I'm very afraid of heights, or really I'm afraid of falling and hurting myself and I have a very vivid imagination so crossing the swinging bridge was a trial at best. I was most comfortable crossing at night--what you can't see can't hrut you. But one evening I remember stepping into one of the missing planks, falling forward, just catching myself--I about died! Here's a more modern pictures of the bridge--I don't really know where I got it from. It's viewing from the Indian creek/Philo side towards camp.
I'd guess its 40 feet from the bottom of the bridge to the river bank. I highest I saw the river was about 5 feet below the bridge but I hear it's been higher. The Navarro, like many rivers in California, is small in the summer but drains a fairly large area so when it really rains it comes up fast!
I'm also guessing it's about 150 feet long. In the old days there was a small parking lot because in the winter this was the access. I visited camp a lot in winter time, I worked for Irv and Edna during my breaks as a way to have a place to stay--they had an informal deal, if you worked in the mornings, cutting fire wood, whatever for the maintenance man, you could stay. This was perfect for me as I loved both the place and the work. But it did mean dealing with the swinging bridge.

Consequences and relationships

Friends and relationships

I have sort-of avoided talking too much about people except as they have created the place and personality of ERN. In particularly, Irv and Edna created the place, but by the time I came along, even as a camper and more as a staff member, the personality of camp was much more Judy and Hall, Colbert and Cheryl. As I reflect on their policy and philosophy I’m sure I don’t understand how this all got played out—I know there were conversations, maybe forma\l planning, but even as an adult involved some of it wasn’t transparent, and therefore, it’s a little difficult to write about. But it created camp, it created the environment whose elements I wish to explore and perhaps, in a variety of venues, create.
One window certainly came to me as I got kicked out at the age of 14, I think. It was really a stupid series of the kinds of events that played out over the next few years of my life. I was both a follower as well as the instigator of the events, but much like to experience of falling down, you often see it but have little control as it happens.
And the events really don’t matter, except for the fact that there were few rules at camp but if you violated them you were gone. I have to admit I don’t know of very many people violating the major rules but suffice to say, I did.
And the piece of the puzzle was the process and outcomes of the event. The day after I was pretty much isolated from the other campers but it was pretty much known that I was heading home—I had my one and only heart to heart contact with Nancy behind the A and C but little other conversations.
At eh end of the long day, late that night I was called into the programming office off the dining hall and Colbert, Cheryl, Irv and Edna were all there. I remember of sort of calm resignation to the whole experience—I know what had happened, I new the consequences, what I wasn’t prepared for the reaction of the adults in the room.
I guess I hadn’t had very many people care about me at that point in my life. I lived in an emotionally isolated world for the most part and wasn’t connected to many adults, few relatives, few role models, and no mentors. And they were more torn up about the events and the consequences than I was. I have this whole exchange, till after 34 years, emblazoned on my brain.
Of course Irv simply stated that they couldn’t trust me any more than therefore I had to go home. And I knew this, no surprise. But Edna had tears in her eyes, and Colbert was standing quickly. The fact that they cared, well beyond the business of running a camp, cared about me should not have been shocking but it was. And then Irv said, if you can prove to us you are trustworthy, then you will be welcomed back. And In the summer of 1976 I met with Irv and was welcomed back as a maintenance assistant working with Reynaldo at camp. And it was like I’d never left.

Camp coffee

Coffee percolator

I can’t make percolator coffee without thinking of Edna. We just came back from a coast camping trip, Labor Day tradition, and we have an old Colman stove and a Corning coffee percolator. The stove is a cantankerous beast and getting up each morning, getting the stove to work properly and making coffee is a camping tradition. Because I’m the only one who can make the stove work, I get up early.

And I make percolator coffee—I don’t do this at home. Percolator if strong, hot and very dark coffee compared to the drip systems. The only similar styles would be boiled or cowboy coffee and staying in the Newman’s house at camp we made percolator coffee. Edna made good strong, get up in the morning coffee. I think it was a Faberware plug in coffee maker. All stainless steel, automatic. Your only choices would be how much coffee and how much water. In later year we bought coffee in Fort Bragg to use, one of the first coffee roasters, a hot air system, I forget the name, good coffee.

