1947 JEEP Willys Pickup

The first time I went to Mount Shasta was the Spring of my sixteenth year. Not owning a car, my pal, Will, and I took a Greyhound Bus from San Jose, Ca. to McCloud just south of the town. There, his aunt met us and drove us to 'The Wagon Wheel', a bar that Will's uncle John owned in the heart of Mount Shasta.

Besides being the oldest established bar in town, The Wagon Wheel's claim to fame was that Fes Parker was filmed there two years earlier in his movie, Climb An Angry Mountain. When the movie came out however, the locals were angry that their beloved mountain had been portrayed as a killer while in reality, it was believed to be the focus of an ancient spiritual society that roamed the jeweled caverns within. Frequently, strangers would drop in just to see the place because of this. John had wanted his son to take over the business but, as is often the case, the son had his own plans. So John worked it during the day and hired help to tend it at night.

When we met Uncle John he expressed remorse that he could not take time to be our tour guide, and that, if either of us, only had a driver's license, he would have been able to lend us a vehicle.
Wild Bill Hickok could not have 'cleared leather' as fast as I produced my shiny, new, California Driver's license! I wish I had paid attention to the expression on John's face. I know now how I would have reacted, but he was a man of his word and we had Wheels!

Our chariot, it turned out, was a 1947 JEEP WILLYS pickup truck. Built during WW II for the US Army. It looked every bit its age, had a four cylinder engine, a two barrel carburetor, four on the floor, four wheel drive, a top speed that matched it's vintage year, and a rear differential that contributed mightily to the oiling of the rural roads in northern California. Each morning we had instructions to stop in at the local garage and have that oil topped off, 'less the roads dry out.


What freedom that JEEP represented! We could go anywhere that could be imagined. We took it places we had no business walking, so we thought, and returned us to Uncle John's safe and sound. Wherever we went, people waved and smiled, because they knew the truck and John, not because they knew us. They knew we were someone special to John and that was notoriety enough.


It was unusually hot that Spring, which suited us fine. We fished, we swam, we explored, we jumped over the spring that is the headwaters of the mighty Sacramento River and picked watercress from the same. We had the best time of our young lives!


On the day before we headed home to San Jose, we awoke to find a note from Uncle John saying he had gone to run some errands before he opened the bar and he would see us at dinner. We decided to drive north to shoot some target practice and visit Will's grandma in a nursing home in Weed, about 10 miles away. We took the back roads to avoid the construction that had Interstate 5 down to one lane each way. We were on our own and loving it!


After another perfect day, we said goodbye to Will's grandma and decided that the fastest route home would be the Interstate. There is only one exit between Weed, Ca. and Mt. Shasta, along Interstate 5. President Nixon's mandatory speed limit of 55 was still four years away so, with a posted limit of 70, we were only 10 to 15min from Uncle John's. It was early evening as I merged into the only southbound lane open, due to the construction. The Willys four cylinder wound up, as I shifted deftly through all four gears. In less than five minutes I had her at top end with a speed of 47 mph! This trip would take a little longer than planned.
The parade of traffic that we were leading soon extended to the far reaches of the rear view mirror. Fresh out of driving school, I knew the law required me to pull over and allow following traffic to pass when there were three or more vehicles behind me, but, with the road construction, there was no shoulder on Interstate 5. I was stuck! The sound of the engine whining, the unusually hot, Spring day and the pressure of a crowd of cars breathing fire down my neck, made the trip excruciating.


At last an exit was in sight. Of course it was in sight, there wasn't a vehicle in front of me for miles! I exited and waited a full half hour for the traffic to pass. My pal counted out loud the first thirty, or so, vehicles before my embarrassment let go to laughter and relief. I rejoined the Interstate and drove the last two miles to Mount Shasta.


At about 6:30, as we were preparing dinner, Uncle Johnny came through the door in his typical jolly mood.

"How's your Grandma today?", he asked.

As I shot a glance toward Will, I saw that he was just as puzzled as I was. We hadn't told anyone where we were going, and Will's Grandma didn't have a phone.

