Life used to be so simple. Now it isn't. For instance, when I was a kid, and you wanted a Coke, you went to the store and you bought a Coke. There was no Diet Coke, no Coke Zero, no Cherry Coke, no Cherry Coke Zero, etc., etc. And Coke came in a proper glass bottle, as mandated from the beginning of the universe.
So it was with car keys. You own a Chevy? You get a Chevy key, and there was just one kind.
But not no more.
A couple months ago I took my car to the local car wash. They ran it through, and when they had dried it they called me out with a big smile, and said good bye. Gave the guy a tip! All well and good, except when I went to start the car I realized someone had broken the plastic head off the key, the plastic part with the remote door and trunk buttons on it. It was just dangling there.
Me: "Hey, my key is broken. You guys broke my key".
Car wash guy: "No, it was already broken"
Me: "No, you broke it. Where's the manager?"
Guy: "Who?"
Well, I finally corralled the manager and then this:
Me: "Your guys broke my key."
Him: "No they didn't."
Me: "OK then why didn't they tell me it was broken when they got in to run the car through the wash?"
Him: "It's a bad design. They break easily."
Me: "It's a good design, your guys broke it."
Him: "I think you can glue it."
Me: "Not interested. I want a new key."
Him: "I can't authorize a new key."
Me: "Then I want to talk to the general manager."
Him: "Who?"
Which is what I did. The general manager (who is clear across town), after making 'tear your hair out' sounds on the phone, said to find out how much it costs, and then we'll see. So I went to Toyota, and that key is $200 just for the key blank and the little shell that holds the electronic gizmo that makes the door open. Made me wish I was in the car key business.
So I sent the general manager a letter with all the information and the estimate paper, but I guess he wasn't all that excited about replacing a $200 key, because a couple weeks went by, and no word. I called again and left a message which he didn't return. I sent another letter asking when this would be resolved, and still no answer. Finally I sent a registered letter and gave him a deadline, and--nothing. So as a last resort I sent all my information over to the Better Business Bureau and the general manager finally sent me a check for $200.
Didn't end there. After some looking on the internet I found an aftermarket key was available online for about fifteen bucks. Now, that's more like it! Sent for it, and took it to a locksmith to be cut. They cut it for a buck, and I walked out to the car, happy as a kid with a bag of Skittles, and pushed the unlock button. Worked fine, got in, stuck it in the ignition. Turned in the ignition without any hesitation. Did everything it was supposed to except: Start the motor. Opened the doors, opened the trunk, turned in the ignition, and cranked the motor.
But no start.
So I took the damn thing apart (the key, not the motor) and discovered a tiny little compartment inside the new shell I hadn't noticed before. The space was empty, but in the old one, there was something glued in it. And if I held the old key shell next to the new key shell, the engine would start. Had to be some sort of chip to make the car start. So after about 20 minutes of cutting, grinding, shaving, and peeling the old key shell, I managed to dig that little demon chip out and install it in the new key shell. Worked fine--and it was so easy!! Gaaaah!
As a reward to myself for navigating this purgatory, I went to the store and bought myself a Diet Coke.
Thursday, June 26, 2014
Monday, June 2, 2014
Vacationing In a Lighthouse, Part II
Late last year (2013) I wrote that we were planning to go to Washington State in April to vacation as lighthouse keepers at the New Dungeness Lighthouse. Now I write to tell you of our experience.
The friends we had planned to go with had conflicts and couldn't make the trip, so it ended up being just my wife and myself. Because of the logistics involved in flying to Seattle from Phoenix, then renting a car and driving from the airport to the Olympic Peninsula, we decided to drive the 1700 miles to Washington. We have relatives all along the Pacific Coast, so we were able to freeload off them the whole way, and we were also able to see our grandson.
After a few day's travel we arrived at the assembly station just outside of the town of Sequim, Washington where we met our fellow keepers for the first time: Dean and his daughter Krystal from eastern Washington, and Dean's older brother David, from Vancouver. Dean--who bears a striking resemblance to Jack Nicholson--is the unofficial historian of the lighthouse, so we spent the week well informed.
We were driven from the assembly station to the base of the Dungeness Spit and then along the steep, rocky beach in the association's four-wheel-drive vehicles. The spit itself is an oddity of nature. It's a narrow strip of sand and logs and rocks created by tidal action which extends out into the Straits of Juan de Fuca for over five miles. The lighthouse is at the far end of this finger The drive must be made at low tide; otherwise it's impassable. If you're not a keeper--you walk.
