its way, which is what we did.

But so much for the detour (grin). I was either going to tell you stories about rattlesnakes today or the Patty Hearst. Patty won. Back to the kilns.

Charcoal kiln in Panamint Mountains in Death Valley.

Peggy provides perspective on the size of the kilns that are 25 feet tall.

Back view of charcoal kilns in Death Valley.

Back view of kilns showing window where smoke escaped. You can still smell the smoke inside.

View looking out from inside a charcoal kiln in Death Valley.

View from inside the kiln looking out at the pines.

A final view from Wildrose. What appears to be puffy white clouds on the horizons are the snow-covered Sierra Nevada Mountains.

NEXT BLOG: What’s a desert without a ghost town, or two. We head off to the old mining town of Rhyolite sitting on the edge of Death Valley.

Wandering through Time and Place

Exploring the world with Curtis and Peggy Mekemson

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