Troop 3
The
Scout Troop began tossing around the idea of hiking the John Muir Trail. My dad and I were among the 8 adults and 6
kids that signed up for the trip. The
John Muir Trail begins in Yosemite Valley, heads southeast through the High
Sierra backcountry, and ends 211 miles later at the top of Mount
Whitney . The trail never
dips below 8,000 feet in elevation and the last 30 miles are all above
10,000.
A
couple of adults in the troop volunteered to drop us off at Yosemite and pick
us up 3 weeks later when we came down off Whitney. To reduce the weight we would have to carry,
we arranged a rendezvous about halfway, where a pack station would deliver food
to us for the second half of the trip.
In 2014 approximately 1,500 people attempted to complete the trail. In the 3 weeks we spent on the trail in 1959,
we met only 3 other groups trying to do the same. Prior to reaching Rae Lakes
The
number of miles covered on any one day depended on the terrain. Some sections of the trail rise and fall
dramatically and can slow you down. We
also detoured to climb several peaks along the way and that too cut down on our
forward progress. Although Mount Rixford
On
the summit of any notable peak in the Sierras, there is a register in which climbers
can record the deed. It is a simple
small book with lined pages for climbers to record their name, the date and a
brief note. The book is protected against
the elements by a pot metal box that a climber usually finds stuck between a
few rocks at the summit.
In
recent years people have been stealing these books to keep as souvenirs or to
sell on eBay. For all I know, the use of
registers may have been abandoned. When
we first started climbing in the Sierras in the mid 1950s there was always a
register on any peak over 12,000 feet.
The more difficult a mountain top was to reach, the fewer climbers were
recorded in the register. We never tried
climbing anything that required a rope.
If we couldn’t find a route to the top by hands and feet, we’d turn
around and go back down. In some registers
the dates and names would go back decades and include well known mountaineers,
some of whom have peaks in the Sierras named after them. When we got to the top of Mount Rixford
We
spent one day just enjoying ourselves at a high altitude lake that we had never
been to before. It was a unique setting
and it was worth losing a day’s progress to take in the scenery. Handy and I spent the afternoon sitting on a
log in the middle of the lake. We
discovered that the shear cliff that rose above one end of the lake produced a
great echo. In
the Sierras, especially above the tree line (usually around 11,000 feet), there
is nothing other than wind or running water that can produce sound. The silence is all the more pronounced as it
is paired with spectacular visuals. We
found that the cliff could reproduce and bounce back our belches with little if
any distortion whatsoever. We were intrigued
enough by this to spend hours at it, resulting in a sore throat that limited my
speech to a hoarse whisper for the next 3 days.
When
we arrived at the rendezvous point, Dick Savage was there waiting for us along
with the food. Savage was a very large
kid who played football for Eagle
Rock High
School
We
lined up along the pole and soon had it moving down toward the water. I was very focused on the task at hand and
failed to pick up on the fact that everyone else had bailed out before the log
met the incoming wave. It was the middle
of the night and I didn’t see it until the last second. I turned to make my escape and the telephone
pole, with the help of the wave, mowed me down like a steam roller. I was face down, underwater, and the
telephone pole had rolled up to a point where it now rested on the back of my
neck. I had no other option than to wait
for the wave that had flattened me to retreat back into the sea. When the water did recede, Savage was a key
member of the group that rolled the telephone pole off of me.
Savage,
my dad and I, and 2 other scouts from our troop had been asked to join the
Order of the Arrow earlier that summer.
None of us had ever heard of it before but discovered it was some
honorary Boy Scout organization that inducted a small group of new members once
a year. We were instructed to bring a
sleeping bag, provisions suitable for a weekend of camping, and show up in the Tujunga River
We
took a campsite and had a look around as we waited. There were a dozen or so other small groups waiting
at campsites in the same general area. My
dad was the first of us to notice that some of the officials running the affair
were moving through the campsites. It appeared the officials were looking for
the group they were assigned to lead through the weekend initiation
ritual. They had helpers with them that
my dad said were confiscating any and all food carried in by the
inductees. My dad told us to take out any
food we could reach in our backpacks, wolf down half of it immediately, and
stuff the other half in our pockets.
An
official entered our campsite and asked hurriedly, “I’m looking for Troop 1
from Eagle Rock.” My dad answered, “I
thimp thar owver thur!”, and pointed east with a hand holding an empty food
wrapper. My dad’s pronunciation was
impaired by a mouthful of lunch meat. The
official must have thought my dad had a speech impediment since he sped off to
find us. By the time he returned we were
done with our meal and had loaded our pockets with snacks for later.
The
initiation consisted of walking around the foothills all hours of the night,
partaking in Native American symbolic rituals, and a big graduation breakfast
the next morning made from all the confiscated food. The highlight for me was the bow
ceremony. Around 3:00 a.m. they led
all of us up to the top of a butte and made us form a circle. They then produced a bow, instructed each of
us to repeat something in Cherokee, then draw back and release the bow string,
launching an imaginary arrow into the happy hunting grounds. This was to be carried out by each of us, one
person at a time. The bow monitor for the
ceremony was none other than Iron Eyes Cody.
He was featured on those anti-polution ads wearing a war bonnet and a
tear on one cheek.
Everything
was moving along until halfway around the circle. Iron Eyes Cody handed the bow
to Savage who was next in line. Savage,
unintentionally he claimed later, drew back on the string and snapped the bow
in half. The war paint on Iron Eyes
Cody’s face did little to hide his expression.
Since Iron Eyes was a full blooded Italian, I doubt the bow was a family
heirloom, but none of us knew that at the time.
The ceremony was cut short at that point and we moved on to the next
ritual as there was no back-up bow. So
much for the Boy Scout motto: Be prepared.