The lighthouse looks like a tiny chess piece in the distance when you start out, but it slowly grows as you get closer, and after a drive of about 20 minutes, you're there.
The lighthouse has a long history. It was built in 1857, and originally all the keepers and their families were housed in the main building. A residence house was built in 1904 to facilitate additional keepers and their families, and this is where present day keepers stay. The tower was originally over 90 feet tall, but cracks were discovered in the structure in the 1930's, so it was reduced to about 65 feet tall. Over the years a number of other structures have come and gone, like the fog horn building, a dock for ships to land provisions, and an observation tower built during World War II. The foundations for these and other structures remain, although the buildings themselves are long gone.
The keepers in the earliest days led a lifestyle divided somewhere between ho-hum routine and once-in-a-while terror, what with days of relative calm giving way to violent storms and the like. In the 1860's they were unwilling witnesses to a bloody battle on the spit between rival Indian tribes, which left the losing tribe massacred, save for one woman who was able to make her way to the lighthouse.
Storms occasionally wash over the spit, leaving the lighthouse on a temporary island. And of course, every so often somebody runs a boat or a ship aground.
About twenty years ago the Coast Guard decided to board up the buildings and mechanize the light. Fortunately, an agreement was reached with the newly-formed New Dungeness Lighthouse Association to operate the light and maintain the grounds, and so it has been to this day. It has been a good arrangement which has kept the facility free from vandalism.
This was our first turn as lighthouse keepers, but not our first visit. We hiked out in 1997 on an anniversary trip, and I made the trek with friends in 1961 as a twelve-year-old, my signature in the Coast Guard log book bearing witness.
Our time there in April was rather chilly for us Arizonans, but we did fine. We got a lot of reading done, as well as walking and talking. The comfortable and nicely-furnished house has one bedroom on the ground floor, two upstairs and yet another in the basement. A small library and reading room upstairs is well stocked with books of all kinds--including not a few about lighthouses. There are puzzles and games for those so inclined, and the basement has a pool table. The kitchen is spacious and modern, with all sorts of gadgets and utensils. If you go hungry, it's only because you're on a diet, or you didn't bring enough food.
Our stay passed quickly, and I don't say that lightly, as I am easily bored. But there's so much to take in and to do. In the span of seven short days we observed seals and whales and a variety of birds, including bald eagles. Ships large and small pass day and night, and identifying them is interesting pastime. The whole spit is a wildlife refuge and bald eagles are very common, as are many varieties of shorebirds. We spotted a whale one day, as well as seals and although we didn't observe any, skunks, foxes and otters are occasionally seen.
Magical and timeless--that's the best description I can give. The property is well documented in photographs, and it's a joy to gaze at a century-plus of photos of the keepers and their families, as well as handprints and initials and dates pressed into the cement in various places on the grounds. Now we're a part of that lineage.
Our duties included giving tours of the lighthouse, and maintaining the building and grounds. There was some brass to polish, a rather large lawn to mow, and a bit of housekeeping, but nothing too strenuous or time consuming.
There's a signpost near the beach which greets visitors as they come onto the property. One sign points back to the mainland, and says 'reality'. the other points towards the lighthouse, and it is marked 'serenity'. I suppose that sums up the essence of the place. But I came close to finding a hammer and making both signs point towards the light; and that about sums it up.
.
 |
| The New Dungeness Lighthouse |
The friends we had planned to go with had conflicts and couldn't make the trip, so it ended up being just my wife and myself. Because of the logistics involved in flying to Seattle from Phoenix, then renting a car and driving from the airport to the Olympic Peninsula, we decided to drive the 1700 miles to Washington. We have relatives all along the Pacific Coast, so we were able to freeload off them the whole way, and we were also able to see our grandson.
After a few day's travel we arrived at the assembly station just outside of the town of Sequim, Washington where we met our fellow keepers for the first time: Dean and his daughter Krystal from eastern Washington, and Dean's older brother David, from Vancouver. Dean--who bears a striking resemblance to Jack Nicholson--is the unofficial historian of the lighthouse, so we spent the week well informed.
