My first hike to Supai

Mooney Falls

I first hiked to Supai, Arizona in 1987 – it’s hard to believe it has been thirty years ago.  I just found my hand-written journal from that adventure which I am transcribing here for my blog.  This was the first back-packing trip I ever made…

I had the desire to visit the Havasupai Canyon area for many years.  My friend Dave Melian had made the trek and I heard his stories and saw his pictures - which always made me want to go. 

On the spur of the moment, while considering the extreme likelihood that there were no permits available, I called the Supai Tourist Manager only two weeks prior to my intended hiking date.  As it was planned for mid-week there were still permits to be had and I secured the necessary reservations for hiking and camping.  That was really unusual - permits were normally gone months ahead of time.  I had "lucked out."

The preparations for the trek began one week ahead with a visit to the Arizona Hiking Shack on north Cave Creek Road, where I found my old grade-school chum, Glen Dickinson.  I made a reservation for a back pack rental (I did not have one of my own back then) and also for a Therma-Rest pad to sleep on. This was a vinyl sleeping pad that with the opening of a valve, self-inflated with a thin layer of air. This came highly recommended by Glen and the combination of the pack and the pad only cost $4.50 per day, so I agreed to it. Glen assured me it would be worth the money. This completed, I went on with the arrangements for a camping trip to the White Mtns with my kids. 

It was my plan to return from the White Mountains camping trip on the 27^th of June in time to pick up the equipment from the Hiking Shack before they closed for the weekend.  I bought supplies for the trip in different places the next morning, including a small tent I got for ½ price at about $18.  It had been my intent to sleep open-air – but a bargain is a bargain. [In hindsight, it gave me a place to store my stuff out of sight once at the campground.]  I put together a first aid kit, probably the heaviest single item in the pack.  I put together some food – non-perishable things such as celery, peanut butter,  (4) PB&J sandwiches, carrots, apples, a summer sausage, pepperoni sticks with dips, candies for the trail, crackers and gum. I also packed an ice chest with ham sandwiches for breakfast before hiking, juice and several cans of soda pop (to be left in the car on ice until I hiked out three days later, hot and thirsty). 

By now it was Sunday evening and my sister Tina drove me to a car rental agency to pick up my wheels for the trip – a new Chrysler LeBaron.  My own vehicle at the time was an MG-B and I didn't trust it not to break down on a road trip. I still had my boys with me up to this point, so I took them back to their Mom’s and went home to finish my “getting ready.”

I packed a bed sheet to sleep in and a vinyl tarp and some other assorted items that I "just had to have" and of course later found useless.  After a final errand to pick up a friend at the airport (Carol Rosetta, who was returning from a vacation trip of her own), I finally got it all done and hit the road at about 11:30 pm.

I headed north without stopping until I encountered a motorcycle, headlight on, in the ditch.  This was between Prescott Valley and Ash Fork. Dust was still in the air and I turned around thinking he might be hurt. Someone had run him off the road about 4 hours before, and he couldn’t get the big Harley out of a hole he had dug while trying.  I had nothing to tug him out of the ditch with, [and apparently even together we couldn’t pull the bike out], so I gave him a drink and a ride to Ash Fork where he had a friend.  He had been drinking quite a bit, but he caused me no trouble.  He turned out to be a fairly decent fellow.

I made a quick pit stop in Seligman, probably had milk and donuts, and went on out old US 66 to the turn-off to Hilltop. I made pretty good time – I knocked off the 65 miles to Hilltop by 3:45 AM.  As usual, you had to worry about livestock on that road [While transcribing these notes, I don’t remember now whether there actually were any, but I noted the signs with warnings about watching out for them.]  I slept in the car until about 5:45 AM.  I had no alarm (no cell phone in those days); but I was counting on the sounds of other hikers to wake me – and they did. I found myself surprisingly alert for having had so little rest – probably because of the excitement.

The outhouse at Hilltop was the last one until I reached Supai – so I got myself pit-stopped and then got my hiking boots on. I got my man-killer backpack strapped on and finally got on the trail downhill at about 6:20 AM.  My notes “guess” that the pack weighed about 35 lbs.

The trail to Supai from Hilltop begins immediately with switchbacks, which continue for about one mile. It’s fairly easy going down, but my legs were a little shaky at the foot of the mountain.  At the bottom of the switchbacks, the trail turns 90 degrees to starboard and flattens out – you’re hiking north along the bottom of a wide draw at that point. From there on, it is a fairly easy and level walk to Supai – probably 8 more miles.  It is downhill, but not steep. I took a quick break, then moved on down the trail. Hiking pretty fast for a beginner, I made it to Supai by about 9:15 AM.

I created a problem for myself along the way by not drinking enough water.  It was shady and fairly cool, so I wasn't thirsty.  But my body was "working," and by about the last mile I was in a fair amount of misery and discomfort.  I had a heat rash on my arms and “general exhaustion.” The road into the village is a straight stretch, and I struggled past the first houses and farms through the soft deep dirt of the trail, and then at the south edge of the village I came to the Tourist Office where I needed to pay my fees and get my permits.  All hikers register and pay there. My “trail fee” was $10, plus a $9 charge for each night’s camping.  My total was $28.