But Edna used canned coffee—don’t remember a brand.

The other tradition was making iced coffee. In the late afternoon she would take the cold coffee from the morning and create a great afternoon pick-me-up. To this day I like iced coffee—of course I was too much sugar, lots of milk, even ice cream. But the key is strong coffee. And every time I pull out the camping gear, head to somewhere with the family, and get up early to make the coffee, I think of Edna.

Funny where memories live and are reborn.

Rain birds of Summer

I’ve always had a soft spot in my heart about the sound of rain birds. Rain Birds are a brand of sprinkler once very common on irrigations systems, not your typical yard sprinkler, not the hyper plastic things that annoy summer lawns, rain birds are strong and debate. They slowly swing until the spring stops the motion and then fall towards the stream of water and in a perfect balancing act, they strike the water to force a slow incremental turn, a few degrees. The strike interrupts the strong stream to make a sideways spray and the stream, spray and the interruption make sure that each piece of ground receives its allotment of water. Large rain birds swing with a heartbeat, shtuck, shtuck. Small rain birds swing at a slightly faster rate, tucktucktuck...
All summer they water the lawns and irrigated the field of ERN. They worked, mostly, diligently until the pump sucked up a tadpole to set towards the tip of the spray and clog the spray or a small rock would lodge and I’d wander by and clean the orifice of the leftover froglet and the rain bird would return to work.
If the rain birds on the quad stopped that meant that something had gone wrong in the complex system to fed water from the Navarro, through the large pipes by the pastures and then up the hill. Blown pipe, very bad, blown irrigation line, not too bad. Water was and is life in fire rich California. The irrigated areas made a small fire break incase of a wildfire. To have the green surrounding you meant you didn’t have to fear as much.
Chores for me was pulling pipe—to think of a bunch of city kids pulling irrigation pipe. What a great resume comment this would make, BA, MS, PhD, Pipe-puller. I loved the huge balanced aluminum pipe, trying to not drag the rain bird and standpipe through the mud and grass, making sure the gaskets had stayed inside. Turning on the water and the thunk of each pipe seating along the line and then the slow pressure would build—rain birds before their first full spring-driven swing spin. Then the pressure reaches the point that they begin the work, hopefully.
I have Rain Birds around my yard—the blueberries and few other places. The solid brass reminds me of camp, of summer. It’s about time to open the value and return them to work.

Highway 128 California

Driving Hwy 128

The Anderson valley is geologically isolated from the interior valleys of California. Two roads give access to the valley and neither is great. Highway 128 is one of the best road for driving a sports car fast in California—absolute speed is so important as is one’s ability to stay on the road, stay straight, and handle extreme comers-dropping turns, blind turns, close to double 180 degree hairpins—it is wonderful. As an eighteen year old I had my Sister’s Datsun (now Nissan) roadster, 1967, a 1600 cc, 2000 lbs, low to the ground, Dunlap tired fire engine red sports car. She had gotten the car from our Dad as a college students and then moved to Paris to I got to baby-sit the car, along with my 1969 International Travelall.

I often traveled from the Bay area, San Jose, to camp. A couple of elements of the drive gave different challenges. Driving 19th street through SF was fun to see if you could make it through the entire city, Golden Gate Bridge to 280, without stopping. I did pull this off twice going south and once going north, without cheating.

Another aspect was making the 200 miles drive in under three hours- not impossible. Two keys were making time on 280, where you could easily average 80 mph and then driving 128 as fast as possible.

The road starts off fairly reasonably and then blasts up a step hill of winding turns. As a camper, this was where you really began to wonder if the bus could make it up the hill in 100-degree heat. The it straightened out along a ridge line, fairly fast, some turns, never enough time to space out, particularly at night. I did my best driving at night.

I don’t remember how many miles it was from the 101 junction to Philo but it was possible to do it at an average of at least 60 mph. Of course I never had the experience of driving it in one of Colbert’s early “Fang”’ buses. Aircraft landing lights, perhaps a Porsche distributor, who knows what else. Certainly an engine not long for the world!

One of the best turns

More nice sweeping turns

Great roads make great memories. Never crashed, never got left by the side of the road.