We were driven from the assembly station to the base of the Dungeness Spit and then along the steep, rocky beach in the association's four-wheel-drive vehicles. The spit itself is an oddity of nature. It's a narrow strip of sand and logs and rocks created by tidal action which extends out into the Straits of Juan de Fuca for over five miles. The lighthouse is at the far end of this finger The drive must be made at low tide; otherwise it's impassable. If you're not a keeper--you walk.
The lighthouse looks like a tiny chess piece in the distance when you start out, but it slowly grows as you get closer, and after a drive of about 20 minutes, you're there.
 |
| A View Towards the Mainland From the Lantern Room |
The keepers in the earliest days led a lifestyle divided somewhere between ho-hum routine and once-in-a-while terror, what with days of relative calm giving way to violent storms and the like. In the 1860's they were unwilling witnesses to a bloody battle on the spit between rival Indian tribes, which left the losing tribe massacred, save for one woman who was able to make her way to the lighthouse.
Storms occasionally wash over the spit, leaving the lighthouse on a temporary island. And of course, every so often somebody runs a boat or a ship aground.
About twenty years ago the Coast Guard decided to board up the buildings and mechanize the light. Fortunately, an agreement was reached with the newly-formed New Dungeness Lighthouse Association to operate the light and maintain the grounds, and so it has been to this day. It has been a good arrangement which has kept the facility free from vandalism.
This was our first turn as lighthouse keepers, but not our first visit. We hiked out in 1997 on an anniversary trip, and I made the trek with friends in 1961 as a twelve-year-old, my signature in the Coast Guard log book bearing witness.
 |
| The Author Holding the Lighthouse Log Book Which He Signed in 1961 on His First Visit |
Our stay passed quickly, and I don't say that lightly, as I am easily bored. But there's so much to take in and to do. In the span of seven short days we observed seals and whales and a variety of birds, including bald eagles. Ships large and small pass day and night, and identifying them is interesting pastime. The whole spit is a wildlife refuge and bald eagles are very common, as are many varieties of shorebirds. We spotted a whale one day, as well as seals and although we didn't observe any, skunks, foxes and otters are occasionally seen.
Magical and timeless--that's the best description I can give. The property is well documented in photographs, and it's a joy to gaze at a century-plus of photos of the keepers and their families, as well as handprints and initials and dates pressed into the cement in various places on the grounds. Now we're a part of that lineage.
Our duties included giving tours of the lighthouse, and maintaining the building and grounds. There was some brass to polish, a rather large lawn to mow, and a bit of housekeeping, but nothing too strenuous or time consuming.
 |
| One of Many Ships Which Make their Way Through The Straits of Juan de Fuca |
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Tuesday, March 18, 2014
Pit Bulls Are Dangerous Animals
Just this past week it happened again--a pitbull attacked a child at a daycare center, and chewed her up so badly it will take many surgeries to repair damage that included broken facial bones and lacerations.
I don't know what's worse--owning a dog that was a known killer (it had killed a neighborhood dog just months earlier), or an owner that was stupid enough to have an animal like that in a daycare setting.
I know what some of you will say: "You just don't understand the breed", or "They weren't handled/trained well by their owner" or, "The dog had never showed any aggresiveness before." Well, that's all well and good, but pitbulls account for the vast majority of dog-related deaths in the United States.
The website dogsbite.org give statistics that are frightening: During the period between 2005 and 2013, pitbulls killed 176 American citizens, or about one person every 18.6 days. The next most vicious breed were rottweilers, who in that same time period accounted for 33 deaths during the same period. From January 2006 through December 2008, pitbulls were responsible for 59 percent of all dog-related deaths--despite the fact that they account for only 6% of the dog population.
So, you think the problem is with some poor bloke wandering onto someone's property that owns a pitbull? Well, there is that (though I have trouble understanding why anyone would care to keep a lethal weapon like that roaming a yard), but 18 percent of all dog attacks happen off the owner's property, and of those deadly attacks, pitbulls were responsible for more than four of five fatalities.
No thinking person would allow an aggressive, unstable person to walk around his front yard or in the street waving a loaded gun at neighbors, but somehow a "pet" with the same potential is given a pass.
I think that pitbull owners are either simple-minded or are living out a power trip. I don't care that they are someone's pet who has "never been aggressive". They are a menace to society, and they should be severely--severely--controlled or eliminated. My position: See a pitbull roaming free, call the cops. See a pitbull attacking another animal or a human, shoot to kill.
After that comes the lawsuit.