I crashed on the wooden bench outside for five or ten minutes to recover. At the time, it was my thought that I had come pretty close to a heat stroke.  I drank about a quart of water. Then as I started to feel a little better, I moved off through the village and down the trail toward the campgrounds.  This part of the hike was sunny– and since it was summer, very hot.  And I was already heat-sick before I started. Up to this point, the hike had been mostly shady and cool – which is why you start a summer-time Supai hike in the cool of pre-dawn if you planned right.  Anyway, I was walking very slowly.

Very shortly down the trail, I came across two young women, standing beside the road, resting.  They challenged me as I was strolling by, asked if I was alone.  I told them I was and we stood for a moment to chat. They had camped on the trail overnight and had arrived very early to the village. We moved off together toward the campground, still two miles distant.  From that point on, I had acquired two companions for my adventure. I don’t know what drew them into my company – perhaps they felt I needed adopting, or perhaps they were uneasy after spending their night alone along the trail (they mentioned that, anyway). But we fell into step and chatted as we walked.

The first girl was dark-haired and slender, maybe about 35 years old. She was a school teacher of 6^th graders near Roanoke, Virginia.   She was the more talkative of the two.  Her speech was accented, and vaguely southern [my recollection now is that she sounded somewhat like the actress Paula Prentice].  She was extremely chatty and inquisitive, but not the least bit annoying.  Her name was Caroline Shelburn. 

The other was Jean.  She was a little shorter with red hair and was much quieter.  She had a quick smile, bright eyes, and I think she didn’t miss much.  She was a physical education teacher of elementary school children in a Phoenix school district; she runs 10k’s and triathlons and such. 

We kept pounding away toward the campgrounds and eventually come to the gate and the ranger station, sometime about 11:00 AM.  My name was not in the ranger's reservation book, but I have my permit tag so he writes me down and we move off in search of a suitable camping site (which I already have “pictured” in my mind).

On the way into the village, I had stopped to talk with a gregarious outbound hiker who had allowed as how he had left this paradise of a camping spot, "it would mostly likely still be vacant and I should snatch it up."  So I was looking for it.  The man had told me it was 80% shaded (that was exaggerated) and “with its own private swimming hole.”  It was in a shadier,  “wetter” area, across a footbridge to the right.  We found it easily, and its praises were well-deserved. It was still empty, and Bob, Carolyn and Jean moved right in and set up camp.

After I set up my camp, I was hot and tired. I figured it was about time to go swimming.  In cut-offs and sneakers, I began to work my way down the smooth, wet bank to the water. I planned to stick a toe in to see just how cold it was (it looked VERY cold).  Just about then my feet swapped places with my head, I bounced once on the way down -  and I found out how cold the water was.  I couldn’t speak for probably five minutes - about all I could manage was a croak.  

The water at that spot (Cataract Creek maybe a quarter mile below Havasu Falls) was well over my head and I had gone right to the bottom.  Once in, it quickly became bearable, although it was still chilly. The only thing that made this all OK was the air temperature was probably 110 degrees. I swam around the area, and over to a cascading tumble of water near some rocks and travertine, and sat in a natural “Jacuzzi” surrounded by a small horseshoe-shaped waterfall. The entire setting was wiped out about 5 years later by one of Cataract Creek’s periodic floods. I was never again able to find this exact spot.

It was time to eat lunch, so I climbed out, dried off, and got into my cache of food – PBJs, apples and celery.  The girls had some freeze-dried chicken salad and bagels – they gave me their left-overs and I ate it with some of my crackers. We agreed to share the remainder of my food, then we’d have gourmet food for supper.  After lunch, we decided to go see Havasu Falls, at the head of the campground. We had passed the falls on the hike down, about 1/4 mile back up the trail toward the village.  It appeared that we would be a three-some for the duration.  I had no complaints about that.

Arriving at the bluff below the falls, Carolyn introduced herself to the common prickly pear cactus.  She got a few little prickers in foot and toe.  We helped her get those out, then moved down to the sand and rocks by the falls and its travertine pools. There were lots of people sunning and swimming.  I swam across the base of the falls and climbed up on the cliff beside them.  It was a good place to people watch. The huge Cottonwood tree at the west side by the trail was still standing then, with its swinging rope.   Some boys were making use of that to swing way out over the pool and dropping into the water. 

I got back into the water and swam around among all the others doing the same; you had to keep swimming, otherwise the water was too cold. It was very brisk. I got out and joined Jean and Carolyn on the “beach,” where they were sunning themselves. I discovered I had worn my watch into the water for the second time, which did it no harm in the end.  I also discovered that I forgot to remove my wallet.  So I scattered its contents around on the rocks to dry. The contents dried out OK, but the wallet itself did not – it was finally dry on Wednesday morning for the hike out.  I felt pretty stupid about the whole thing.