"How did you know we went to Weed?", Will asked.

Uncle John smiled broadly, "At about five, a city slicker came in the bar looking pretty hot under the collar. He didn't wait for me to ask before he blurted, 'If I ever find the son of a bitch that let two kids loose on the Interstate in a JEEP that couldn't do 45, I'll...' ." Holding out his hand in demonstration, John continued. "I told him, 'Stop right there. I'm the son of a bitch! What'll you have?!"

Benny and The Witch

Benny was the new kid at Upnorth School. Because he moved there from a town very far away, he didn't talk like the other kids at Upnorth. They were not very welcoming to Benny because of this.

One day, Benny saw the guys standing in a tight group near the playground. One boy was in the middle talking excitedly. Benny walked closer and listened.

"I never should have gone there! I didn't believe it; but, I believe it all now! I can still hear my heart pounding so hard! I'll never go back!"

"That's nothing," said another boy, "I went there at night one time and; you know that old building behind the house?" Some of the boys nodded, wide eyed. "Well there was a flickering light coming out of the windows and I swear I heard her casting some sort of spell!"

"She shook a bony finger at me through her window one time when I rode my bike through her yard.", said a third boy. "It was so freaky, I got out of there fast!"

Then a fourth boy stepped forward an said, "Listen to my story. Last week I was cutting through her woods, when I saw her! She was bent over doing something and didn't see me at first. I slowly crept closer to get a good look."

All the other boys stood there with their mouths wide open, eyes bugging out of their faces as he continued.

"She was dressed in a black dress with a purple apron. She had a white scarf across her shoulders and a dark cap on her head. She spoke in a low voice, 'Das essen schmeckt immer so gut im frien.' or something like that. I still couldn't see. So I got even closer!"

Now some boys were covering their mouths. Others were holding on to each others arms as they leaned in to hear what came next.

"I stood on my tiptoes as I leaned on a branch; and SNAP!, it broke! She turned around and then I saw her FACE! It was pale, except for her lips. They were bright red and I swear I saw blood dripping down her chin. She reached a bloody hand toward me as I got up and ran through the woods. My heart was pounding so hard my head hurt. As I ran down the path, my feet were hitting the ground so hard that my bones ached. When I got to the edge of the woods, SHE was already there!"

Benny, now a part of the group standing there, listened as the boy went on.

"I turned around and ran the other way, back down the path to where I first saw her. When I looked up, she was there! She said something but I could only hear my heart pounding in my ears. I turned and ran through the trees. The branches were hitting my face, slapping and stinging. I dropped my Ipod, but I didn't care! I had to get out of there! I finally reached the road and looked back. She was gone! I'll never go back there again!"

The boys stood there, mostly frozen, one of the younger ones whimpering. All frightened, except Benny.

"I know the place you are talking about.", said Benny. "Sometimes you can hear strange noises coming from the building in the back. Right?"

Some of the boys nodded.

"I think you are a bunch of chickens. I bet I can walk up there right now and go into that house and come out again without anything happening to me!"

Some of the boys scoffed, "No way dude."

"Sure loser!"

"That 'll be the end of you, California Boy!", said the boy who told the story.

"I am going there right now!", said Benny, "Anybody that doesn't believe me come along! I dare you!"

All of the boys wanted to see Benny do it. So they followed closely until they came to the path and then followed at a safer distance. Benny walked steadily through the woods, past the place where the boy saw the witch, past the building in the back with the strange sounds and right up to the side door, of the old house where the witch lived. He peeked in the window where the witch stood when she wagged her finger at one boy. He stopped at the door and looked back.

Some of the boys were huddled together. Some were hiding behind bushes and trees. Benny slowly turned the knob and disappeared into the house.

"He did it!", said the boy who told the story.

"He'll never come out again!", said another.

"Who's gonna tell his parents?", asked one.

"Does anyone know where he lives?", asked a fourth.

After what seemed like forever, the door slowly opened and out came Benny with something in his hand.

The boys looked at each other in disbelief. He was alive! He was even laughing! He was laughing at them!