I don't know what's worse--owning a dog that was a known killer (it had killed a neighborhood dog just months earlier), or an owner that was stupid enough to have an animal like that in a daycare setting.
I know what some of you will say: "You just don't understand the breed", or "They weren't handled/trained well by their owner" or, "The dog had never showed any aggresiveness before." Well, that's all well and good, but pitbulls account for the vast majority of dog-related deaths in the United States.
The website dogsbite.org give statistics that are frightening: During the period between 2005 and 2013, pitbulls killed 176 American citizens, or about one person every 18.6 days. The next most vicious breed were rottweilers, who in that same time period accounted for 33 deaths during the same period. From January 2006 through December 2008, pitbulls were responsible for 59 percent of all dog-related deaths--despite the fact that they account for only 6% of the dog population.
So, you think the problem is with some poor bloke wandering onto someone's property that owns a pitbull? Well, there is that (though I have trouble understanding why anyone would care to keep a lethal weapon like that roaming a yard), but 18 percent of all dog attacks happen off the owner's property, and of those deadly attacks, pitbulls were responsible for more than four of five fatalities.
No thinking person would allow an aggressive, unstable person to walk around his front yard or in the street waving a loaded gun at neighbors, but somehow a "pet" with the same potential is given a pass.
I think that pitbull owners are either simple-minded or are living out a power trip. I don't care that they are someone's pet who has "never been aggressive". They are a menace to society, and they should be severely--severely--controlled or eliminated. My position: See a pitbull roaming free, call the cops. See a pitbull attacking another animal or a human, shoot to kill.
After that comes the lawsuit.
Wednesday, February 19, 2014
Unconventional Believers
A few months ago I gave money to a homeless guy who was soliciting funds at an intersection in Tempe. A while back I gave some money to a young woman at a freeway onramp. And last week I gave money to Mike, a worn-out guy who shows up from time-to-time at 35th Avenue and Interstate 10.
I wasn't always generous towards the homeless, used to pass them up regularly with the idea they should 'get a job'. So why do I mention this? Will I be remembered as being generous to the poor? Probably not; an occasional buck or two or five isn't going to gain me any measure of recognition. But it did make me think about those who are not like me.
Many people survive under difficult circumstances. Some of the body of Christ live on the streets. Not all of us are middle-class Americans, with green lawns and Toyotas. It reminded me of the story Jesus told in Luke chapter 16 about Lazarus the beggar and the rich man who lived only for himself.
Lazarus was a homeless man who survived by begging at the city gate. If Lazarus was living today he'd be camped on a freeway overpass somewhere in Phoenix or some other big city with a cardboard sign that would say, "Need work/Vietnam Vet/God Bless". Just another bum to many of us.
But when Lazarus died, he went to what's described as "Abraham's side". The other guy in the story, the man with the lawn and a Lexus and status wound up in hell.
I'm not here to diss people with a green lawn and a Toyota or a Lexus (since I am one of them--minus the Lexus), but to draw attention to those people whom we perceive as not having value or merit, who are unvalued in this world. Next time you dismiss someone who is down and out by the side of the road, remember Lazarus. Not much to look at, probably smelled, but he was God's child. Sure, some of these folks are on the take, or they may have made decisions that landed them out there. But let God work that out. Be generous in the name of Christ.
I wasn't always generous towards the homeless, used to pass them up regularly with the idea they should 'get a job'. So why do I mention this? Will I be remembered as being generous to the poor? Probably not; an occasional buck or two or five isn't going to gain me any measure of recognition. But it did make me think about those who are not like me.
Many people survive under difficult circumstances. Some of the body of Christ live on the streets. Not all of us are middle-class Americans, with green lawns and Toyotas. It reminded me of the story Jesus told in Luke chapter 16 about Lazarus the beggar and the rich man who lived only for himself.
Lazarus was a homeless man who survived by begging at the city gate. If Lazarus was living today he'd be camped on a freeway overpass somewhere in Phoenix or some other big city with a cardboard sign that would say, "Need work/Vietnam Vet/God Bless". Just another bum to many of us.
But when Lazarus died, he went to what's described as "Abraham's side". The other guy in the story, the man with the lawn and a Lexus and status wound up in hell.