While we were sitting around the beach area, we noticed that one young lady was sunning herself au natural.  This is frowned upon by the Indians, who are very modest.  But we didn’t hear any of them complain about it. The sun was now going down and the sunshine was getting harder to find – they had to chase it around a bit to stay in it.  Jean was reading a book, and Carolyn was intent on staying in the sun.  I moved over to a nearby picnic table to talk to a gentleman sitting there – and my legs had gone to sleep from sitting on the ground, so I wanted to move around a bit.  He was Robert Morris of Los Angeles, there with his three sons to see the area, then they were to move on to the Grand Canyon itself (North Rim).  I tell him about our fine camping spot, and by the time we got back to it, I found he and his boys had moved in next door.  I felt a little territorial for a few moments, but there was plenty of room, and he “is pleasant enough.”

The girls have heard of the legendary Indian taco at the Supai Café; Jean at least wanted to try that.  We put it to a vote and begin the two mile trek to the village for supper.  It was still hot and sunny, so the walk was tough and miserable.  I was driven along by the thought of a cold Coke, which I had been thinking about all day. 

Along the way, we met another couple just arriving from Hilltop – they had gotten a late start.  They were from a kibbutz in Israel and were touring the great intermountain west! [When I wrote this] I had already forgotten their names, but we had a lot of conversation about life in a kibbutz, and we all gave them plenty of advice about what to see in Northern Arizona.  After we parted, we headed on toward the village.  

Even then [1987], we noted the abundance of satellite dishes in the yards of the little houses – Supai is an extremely remote place, but television is one of their common pleasures.  Arriving at the Supai cafeteria, I ordered a bowl of stew and a Slice (lemon-lime soda). Jean and Carolyn had fry bread and beans since they were out of the other taco ingredients.  Years later, my Mother had to be helicoptered out of Supai after eating those beans.  But they apparently didn’t have any negative effects on my two comrades. At the time, I made a note that they “also got lots of water.”  I was anxious to get across the street to the general store – and I inadvertently walked out of the cafe without paying.  I got halfway across the street before I remembered.  At the store, I got a large bottle of Dr. Pepper to carry back to camp for the next day.

We hung about the village for a little while, then started back down-trail toward the campground.  Carolyn got side-tracked onto the spur to Navajo Falls, but she felt the getting lost had been worth it as those falls were very pretty.  I never saw them until quite a few years later, and they ARE worth the short hike to reach them - the area around Navajo Falls is like a grotto. Anyway, we stopped and waited for Carolyn to catch up as we saw her coming back around our way. [I think she thought that spur was a short-cut, rather than a dead-end.]

I stopped along the way, the girls got on ahead of me, and by the time I got back to camp they were already visiting with the Israeli couple again.  They really were nice people and I joined in the conversation as well – all I remember of them now is that the lady had short, curly dark hair.  I took my Dr Pepper bottle to the creek, and tied it to a tree with some fishing line, with the bottle dangling in the cold water.  Jean had me do the same with her day pack, as it had a juice bottle in it which she hoped would also be cold for breakfast. I am sure it was.

We relaxed in camp, and attempted to R&R Jean’s candle lantern, which attempt was finally successful. Bugs then gathered to worship.  Our plan for the morning was to visit Mooney Falls (at the other end of the campground).  It was too hot to sleep in a sleeping bag – so I wrapped up in a sheet.  The bottom of the Canyon is like an oven in the summer - the rocks hold the heat. It was still warm in the tent, so I folded the rain fly back across the top, to open up the screen – and that helped. I slept very well; Glen had been right, the Therma-Rest was very comfortable.

I woke up off and on from about 5:30 AM, but didn’t climb out until about 7:45 AM. It was cool and nice and I really wanted to enjoy it.  I got up and performed my morning rituals, shaved etc, then prepared for breakfast. The girls have pancakes with poppy seeds and ate them with peanut butter, honey and jam. They shared; I had mine with honey and one with strawberry jam.  Then they made scrambled eggs with bacon in it – I do not remember but I am guessing [now] this was one of those packaged freeze-dried things.  We cleaned up camp and then got out toward Mooney Falls.

Carolyn was wearing flip-flops.  I wanted to advise her against that, but diplomacy won out. We encountered our Israeli friends along the way, and discover they will continue on out of the canyon. We had hoped to share our supper with them.

We soon arrived at the top of Mooney Falls, and began the almost vertical descent down the face of the cliffs to the base. There are tunnels and chains and pitons and a drop of probably 300 feet to the bottom. It was [and is] spectacular and exciting – terrifying from the top looking down, but easily negotiable to anyone in fairly good shape.  My Mom completed it both ways at age 75.  The view of the falls (the canyon's tallest) is magnificent from the top.  It’s hard to see where to put your feet for each step down and about half-way, I took Carolyn’s water bottle which she was carrying, and tucked it behind me in my belt. Chivalry lives!

At the bottom, we crossed a shallow pool to the island, which is where everyone hangs out at Mooney Falls. The falls were named for an explorer, Mooney, who attempted to descend the nearby cliffs and failed – fell to his death.  They buried him on “an island.”  I figure it is the very one on which we now stood.  At any rate, I undertook the taking of some photographs. 