"Is this your Ipod?", Benny asked the boy who told the story, as he held out his hand. The other boys just stared at Benny, then at the house.

"Yeah it is!", said the boy. "How 'd you, I mean what, er, whew boy."

"This is where I live now.", Benny explained. "My family moved in here with my Great Grandmother, or", turning to face the group, "should I say your witch, to take care of her."

"But what about the blood?", asked the boy who told the story.

"That was berry juice!", replied Benny. "Grandma was picking and eating berries."

"And the strange things she said? What was that?"

"That's how I knew you were talking about Grandma. 'Das essen schmeckt immer so gut im frien.', means, 'the food tastes so good outdoors' in German."

"But wait. How could she move so fast the day I saw her?"

"Her twin sister, my Great Aunt Helga, was visiting here last month. You just saw both of them. I remember them asking me if all the boys my age could run as fast as the one who dropped this toy?", pointing at the Ipod.

"Why don't you all come in and have some cookies? But no mention of witches. O.K.?"

"Better yet," said the boy who told the story, "let's eat them out here. After all,'Das essen schmeckt immer so gut im frien!'"

Squaw Creek

We arrived at Mount Shasta, a small, quiet logging town situated between Shasta city and the town of Weed, at 2:00 a.m. Tired from the long drive up California's Highway 50, we hastened to John Lelo's house where we had made arrangements to stay. Will, John's nephew and long standing school pal of mine, was asleep on the passenger side of my 1965 Pontiac LeMans. As we drove up the private driveway to the house, the familiar scent of skunk assailed my nose. "My kind of place.", I thought to myself, as I parked the car.

"Will, we're here!", I said as I pulled my sleeping bag out from under the scads of gear we had brought with us to assail the great outdoors,"Get up!" We dragged our sore bodies back to an old cabin in John's yard and laid out on the floor. With our guns beside us, ears alert to any foreign sound, we slept.

The alarm rang at an early 7:00 a.m. "What did you set that darn thing so early for?", Will asked, the sound of sleep filling his irritated tone.

"What do you mean,'Why did I set it?', I didn't even know you brought the dumb thing!"

"Oh yeah, that's right," said Will in an apologetic tone, "I asked Uncle Johnny to set it when I called him on Sunday." Smelling hotcakes and fried ham wafting from the kitchen window, we decided it was time to roll out of bed.

John Lelo was a stout man of fifty-six or seven. Born and raised in Mount Shasta, he claimed to know every inch of the country. I truly believe he did at one time, however, since he stopped hunting and fishing the area, his memory was getting a little rusty. I asked why he had quit and he told me the following story.

"When my son was a teenager and learning photography, I invited him on the annual deer hunt. The morning of the hunt he walked out to the truck with no weapon, just his camera. 'You use your gun, dad, from now on I'll only hunt with this.',
I never knew he felt that strongly. That was the last hunt for me."

After a thoughtful pause, he popped "Burnin' daylight!, Goin' fishing this morning?, I heard they're jumpin' into the boats up at Toad Lake!"

"Toad Lake?!", squawked Will in his usual annoyed tone, "we want to catch real fish, not skunk bait!"

Sitting down to a hearty breakfast we related to John the reports we had heard about Squaw Creek.

"Squaw Creek?!", he squealed, sounding hauntingly like his nephew while choking on a big sip of black coffee. "No one in his right mind would go out there!"

We had prepared ourselves well for our trek to Squaw Creek. Guns strapped to our sides, poles, food, water, first-aid and snakebite kits on our backs, we started up the long, seldom trod path to the infamous Squaw Creek. Slowly working our way through the bushes, tapping every inch of the way with our snake poles, we progressed. Carefully, slowly, eyes searching, ears listening for the slightest warning of the dreaded inhabitant of Squaw Creek's canyon, we climbed. Will was leading. He froze. Then I heard it. That slow clicking of the Diamondback's rattle had reached my ears.

The rattle of that greenish-brown serpent with lozenge shaped saddles down its back is such an ominous sound that it leaves one dazed for an instant. Such a frightening, yet elusive, sound I had never heard. Where was it coming from?