I'm not here to diss people with a green lawn and a Toyota or a Lexus (since I am one of them--minus the Lexus), but to draw attention to those people whom we perceive as not having value or merit, who are unvalued in this world. Next time you dismiss someone who is down and out by the side of the road, remember Lazarus. Not much to look at, probably smelled, but he was God's child. Sure, some of these folks are on the take, or they may have made decisions that landed them out there. But let God work that out. Be generous in the name of Christ.
Monday, February 10, 2014
The Lessons of Willbank's Well
I've made a number of trips with friends deep into the deserts of Arizona, to mines that went bust, to abandoned mountaintop observatories, and to ghost towns, and I always come back knowing I'm hopelessly spoiled. I drive to these places in my modern four-wheel-drive vehicle, equipped with a two-way radio and air conditioning. Such comforts detract from the rugged macho image I am trying desperately to project. The ranchers and miners of past years had no such dilemma. They traveled in horse-drawn wagons--at best--and worked much of the time with hand tools in the hot, dusty desert or in dangerous dirty mines, and afterwards came home to a shack and a plate of cold beans. I admire their grit.
Our objective (January, 2014) in the Kofa Wilderness in western Arizona was Wilbanks Well, home to a family of the same name, that operated a cattle ranch from the 1930's forward. We had visited the wilderness some months before in March, 2013, going to the abandoned homstead of the Hovatter family. The Hovatters were miners that operated a manganese mine in the area from the 1940's until the early 1970's. Except for a few graves and the remains of the arboretum on which Mrs. Hovatter toiled there's little left of their compound. An explosion from a leaky propane tank in the late 1960's killed one of their daughters, severely burned another, and not long afterward they gave it up.
Though rough and bumpy by city standards, the road we traveled to the Hovatter digs wasn't bad. Since this was in the same general area, some in our group thought this trip might be "boring". It wasn't.
After departing the waypoint of Kofa Cabin, a few miles south of I-10 we got our first surprise--more roads than were mapped, and no way to know which to follow. After a short hesitation we applied Yogi Berra's timeless advice: "When you come to a fork in the road, take it." We turned left, and by luck of the draw it was the right choice.
If one is headed to Willbanks Well, logic would seem to dictate taking Willbanks Road. Although correct (actually there are two ways in; more on that in a moment), it was by far a more difficult trip than the Hovatter run. The map registered landmarks that were hard to discern, sometimes not evident at all. Straying a bit we went up Alamo Wash, and a wrong turn took us to nowhere. With some difficulty, we got turned around and found the trail a half mile to the rear and up a rocky hill, which even in four-wheel-drive took some engineering and guidance on the part of my son Mark. Progress was slow, and I began to wonder if we would have enough daylight to make it all the way through, but we had by then entered Bighorn Pass, and we were beyond the halfway mark (I might have said, "point of no return", but that sounds, you know, kind of like "dead").
Some people think the desert to be dull and uninteresting. Maybe it's because they're dull and uninteresting. Rugged, colorful, arrogant and unforgiving, but never dull; never uninteresting. Bighorn Pass is a spectacle, with ragged ledges, towering mountains and natural bridges. Thanks to recent rains the desert was a green purgatory of bizarre shapes and terrain. We came out of the pass to a marshy area that looked like like the devil's own golf course: Trees and brush, grasses and the muddy footprints of all manner of wildlife, of bighorn sheep, mountain lions, deer and the like. Though none were seen by us this day, we were surely seen by them. Multi-colored outcroppings, fields of teddy bear and cholla and sahuaro cacti were everywhere.
Several hours of crawling through Bighorn Pass brought us to Mid Well,, one of a number of watering spots maintained by the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service. We were pretty bushed, but our map told us the Willbanks cabin was only about a thousand yards away, so we backtracked a bit and found it on a bend in the wash.
The wash is wide and runs hard when there's a significant rain, but despite its near location the cabin still stands as it has for eighty years. Years ago there was a barn, but a carelessly tossed cigarette took care of that. The house (read: shack) is small even by the standard of the 1930's--maybe three hundred square feet, including a kitchen, and a bedroom, enough room to squeeze in the five Wilbankses. The shower stall was on the front porch, and it must have felt awfully good to get wet after a summer day's work in the dust and sand. Winter showering might have been problematic. There are still a few cabinets, a couple of bedframes and an old iron stove in the place. Iron stoves seem to be the last thing to leave anywhere. There's also a binder of reminisces and remembrances which have been placed by the Wilbanks kids for your enjoyment.