I went for a swim, and headed across the shallow side to the cliffs by the falls.  The crashing water was blowing into a fine mist, and even in the hot sun, I nearly froze to death.  I worked my way around to the other side and joined Bob Morris, and a man from Washington I had met on the way down the trail – he and his son had passed me on the switchbacks the first morning.  They were all waist-deep in the water on the sheltered side of the pool, against the east wall of this kind-of-a grotto. Bob eventually pushed his way (against a strong current) in to swim, and I reluctantly followed, remembering how cold it was.  We soon began diving in headfirst and had boo-coups fun doing it.

We spent an hour or two swimming and sunning, but I eventually tapered off as I feared I was getting swimmer’s ear.  It was probably just the discomfort of the cold water though. Bob Morris mentioned he had hired a pack horse for the trip out of the canyon the next day; he has one spot on the pack saddle left unreserved (for balance and weight distribution, they carry four).  I made use of it, as the girls weren’t interested.  They were tough back-packers.  I am more of a light-weight.

Eventually, we left Mooney Falls and climbed our way back up the cliff.  It is less-scary going up than it is coming down, and I doubt any of us will ever forget that bit of fun.  Carolyn had been so frightened on the descent, but was now having such fun with it, that I took her photo going up, very much “engaged” with the cliff – and I had it enlarged and framed (or block-mounted) for her after I returned home.

[This is the end of the notes that I took.]  I either lost the rest, or didn’t write any more after this point.  But while I remember little, I do have at least one other very fond memory of this adventure. Jean had not, to this point, gone into the water at all.  She kept refusing, even when the rest of us went in.  But later in the afternoon, toward the end of the day, she finally decided to swim.  She stood for a long time on a rock beside the water at Havasu Falls, still hesitant about her decision to swim.  Finally, she either stepped, or dove, into the water.  Just like everyone else, she shrieked bloody murder when she got herself suddenly immersed. But just like everyone else, she quickly got used to the temperature.  And from that point on, she swam around, and jumped, and dived, and was a picture of total joy; it was beautiful.  

I took quite a few photos of her as she bounced around, and as she sat on the rocks on the far-side of the pool by the falls.  I am certain I still have the negatives – and when I find them I will digitize them and maybe add some to this post.  We had a very nice last evening in camp, visiting and talking about what fun we’d had.  The only thing that would have made it better was a campfire (fires were not permitted), but everything else was perfect.  

One thing that was different then was the spring water below the village was still pure enough to drink right from the source.  Within a few years, that was no longer possible.  For the hike out, we all filled our water bottles from the spring near the campground.

I remember that we got on the trail very early on Wednesday morning, hiked together out through the village and up the trail to Hilltop. It was easier for me than it was them, as my pack went on a Havasupai horse. All I carried was some snacks and my water.  But we all survived and made it out in good time.  We said our goodbyes at the trailhead – I shared my cold drinks with them (I had left that ice chest in the car). 

I think I exchanged a letter or two with Carolyn, and I took Jean to see a Gordon Lightfoot concert, before I lost track of both of them.  But they helped make my first hike to Supai very memorable.  I have been back many times since then, and I enjoyed them all, but that was my first and in my memory, about the best of all of them.

Film Review: The Homesman

On its surface, this gritty and dark story is about a woman who undertakes to deliver three women who have become mentally ill while homesteading the Nebraska plains in 1854. Underneath that framework, the message is about the realities of pioneering Plains life and the hardness of character required to survive there.  This is a topic I have written about before. The screenplay was adapted from the novel by Glendon Swarthout.

The community from whence these people started is very small, and it has no resources to care for these three women who have become violently disturbed. The preacher decides the community must start these women on a journey back to their families in the “east” by delivering them to the care of a minister’s wife in a settlement along the Missouri River in Iowa. This is quite some distance away by wagon and through unsettled, undeveloped territory.  In the year the story purportedly takes place, Nebraska had really not been settled yet – people in any numbers to settle and farm in that territory were still ten or even twenty years in the future.  For the most part, no resources were present to assist travelers along their way, except along the Overland Trail route.

The preacher meets with the townsfolk in the church to decide which of them will take the three ill women to Iowa – but the men all refuse or claim they cannot make the trip (which would likely have been true if they were to survive themselves).  So a local woman, a “spinster” in her 30s, declares she will do it. Others doubt she can, but she believes she is as capable as any man to do the job as she lives alone, runs her own farm and has been quite successful up to that time.  The locals prepare a wagon for her, and she sets out to make the journey to the settlements in Iowa.

In the story, the woman is “plain,” and she has been turned down by a local man to whom she’d un-romantically proposed.  His thought was that he could go east and do much better. As she starts out, she encounters and releases a hard-luck never-do-well man from an impromptu lynching - on the condition he do a "job of work" for her.  He reluctantly agrees, and although he threatens not to (after he learns what the job entails), he does complete his part of the bargain in the end.  The remainder of the story concerns their journey, her ultimate collapse, and his partial “redemption” in honoring his commitment to her (and the women). The ill-fated heroine, Mary Bee Cuddy, turns out to have been not strong enough to complete the job, although she is a “very good woman.”  In the end, the scruffy, immoral vagabond she enlists is successful, if only in the task at hand.