Slowly, as if some force was controlling the movement of my head, I saw it. Less than six feet from the menacing beast's coiled body, Will stopped. My daze, shattered by my endangered friend's shaky, whispering voice, swiftly left.

"Shoot it.", he muttered in that tremulous tone so common to a frightened child.

I slipped my gun from its holster, took aim, fired and prayed. The snake shot we had bought at the outset of our journey proved to be worth its weight in gold! It was over.

Will stepped on the triangular head of the monster's listless form and sliced it off.

Handing me the rattle from its tail, he said,"I wish I had shot it."

"So do I.", was my reply in the same shaky tone I had heard uttered from my buddies mouth not so long ago.

We walked on.

Squaw Creek was a half mile away when we first sighted it. A small creek that winds its way through the high country, so full of steelhead that we could see our creels full already, it called. So much we had heard, so much we had seen, so much we had imagined, we were there!

Unpacking our gear, we made bets on who would land the first giant of the freshwater fish. Casting our lines into the water, our dreams, in part, were fulfilled. Fresh roe lolling in a deep pool at a bend in the creek's cold, clear water, we waited.

As we sat by the rippling waters, we spotted along the rocky banks of the rolling creek for snakes.

"...five, six, seven I count eight.", I uttered, recalling our close call with fate. I couldn't remember being as scared as I had been when I fired my weapon that day. Was it luck that I hadn't missed?

With another stroke of that same luck, my rod tip bent. Remembering all I had read in my fishing books and recalling my past experience with trout, I let the fish run freely. Hands shaking with excitement, my mind filled with expectation, I fought. After what seemed like hours, I pulled the fish within sight of my companion.

"Don't lose him,", Will choked, "he's a giant!" I pulled the fish close as Will netted it. "I got 'im, I got 'im!", Will shouted in ecstasy as he lifted the prize catch out of the water for me to see

"Whaddya mean you got 'im?" I retorted, "I did all the work!"

Remembering a stanza from Tennyson's 'The Brook'
"I wind about, and in and out,
With here a blossom sailing,
And here and there a lusty trout,
And here and there a grayling."
I examined my prize. Fifteen pounds of pure wild muscle covered in pink spots on an umber base coat, a silver colored head and an angry eye staring, it lay in the net.
Forever, it seemed, it fought to be free. Forever, it felt, I fought to make it mine. I had won. Somehow I had lost. After the excitement, I felt worse than I thought I might had I never seen my catch. At that, I unhooked the fish and set it free. It floated in the water for an instant and disappeared into the ripples.

I sat for a while and thought about the fish. I hoped it survived. Something in me was satisfied in the catching, something else in the letting go.
If anyone should ask, there are no fish in Squaw Creek.

The Kill Feb 11, 1975

Listfully, the sun hung in the orange sky, above the flat, brush covered plain bordered by a thick forest of bushes and trees. As if guided by an unseen hand, the rays of light played among the dew laden branches, on the leaves of the slightly bending trees. All the sounds of the early dawn were present as the dark world came to life with the birth of a new day. The time had come.
The pang in his stomach told the big cat that it was time to hunt. Two days had passed since the need for food had been satisfied. Slowly, as the sleep left his body, he began to stretch his disproportionately long legs. Colored a tawny tan with white underparts, the sleek body of the spotted cat was only four feet long. His head was small with two black shining eyes mounted forward on his streamlined skull. His ears, keen and discerning, were placed well back on his head. He sauntered over to his stretching tree and limbered every powerful inch of his figure. Curved, retractable claws digging into the thin bark, he felt the tiredness ebbing from his muscular form. Slim, swift greyhound of the cat family was he. The fastest mammal on land; the cheetah!

With feline deftness, he hastened to his most productive hunting ground. Boldly he stepped, out into the open, knowing he was fast enough to run down any prey he decided to tackle. He walked over to a thorny tree and with one leap was atop his observation post. Crouching on all four powerful legs, head down, eyes watching and ears alert to all sound, he waited.