The Willbanks family lived at the ranch through the 1930's, but eventually moved to Vicksburg where there was a school. The years have taken their toll on the cabin, and "you could throw a cat through the south wall", but it has a good roof, and it's available for camping on a first-come first-served basis, as are a number of cabins scattered about this remote area.
We followed Kofa-Manganese Road out. If you want to bypass the difficulties of Bighorn Pass, this is the easier way to get in and out. Easier, but boring.
A worthwhile adventure, and I recommend it. It's a real lesson in how much easier our lives are today compared to what many of the pioneer-types put up with. I'm eager to go again, and perhaps spend the night out in a cabin or under the stars. A word to the wise adventurer: Don't go without reliable four-wheel-drive vehicles, take plenty of water (I take about five gallons), and make sure you tell someone on the outside where you're going--and then go there. There is no cell phone service, and we saw no one else the entire day of travel. Allow plenty of time to get anywhere. I've found the maps to be less-than-accurate, and it's easy to inadvertently rabbit-trail yourself off the road. Did I mention taking plenty of water?
Our objective (January, 2014) in the Kofa Wilderness in western Arizona was Wilbanks Well, home to a family of the same name, that operated a cattle ranch from the 1930's forward. We had visited the wilderness some months before in March, 2013, going to the abandoned homstead of the Hovatter family. The Hovatters were miners that operated a manganese mine in the area from the 1940's until the early 1970's. Except for a few graves and the remains of the arboretum on which Mrs. Hovatter toiled there's little left of their compound. An explosion from a leaky propane tank in the late 1960's killed one of their daughters, severely burned another, and not long afterward they gave it up.
Though rough and bumpy by city standards, the road we traveled to the Hovatter digs wasn't bad. Since this was in the same general area, some in our group thought this trip might be "boring". It wasn't.
After departing the waypoint of Kofa Cabin, a few miles south of I-10 we got our first surprise--more roads than were mapped, and no way to know which to follow. After a short hesitation we applied Yogi Berra's timeless advice: "When you come to a fork in the road, take it." We turned left, and by luck of the draw it was the right choice.
If one is headed to Willbanks Well, logic would seem to dictate taking Willbanks Road. Although correct (actually there are two ways in; more on that in a moment), it was by far a more difficult trip than the Hovatter run. The map registered landmarks that were hard to discern, sometimes not evident at all. Straying a bit we went up Alamo Wash, and a wrong turn took us to nowhere. With some difficulty, we got turned around and found the trail a half mile to the rear and up a rocky hill, which even in four-wheel-drive took some engineering and guidance on the part of my son Mark. Progress was slow, and I began to wonder if we would have enough daylight to make it all the way through, but we had by then entered Bighorn Pass, and we were beyond the halfway mark (I might have said, "point of no return", but that sounds, you know, kind of like "dead").
Some people think the desert to be dull and uninteresting. Maybe it's because they're dull and uninteresting. Rugged, colorful, arrogant and unforgiving, but never dull; never uninteresting. Bighorn Pass is a spectacle, with ragged ledges, towering mountains and natural bridges. Thanks to recent rains the desert was a green purgatory of bizarre shapes and terrain. We came out of the pass to a marshy area that looked like like the devil's own golf course: Trees and brush, grasses and the muddy footprints of all manner of wildlife, of bighorn sheep, mountain lions, deer and the like. Though none were seen by us this day, we were surely seen by them. Multi-colored outcroppings, fields of teddy bear and cholla and sahuaro cacti were everywhere.
Several hours of crawling through Bighorn Pass brought us to Mid Well,, one of a number of watering spots maintained by the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service. We were pretty bushed, but our map told us the Willbanks cabin was only about a thousand yards away, so we backtracked a bit and found it on a bend in the wash.
The wash is wide and runs hard when there's a significant rain, but despite its near location the cabin still stands as it has for eighty years. Years ago there was a barn, but a carelessly tossed cigarette took care of that. The house (read: shack) is small even by the standard of the 1930's--maybe three hundred square feet, including a kitchen, and a bedroom, enough room to squeeze in the five Wilbankses. The shower stall was on the front porch, and it must have felt awfully good to get wet after a summer day's work in the dust and sand. Winter showering might have been problematic. There are still a few cabinets, a couple of bedframes and an old iron stove in the place. Iron stoves seem to be the last thing to leave anywhere. There's also a binder of reminisces and remembrances which have been placed by the Wilbanks kids for your enjoyment.