This is not a pretty film, it is not uplifting; it is hard to watch.  But the roles are well-acted and in some ways it does depict the realities of life on the Great Plains as they were then (the harshness and the hardship); but not totally. There were two things in this story that do not "work." The first has to do with casting, the other with story. The two are related.

An underpinning premise is that Mary Bee is "plain."  She’s ugly. She purportedly cannot get a husband because of that. This in some degree underlies her failure to complete what she sets out to do, as later events contribute to her own feeling of hopelessness.  But first of all, where are you going to find an established actress who can pull that off?  There are no “ugly” actresses that I can think of; just my opinion.  Hilary Swank plays the role of Mary Bee, and you can “ugly” her up all you want to and she’s still strikingly beautiful.  So that doesn’t work.  That we might overlook; we can pretend she is "plain." 

Tommy Lee Jones and Hilary Swank in "The Homesman"

The second flaw is more damaging to the story’s premise, if you know anything about western history.  Ugly or not, Mary Bee Cuddy is presented to be a successful farmer in the new town of Loup, with good prospects and “money in the bank.”  She is physically strong and healthy - the film begins with a scene of her plowing her own fields. 

Historically, even thirty years later, there was a shortage of marriageable women in the west. There is absolutely no way she would have been left unmarried if that was what she wanted to be.  Men would have courted her from hundreds of miles away the minute they knew she was there – that in fact was the reality on the frontier.  She wouldn’t have had to propose to, or throw herself at, anyone.

In the "old west," marriage-minded men had to marry native women, or camp-followers, if they wanted to find a wife in the west.  In those times, either of those possibilities was considered socially unacceptable; many did so anyway. The Fred Harvey Company hired eastern or mid-western girls to work in the railroad hotels along the transcontinental railroad - they hired young, strong and mostly “pretty” women to host in their restaurants and hotels – but they had to make them sign contracts that they wouldn’t marry for the term of their agreements.  If they hadn’t, those women would have been snapped up as frontier wives before you could blink twice; many of them were anyway, despite those contracts. More than one western ranch wife got her start as a Harvey girl (or an imported school-marm). Other than the Harvey girls, "good" women were scarce in the west for a long period of time. Even a “plain” woman of Mary Bee’s quality would have been a highly-valued prize as a wife.

Still, it is an excellent film. Other than I've noted, it is realistic in terms of action and environment and it is beautifully filmed.  In the end, perhaps the message is that sometimes it takes a bad man to survive, someone not bothered much by conscience. The "good" of a Mary Bee isn't always good enough and that's just the way it is (or was). In this story, her good character interferes with her ability to be successful. We are shown once again that life isn't always fair. Mary Bee Cuddy deserved all good things, but doesn't get them.

I could watch Ms. Swank act all day long. You’ll also find Tommy Lee Jones (also as co-producer/director), John Lithgow, Meryl Streep, Hailee Steinfeld and some other acclaimed actors and familiar faces in this film. I'd call it a stellar cast.  It’s a quality film, believably and competently acted by its great cast.  You won’t laugh, you won’t be entertained (much); but it is a story worth watching and I am sure it is a film I’ll watch again.  I also plan to read the book.

Perfect Little Hamburgers

I found this "recipe" on Facebook, posted by the NY Times (link at the end, take a look).  The post consists of tips for making the "perfect burger."  They included tips for both "Tavern"-style burgers and "Diner"-style burgers.  I haven't tried the Tavern-style yet, but the little diner-style is the BEST burger I've ever made at home ( I prefer thin). I adapted their technique to suit my taste in some minor ways, but it is essentially the same as they posted.  This is very much like the burger you'd have gotten at a truck-stop cafe in the 1950s, if you remember those. I love them.

80/20 Coarse Ground Chuck  (3 oz each burger)

Soft Potato Buns

Condiments.

·       Put cast iron griddle over medium fire.

·       After pre-heating for a few minutes, lightly butter and griddle each bun until golden brown.

·       Do not over-handle the meat.  As gently as possible, prepare each burger into a piece of meat of about 3 oz – about like a big meatball.  Do not compress.

·       Increase fire to med-hi.  Add a bit of oil to the griddle.  Place a meatball on the griddle and smash it down thin to about 1 inch thick very quickly with a solid spatula.  Aggressively salt and pepper the patty.  Fry for 90 seconds, then flip and finish for 90 more seconds. Salt and pepper again once flipped.  This will be a med-well patty.  If medium is preferred, cook only 1 min once flipped.  This burger will be crispy around the edges, but juicy in the middle. Do NOT EVER press on the burger while it is cooking!

·       If cheese is desired, place cheese slice on burger for the last 45-50 seconds.

·       Serve with condiments of choice.  I prefer mustard, onion and dill pickle!