Off in the distance a herd of Impala, the most graceful of antelopes, was feeding and frolicking by the water hole. With ears perked for the slightest of sounds they carried on with the business of their lives. Only thirty to forty inches high, the impala is chestnut brown with a sharply defined white stomach. It was the height of the rutting season, and a few pair of impala were not as aware of the surroundings as they were of each other. Some males were busy challenging and fighting their competition to establish dominance in this season of mating.

Suddenly a guttural scream was issued across the flat plain. The herd was caught unaware as the predator rushed with the speed of the wind toward them. Unable to outrun the fast cat, the herd engaged in a fantastic display of leaping. Forward, backward, with half turns up to ten feet in the air, they leaped. The brown color of their coats, combined with the erratic motion, made individuals hard to single out.
Confused, the cheetah stopped. As if time and motion itself had ended, he froze. A motion off to his right caught his attention. It broke the strange spell. One lone pair of impala, lost in a world of oblivion, a world of pleasure, was spotted. Another scream was broadcast as the cheetah flew after another prey. Swiftly, surely, with all confidence, he ran.

Realizing the danger, the quick female broke from the male and ran a zig zagging path to one side. The male hesitated. Then, with adrenalin still coursing through his body, the male broke the other way. Zigging and zagging, through the bushes and grass, for a quarter mile he ran. His heart pounding furiously within his body, the impala slowed. It was over.

With a violent burst of energy from somewhere within, the cheetah leapt toward the neck of his victim. While still in mid-flight, the cheetah heard another familiar sound, somewhat foreign; yet, strangely familiar. He was thrown from his flight by an unseen foe.

"I say, bloody good shot, old boy. Bloody good!"

"Nice trophy for the lodge. Don't you think?"

The cheetah lay on the ground, not knowing how or why. He picked himself up. The pain in his side spread throughout all parts of his powerful body. He fell.
The kill.

Please! Get back in your car.

While in high school in the seventies, I worked a few different jobs. Restaurant busboy, retail sales clerk, child janitor and pick-up station attendant are a few that come to mind. In the latter capacity, I had the task of loading dirty, heavy and awkward items into the trunks of cars, beds of trucks or somehow attatching them to whatever conveyance came through the door. This job was at a family owned hardware chain known as Orchard Supply Hardware.

The building in which we worked was constructed of galvanized steel. It had roll up doors at each end without the benefit of any climate control.
On one particularly sultry and hot Summer Saturday, after only a few weeks on the job, the cars were lined up out the door and halfway across the parking lot. I was loading plastic bags of steer manure into the trunk and rear seat of a Buick when an old man in a brown tweed coat and old man slacks came hobbling up and grabbed a bag of manure and handed it toward me.

Shocked and embarassed, for being so far behind,I blurted, "Sir, I know we are backed up right now, but I don't think our insurance will cover you if you get hurt. Please get back in your car and we will get to you as soon as we can!", as I took the bag from him. Without a word he 'gimped' away.

The following Monday, when I reported to work, I was told to go see Loren Smith. Loren Smith was the Vice President of the company and brother of Al Smith, sons of the founder. As I sat outside Loren's office, all 125 lbs of me was trembling uncontrollably. I didn't know what to expect. The door opened and I stood as another employee, red faced, left in a huff. I almost fainted! I went in.
Loren's face seemed as calm as when he originally interviewed me for the job as he asked me to take a seat.

"So I understand there was an incident in the pick-up station on Saturday, hmm?", Loren began.

"An elderly gentlman tried to help and I asked him to get back in his car. I wasn't trying to be rude, I thought he might get hurt!", I pleaded, fearing this was the end.

"That elderly gentleman is the one who signs your paychecks, son. He is my brother Al Smith."

My mind was racing,"So this is how it ends. This is what it feels like to get the axe. Why didn't I just shut up? I didn't know who he was!"
Loren went on, "He thought your reaction was perfect in that situation and thinks an employee like you would do well inside on the sales floor. I see on your application you were interested in the Camera department, which is full, but how about a spot in Sporting Goods?"

I learned a little about trusting myself that day.