The Willbanks family lived at the ranch through the 1930's, but eventually moved to Vicksburg where there was a school. The years have taken their toll on the cabin, and "you could throw a cat through the south wall", but it has a good roof, and it's available for camping on a first-come first-served basis, as are a number of cabins scattered about this remote area.
We followed Kofa-Manganese Road out. If you want to bypass the difficulties of Bighorn Pass, this is the easier way to get in and out. Easier, but boring.
A worthwhile adventure, and I recommend it. It's a real lesson in how much easier our lives are today compared to what many of the pioneer-types put up with. I'm eager to go again, and perhaps spend the night out in a cabin or under the stars. A word to the wise adventurer: Don't go without reliable four-wheel-drive vehicles, take plenty of water (I take about five gallons), and make sure you tell someone on the outside where you're going--and then go there. There is no cell phone service, and we saw no one else the entire day of travel. Allow plenty of time to get anywhere. I've found the maps to be less-than-accurate, and it's easy to inadvertently rabbit-trail yourself off the road. Did I mention taking plenty of water?
Wednesday, November 13, 2013
Thanksgiving
Thanksgiving is coming up soon. It's my favorite holiday. Lots less commercialism than Christmas, and a good time for family fellowship. We're too far from much of the family, but we usually have my daughter and son-in-law and grandchild Dylan from San Francisco, and our son from Phoenix and his bride-to-be. That's a lot to look forward to.
And we are blessed. We're far from wealthy, but we have a good house and two cars which are reliable. As of today, we are all healthy. All in all, we'll have an easy Thanksgiving. Thankfulness is easy when you have a loaded table and a glass of wine at hand.
What do you do when things aren't so good? As Job's wife once advised him in the middle of his trials, should you "curse God and die"? I know several people who have great trials in their lives. I know this guy Rock, who has a terminal illness. I know a couple who are serving long sentences in prison, sentences which are much longer than are just, if they deserve to be imprisoned at all. How do you figure on the mercies and grace of God when you see your end in sight? Or when everyone around you is clothed in orange jumpsuits?
The aforementioned are examples of why I can be thankful beyond me an beyond my circumstances. Not because I am not in their circumstances (nor would I wish to be), but that they are also thankful in their circumstances. They encourage me!
Joseph Merrick, the noted "Elephant Man" who lived in the 1800's was a man who was thankful. He lived his whole life in a grotesque, bloated, disfigured body because of a rare disease. He was so ugly he once hired out to a travelling freak show. He was loathed, mistreated, reviled, and yet near the end of his short life, having been institutionalized for the greater portion of it, he was able to say, "I am happy every hour of the day."
Not that the aforementioned, not even Mr. Merrick, was or is actually happy every hour of the day. Even when I'm healthy and comfortable I'm not always happy. But I think these individuals have what one man described as "peace at the center". Merrick at the end of his life was well cared for; Rock saw his sister come to Jesus as a result of his illness; my friends have a ministry inside prison walls that no pastor can have.
Romans 8:28 tells us that "God causes all things to work together for good for those that love him". That's the perspective we can have if Christ in the center of our lives. It's that whatever happens to us--good or bad--it's good because there is purpose in it: A new perspective, purpose in every circumstance, the knowledge we are greatly and unconditionally loved, a reminder that though we are mortal we can focus on what is not mortal. As an old hymn counsels,
Thanks for grace in time of sorrow
And for joy and peace in Thee
Thanks for hope today, tomorrow,
And for all eternity!
And we are blessed. We're far from wealthy, but we have a good house and two cars which are reliable. As of today, we are all healthy. All in all, we'll have an easy Thanksgiving. Thankfulness is easy when you have a loaded table and a glass of wine at hand.
What do you do when things aren't so good? As Job's wife once advised him in the middle of his trials, should you "curse God and die"? I know several people who have great trials in their lives. I know this guy Rock, who has a terminal illness. I know a couple who are serving long sentences in prison, sentences which are much longer than are just, if they deserve to be imprisoned at all. How do you figure on the mercies and grace of God when you see your end in sight? Or when everyone around you is clothed in orange jumpsuits?
The aforementioned are examples of why I can be thankful beyond me an beyond my circumstances. Not because I am not in their circumstances (nor would I wish to be), but that they are also thankful in their circumstances. They encourage me!