You may also form the patty very quickly with your hands before putting it on the griddle, but compress the meat as little as possible (don't "work" the meat, just form it enough that it holds together).  If you make the patty larger (up to about ¼ lb), just increase the cooking time slightly. No more than 80% lean meat is important - leaner beef contributes to a dryer, denser less-flavorful burger. I've made these with chili-grind, and I've made them with regular supermarket-grind beef - both were great.  Just don't use leaner beef (85% would probably be OK, but nothing more).

I add nothing to the meat except the salt and pepper.  I've been throwing a slice of onion on the griddle while the burger fries also - so by the time the meat is done, I've got a semi-grilled onion slice.

I'm adding the LINK from the Times -- there is a lot of great information in it! 

A Nation in Decline?

The election is over, the people have spoken. It is time to move on. At each election, the losing side always screams "get rid of the electoral college," blah blah blah. That system was put in place for a reason, I suggest you learn why before you throw it out. Then if you still don't like it, work to change it; but you may find that our founding fathers weren't that dumb.

It's not about politics, it's about character. In my opinion, Donald Trump was never (and will never be) fit or qualified for the office he now will hold. The words sleaze, immoral and scumbag come to mind. He never engages his brain before he runs his mouth. He is a bully. Even though I have serious concerns about the ability of the American people to intelligently govern themselves, to make even adequate choices, this election is a "done-deal" and we must move on.

Do I think the voters have been conned? Yes. But remember that Trump is simply a reflection of what the people of this country are already thinking, (and at least in some cases) in all their narrow-minded ugliness. We had thought things, person to person, were not how they used to be - that things were better. We have discovered that isn't the case. Our real problem is how do we deal with that?

I wonder how I can ever see "America" in the same way again. This nation is not what I thought it was and that is depressing, even heartbreaking. But my hope is that what we've apparently "lost" is still within us and we discover and reaffirm it again after this temporary flirtation with the less-than-admirable side of our very-human nature. Some day, perhaps we will finally learn that fear of the "other" is an irrational thing. Some day, maybe we'll recognize that our nation's founding principles apply to all.

The secondary problem is that our government no longer works - and it won't until both sides work together. I see no evidence that is about to happen and even less likelihood with this particular electee. The GOP has the reins for the next couple of years. Let's see if they can solve some of our problems. Then we get another do-over. That's how it works. All the moaning and gnashing of teeth solves nothing. And although I remain highly doubtful, if their "plans" work, what have we lost?

"Make America great again" has different meanings to different people. For me, it means a return to the values of honesty, integrity, honor, duty, service, and diligence (work ethic). These are values that made us leaders, made us great. I don't see how this man can lead us back to them, as I don't see that he shares them. There are many people in America today that I love, that I don't think he cares about.  I will give him the opportunity to surprise me, mainly because we don't have a choice about that now; but sometimes a man can rise to a challenge.  Sometimes, men become what you expect of them.  Hope.

Election 2016: A critical choice is at hand.

Please think very carefully about your vote in a few weeks.  If you vote for anyone that is not Clinton or Trump, you will be throwing your vote away and helping one of the other candidates win.  That is not scare tactics; that is practical reality.  If you feel as I do, that neither candidate is totally (or at all) acceptable, then the most good you can do given the choices we’ve been given is to vote against the candidate that you don’t want most.  Vote for the lesser evil.

Please remember how this happened this time.  Then get out there next time and work for good candidates from the beginning.  There’s really nothing we can do this time unless the GOP dumps Trump before the election.  I can’t imagine that will happen.  They just won’t do that.

But I want you to think about this: How do you suppose Trump’s daughter feels about the revelations this past few days in the news. Behind the scenes, where the public cannot see her, in her heart, what impact has this had on her? Locker room or not, what kind of man says something like that about his daughter?  Ever?  I don’t know any good man who would ever speak that kind of garbage anywhere. The kind of person who says things like that is nothing more than ignorant trash.

Fathers, who do you think Trump was talking about when he spoke of women and how he prefers to “handle” them?  He was talking about all women – your daughters, your wives, your friends and your loved ones.  What would you do if you heard someone speak of your daughter that way?  Vote for them?

The president represents all of us as the “face” of the United States around the world. How could you possibly consider this person as a leader of the free world? How could we be so ignorant? What would it say about us if we had such a man representing us around the world. These things do matter - despite what his remaining right-wing supporters and all the neo-Nazis would have you believe.  

Where Trump belongs is in some deep, dark basement where no one would ever have to hear his vile voice again (or in that same prison he threatens to put Hilary in...).

I also flatly reject the assertion that Hilary Clinton is just as bad. She has a nearly forty year record of working for the American people.* Trump has never worked for anyone but himself, and that not honestly, but at the expense of others.  We have no reason to believe he will be any different as president and you're a fool if you think that doesn't matter.

*Just so you know, I am a fiscal conservative in the traditional sense and would not vote for Clinton if I had a good choice otherwise.  But she is NOT evil incarnate.  Those of you that think so are wrong. Conservative America, Donald Trump does not in any way share the ideals and values you hold most dear; you are being played.

There are parallels – similar political rhetoric and candidates – in the history of the past one-hundred years.  Because people did nothing to stop it when they might have, because the idea of a resurgent nation was attractive to them, because they gave in to ignorant and unthinking hate-rhetoric and hatred of those that weren’t much different than themselves, the entire world was plunged into evil chaos that took millions of lives and 6 + years to obliterate, not to mention the millions of innocent lives murdered during those years.  If you don’t think that could happen again, you’re wrong.  That all started a little at a time, because a nation was fed up with a status quo. I wouldn't want to see anything like that happen in my country, even to some lesser degree.

The hour is late and ignorance, irrational hatred and bigotry are out of the closet, even valued.  It is time for intelligence and wiser people to speak up – and act.  

In Memory of Tom Mix

Tom Mix, cowboy star

Back in the 1920s and 1930s, we didn’t have John Wayne.  The Duke was getting his start in one or two big screen flicks, like “The Big Trail,” but for the most part his 30s decade was filled with making Saturday afternoon “oaters.” 

No, in the early days, we had Tom Mix!   He was a big, tall handsome man with some real cowboy-ing background, a favorite with the ladies of his time and he had a smart horse (“Tony”) who took every opportunity to upstage him. He was made even taller by that trademark-tall white Stetson hat. He made over 370 (mostly silent) westerns.  You can still see some of them on the streaming services - for example, "Just Tony" from 1922, which mostly stars the horse with Tom as pretty much the "sidekick." 

By the late 30s, though, the big star was approaching 60 years old and the parts were not many in coming.  By 1940, he hadn’t been very successful in any kind of a career revival, although he was still working on that.  He performed in “circuses,” even had his own.  But in the depression years, none of those did very well.  Even Barnum & Bailey and Ringling Bros shut down for a time.  The Tom Mix circus was no exception and closed in ’38.

Tom Mix, the great cowboy star who helped bury the REAL Wyatt Earp, counted him as a friend and wept at his funeral, was living in reduced circumstances by 1940.  He wasn’t forgotten and although his star was fading, he still drew big crowds at the local events he attended; America still loved him. He didn’t live in big mansions in the Hollywood Hills anymore – but he did have a couple of nice ranches with some acreage in Los Angeles and near Phoenix (his ranch house near Phoenix is now the home of a good Mexican restaurant – one of the locations of Los Dos Molinos).

Perhaps his favorite possession was his beautiful butter-yellow 1937 Cord 812 Phaeton (although he also owned a 1927 Rolls-Royce Phantom I Roadster at the time of his death).  Not all the 812s had the supercharged Lycoming V-8 engine – but his did.  Not many were ever built and by the time of Mix’s death the company was out of business. But Tom Mix kept his, and he liked to drive it fast on his frequent journeys around the west.  If you look closely at the photo, you can see the tooled leather rear-fender guards - indicating perhaps that many of the roads he drove were gravel in those days.

Tom Mix's 1937 supercharged Cord 812 Phaeton

On the morning of October 12, 1940, he started out from Tucson on the 2nd leg of a journey from Las Cruces back to California for meetings about starring in some more films; he was headed to Florence that day for a Grandson's christening. He knew lots of people in the area, was friendly to almost everyone he met.

His first stop that morning was north of town at Oracle Junction (there was no I-10 in 1940).  Mix took the “back road” route that today starts as Oracle Rd in Tucson, and then splits off to Florence, Arizona and into Phoenix from the southeast.

From Oracle Junction to Florence, that road wasn’t paved – it was a main route but was graded-gravel according to the 1940 Arizona Highway Department map.  But Florence is on that road, so he went that way instead of a more direct route.  He also met a man (his friend Bud White) at Oracle Junction when he stopped at a roadhouse there, drank some whiskey and played some cards with his friend.  A couple of Florence boys had been there overnight after a dance; one of them at least knew him, and they were all three excited to see the “big star.”  After talking with them for a few moments, Mix left and the boys decided to follow him down the road toward Florence in their "old Plymouth."  But they couldn’t keep up with the powerful Cord and until the wreck he stayed quite some distance ahead of them.

About 18 miles south of Florence, he came up on a work site where WPA workers were in the process of building a bridge over what is now (sadly) known as Tom Mix Wash.  News reports said those construction workers were first on the scene, but the boys who were there said that was not true, as it was Sunday and in 1940 on Sunday, road workers were at home with their families, not building bridges over dry Arizona washes. 

The boys came up on the crash right after it happened, before the dust even settled.  They said that the wheels of the Cord were still turning when they approached. Mix had swerved and gone off the road into the wash where the motorcar turned over.  He'd had two aluminum suitcases in the back of the open car, and one of those (which was heavily loaded) flew forward or perhaps fell on his head as the car rolled and broke his neck.  That suitcase is still in a museum, complete with the dent left by the actor’s head.