Joseph Merrick, the noted "Elephant Man" who lived in the 1800's was a man who was thankful. He lived his whole life in a grotesque, bloated, disfigured body because of a rare disease. He was so ugly he once hired out to a travelling freak show. He was loathed, mistreated, reviled, and yet near the end of his short life, having been institutionalized for the greater portion of it, he was able to say, "I am happy every hour of the day."
Not that the aforementioned, not even Mr. Merrick, was or is actually happy every hour of the day. Even when I'm healthy and comfortable I'm not always happy. But I think these individuals have what one man described as "peace at the center". Merrick at the end of his life was well cared for; Rock saw his sister come to Jesus as a result of his illness; my friends have a ministry inside prison walls that no pastor can have.
Romans 8:28 tells us that "God causes all things to work together for good for those that love him". That's the perspective we can have if Christ in the center of our lives. It's that whatever happens to us--good or bad--it's good because there is purpose in it: A new perspective, purpose in every circumstance, the knowledge we are greatly and unconditionally loved, a reminder that though we are mortal we can focus on what is not mortal. As an old hymn counsels,
Thanks for grace in time of sorrow
And for joy and peace in Thee
Thanks for hope today, tomorrow,
And for all eternity!
Tuesday, October 29, 2013
Vacationing in a Lighthouse
We aren't blessed with unlimited income, so many of our vacations have been innovative. We like to seek out unusual venues. It would be fun to vacation in Europe, but vacationing on Mars is as doable at this point in our lives. That, and other 'exotic' destinations are financially out of reach right now--maybe always. So we look for place which are closer but just as unique. Next April we're going to be lighthouse keepers on Washington State's Olympic Peninsula.
The New Dungeness lighthouse is about 20 miles east of Port Angeles,Washington, on the Strait of Juan de Fuca, the waterway that connects Seattle to the Pacific. The lighthouse is located near the end of a sandspit, a narrow finger of land nearly six miles long, and maybe fifty yards wide. The strait is on the north side, and a bay on the south, and the only way to get to it is to hike the six miles on a rocky beach, or by boat. Vehicles aren't allowed on the spit, except those that take the volunteer keepers and their supplies to the lighthouse. Otherwise, you gotta walk or go by boat. Or you could swim.
If the name Dungeness sounds familiar, the area was so named because of its similarity to Dungeness, England, where there's also a lighthouse. And of course there's the Dungeness crab, a delicacy which is native to the area. Best place to sample this delicacy is in the settlement of Dungeness, on the landward side of the bay.
The New Dungeness Lighthouse Association, which oversees and maintains the site, has it all worked out. We'll be staying in the residence on the grounds, provide our own food and bedding, cook our own meals, give tours of the lighthouse and polish the brass--and we pay them $350 per person for a week of this privilege (why didn't I think of something like this when I was young?).
The lighthouse has a long and colorful history. It was built in 1857 by the government and it's been in continual service to this very day. It has stood witness to all kinds of events, including a battle on the spit between rival Indian tribes (lighthouse keepers rescued an Indian woman during the battle), fires, violent storms that cut the spit in two, and a crack in the lighthouse tower that resulted in the tower being lowered by 30 feet, There was even a wedding performed there in 1862. Makes you wonder where they went for a honeymoon.
I've been there twice. I hiked there with friends in 1961 (I was 12 years old, and lived in nearby Sequim), and again in 1997 after years commenting to my wife, "It would be great go there again someday". Somewhere around comment #307 she said, "Let's book a trip there for our anniversary." So we did, and walked all the way out and back. There's no truth to her assertion she had to carry me the last three miles.
Between tours of the building and the maintenance, there will be lots to do and see. Across the Straits at night are the lights of Victoria, British Columbia, and the waterway is alive with all sorts of freighters and container ships. One may well see an occasional nuclear submarine coming out of the submarine base at Keyport on Hood Canal. The spit itself is a wildlife preserve, and if we're lucky an errant sailor may beach his Queen Mary on the beach. You just never know.
We'll be going with friends, a couple from Phoenix we've known for years, and another couple as yet unknown. Here's hoping they know how to cook and polish brass.
If you want to take a cruise and gorge yourself, go for it. If the Continent appeals to you, get out your wallet and dial it in. We're going to take the road less travelled.
If you're a bit more than curious, go to newdungenesslighthouse.com and take a look. I bet we'll have as much fun polishing brass as you will stuffing your face on a cruise.
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