Mix was certainly speeding - but speeding on that road may not be the equivalent of what we think of as speeding today.  It was a graded road.  Some have reported that the Cord approached at 80 mph.  But no one was there; no one except those boys, who were way behind him, so there is no way to know for sure exactly what his speed really was at that moment.  I suspect it was much lower than 80 mph. When the car was recovered there was little visible damage; had he really been doing 80, the damage would have been much more visible.  Had the heavy case not broken his neck, that wreck might even have been survivable, since the reports indicated that he was still with the car, not thrown off a couple of hundred feet as you might expect had he really been going as fast as some said. I am certain it had no seat belts -- cars just didn't in those years.

The boys said he was already dead when they got there – one of them checked for his pulse and didn’t find one.  It was several hours before the authorities got out to the crash scene.  The witnesses stated the wreck happened in the morning, but it was midafternoon before anyone else got there.  Mix’s body was taken to Florence that afternoon and the Cord was also towed into town. Because of the delay, most reporters wrote that the wreck happened in the afternoon. The witnesses disputed that.

The coroner did an autopsy and discovered the broken neck and reported it as the cause of death and his body was then prepared for burial by a Florence funeral home. His fifth wife Mabel had been notified and she came in a friend's private plane from Los Angeles to take his body home.  He had a funeral in Los Angeles fit for a king, with thousands of mourners and was buried at Forest Lawn Memorial Park in Glendale, California, wearing his platinum and diamond-encrusted cowboy belt buckle.

Where Tom died.

Tom Mix left behind a legion of movie fans and friends, a wife, four ex-wives (reportedly), two daughters and Tony the devilish horse. He had disowned the exes and one of his daughters and left his somewhat modest estate to his wife and his daughter Thomasina. Tony the wonder horse had already lived long – and he died of old age two years later to the day (from Mix's death). 

Tom's Rolls Royce was obtained by Warner Brothers after his death and it appeared in several movies as the years passed.  Robert Redford drove it in one of his films. The damaged Cord passed through several owners and was finally purchased by someone who restored it to mint-condition and as exactly as possible to how Mix had it set up, lamps and all (see photo).  It’s also still out there – it was auctioned a few years back and I haven’t been able to find out where it is now.  That might mean a private collector now owns it.   

You can still see some of the places where he lived over in Los Angeles, as well as that Mexican restaurant bungalow in South Phoenix and you can still see many of his movies. A monument was placed in a small roadside park on that "still a back-road" desert highway – SR79, just a couple of hundred feet from the spot where the movie cowboy went off the road into the wash.  It is paved now and a decent road. They dedicated that monument in 1947 and Gene Autry was there and sang a lonesome cowboy song. Vandals and thieves deface the memorial every once in a while, so it doesn't look now like it originally did.

I go by there every chance I get and I almost always stop.  The marker commemorates a man who added countless hours of excitement to the Saturday afternoons of American boys and girls all across the country.  I remember that silent-film cowboy in the tall white hat (even though his movies were really before "my time.")  I always will.  I might go watch one of them right now.

4th of July, 2016: The American Creed

Why is it that we don’t stand up when we see some among us who place conditions on our rights – when they belong to others who are different from us?  Wasn’t that the whole point, from the very beginning?  What is it that blinds us?

True Americans value their personal freedom, but with absolute remembrance that to our founding fathers and mothers, freedom did not extend as much to the individual – it was freedom of the people, of the nation as a whole.

True Americans believe in personal responsibility.  Our creed places value on self-sufficiency.

True Americans are reliable, and true to our word.

True Americans believe in charity and taking care of others.  But that does not mean we want the government to do it for us.

True Americans root for the underdog.

True Americans hate losing – and losers.

True Americans believe that justice is more important than winning.

No matter our spiritual beliefs, we believe in the Golden Rule.

Americans are a fighting people.  If you abuse us – you can expect to reap the whirlwind.  Justice will come for you.

True Americans believe in freedom of religion as well as freedom FROM religion.  America may be a nation of believers – but there are many beliefs.

True Americans value remembrance of our past, our people and our history. 

We place a high priority on honor.

True Americans value hard work and a job well-done.  We prize competence.

True Americans want to solve a problem at its root – not address it piecemeal from the tips of its branches.

We prize action, more than rhetoric.

True Americans have a strong belief in equality, of the dignity and worth of each person.  Not just Americans, but ALL people.  All of us - not just the ones who are like us.

The American creed “is a union of faith and freedom [wherein] faith elevates freedom and freedom tempers faith.”

We revere our elders.

True Americans hate a liar.

True Americans believe in right and in dealing from a position of power.

We believe that as humans we possess inalienable rights – we don’t need to wait for someone to give them to us.  We were endowed with them; they are inherent within us. 

It should be the government’s sole job to secure those rights.

We believe these rights have been endowed to the least of us, to the weakest among us. 

We do not believe that might makes right.

We believe in live and let live.

True Americans believe that freedom is our right – but that it is also our duty to secure that right, even if it means our death.

These tenets are my own opinions and beliefs, but some of the thoughts here were inspired by the writings of David Gelernter, David Azzerad, PhD and Forrest Church.