It had been nine long months of no waves breaking in clear blue warm water. On the other hand I was not looking forward to spending a Summer locking horns, again, with my stepmother. One of the things I loved at being at "University", was my independence. Back home, I would just be the problematic teenage son. It would be a step backward in terms of my growth as a person. A fellow dormmate who lived at the end of the hall approached me with a proposition for a Summer job. I hadn't been very close to Terry that freshman year but I liked him well enough. He was the kind of jolly, stocky chap with pink cheeks who the girls would refer to as a "teddy bear".
"I heard that the U.S. Geological Service was looking for rod-men for a project in Nevada. So I went up to their office in Menlo Park." Terry enthused, "The job sounds really cool. We'll all be living in trailers in Eastern Nevada and we'll spend our days with the geologists mapping something called the Cobre Project. It has to do with the old trans-continental railroad. When the railroad was built back in the mid eighteen hundreds it was granted parcels of land on either side of the tracks in a checkerboard pattern. Each one was a mile square and the edges were marked with wooden posts called bench marks. The job is to find those old bench marks. The USGS needs the exact locations of those bench marks to accurately map the area. The guy I talked to said it would be a wonderful adventure. There's hunting and fishing in the Pequop mountains nearby. Whaddaya you say, Mike. You wanna do it with me?"
"Wow, Terry, it does sound like quite an adventure." I replied, "But I don't own a hunting rifle or a fishing pole for that matter. I mean, if we did manage to get a rifle and say we shot a deer; then what? Do we skin it and butcher it and bring huge hunks of deer meat back to our little trailer? I'm sure there are other pursuits we could find to do on the weekends besides hunting. Are you gonna have a car?"
"Don't worry, Mike. In case you hadn't noticed, I've got a sweet little Triumph TR 4-A convertable sports car parked outside." Terry replied pointing out the window. "I have to go home for a couple of weeks when school's over. You could take a bus to the town nearest the job sight. I looked on the map and Wells is right on highway 80 and it's only a few miles up a little side road to the town where we all park our trailers. I'll drive up from LA and meet you in Wells, then we drive together to Montello a few miles north of the highway. Whadda ya say? You wanna do it? Let's do it man! It'll be great!"
Terry's infectious enthusiasm won me over and I accepted. He drove me up to the USGS headquarters and I met the job recruiter. I filled out the application to be a rod-man, GS-3, for $ 2.50 an hour. The little humpbacked trailer we had passed on the way in was to be our home for the Summer and it was provided for us, free of charge. He explained what a rod-man did. "Basically, you will be paired up with one of our geologists who will be on site in their own trailers. You will be spending most of your time walking through the sage brush of the lovely Northern Sonoran Desert. Every day your geologist will have to survey. He sets up his surveying instrument, called an allidade and you hold up the surveying rod and he sights it through the allidade and marks the distance in his little surveying book. There will be other exciting jobs to do, too; like taking helicopters to the tops of the local mountain peaks so the geologists can take readings with their surveying equipment. By the end of the summer you'll be tan and fit from all that hiking and you'll have saved a bundle of cash to take back to Stanford and you will have learned all about the fascinating world of map making. Next year back at school, when you're at some frat party and you hear some guy trying to impress a girl talking about his "book knowledge" of Cartesian Coordinates, you can jump right in and blow him out of the water with how you spent the Summer mapping the Cartesian Coordinates for the Cobre Project in eastern Nevada."
So it came to pass that I found myself riding a Greyhound bus to a little town in eastern Nevada called Wells. This all happened forty-five years ago and I don't remember how long I was on that bus. But I do remember that it was an overnight trip and we made several stops along the way for meals. I had never been on such a long road trip in my life. As we journeyed eastward, away from the gambling casinos of Reno the surrounding area quickly became less populated except for these little towns hugging the highway, like baby rats, sucking on the teat of commerce provided by the passing trucks, trains and cars. It was lonely feeling, being by myself in this strange barren land. By the time I got off at Wells I thought to myself that this must be the midwest, I had travelled so far East. Coming from Hawaii where you couldn't drive for an hour without plunging into the ocean, after this marathon bus ride, it seemed like I was at least a third of the way across the country. As an island boy, my knowledge of U.S. geography was still a little sketchy.
I found a little motel with a coffee shop and checked in. Terry would be along in a couple of days to drive us up the road to Montello and our little group of USGS trailers. I asked the proprietor of the motel how far away Montello was. "Well, son, you go another twenty-five miles or so East on 80; take a left at Oasis and drive another thirty-five miles or so up 233, a little two-lane road that goes north-east through northeastern Nevada. If you kept going, it would take you through the northwest corner of Utah and eventually you cross the southern border of Idaho. You're in the northern end of the Great Sonoran Desert; it extends clear down into northern Mexico. I sure hope you and your partner like the smell of sage brush, cuz that's all your going to see for next three months; sage brush and sand and the occasional jack rabbit; oh, and keep an eye out for rattle snakes; lots of them around heres too."
Sage brush, snakes and sand; what the hell had I gotten myself into? Already I was feeling homesick for my home on the beach in Hawaii. "I've made my bed and I've got to lie in it", I sighed to myself. I took a seat at the counter in the mostly empty coffee shop and ordered dinner. "I'll have the flank steak dinner and a Coors beer." I told the waitress. One redeeming fact about my new home; legal drinking age, back then, was eighteen. As I sipped my beer I looked around at the patrons. The men were done up in basic cowboy motif; faded jeans, shirts with pearl snaps and cowboy boots. A couple of seats down I noticed a thin young blond girl drinking a coke out of a straw. She looked over and gave me an encouraging smile. She gave me a little wave, inviting me to scoot over next to her.
"Hi! I can tell you're not from around here, are you?" she said. "No ma'm, I'm from Hawaii. I'm in the area for a summer job with U.S. Geological Service" I replied. Back at Stanford if you called one of your female classmates "ma'm" they would, no doubt, give you some good natured grief about it. But here in Nevada cowboy country, 'ma'm' seemed appropriate till I got the little filly's name. "Wow, you're from Owyhee? You sure don't look injun." She remarked. She had made a small mistake in mis-hearing the name of my place of origin. Apparently there was an Indian reservation in the area called the "Owyhee Indian Reservation". It was not the last time, that summer, that I would have to parse the difference between the two.
As I ate my steak she talked about the town; her dissatisfaction with being stuck out there and her youthful yearning to see more interesting parts of the country. "Daisy", we'll call her---come on; it was forty-five years ago---was fascinated by the fact that I was a college boy who lived in the San Francisco area and that I was actually born and raised in Hawaii. I told her a little about growing up on the beach and a little about college life at Stanford. Daisy was going to be a high school senior next year at the local school. Her dad worked at one of the several large alfalfa farms in the area. "I hate Wells. There's nothing to do around here. It's just dry, hot and dusty and there's nothin' around here but sand and sage brush as far as the eye can see. When I meet someone exciting like you, it makes me want to leave this place in the worst way!"
By this time, I had finished my steak dinner. I told Daisy I was going to buy a six-pack at the local liquor store (the town only had one) and asked her if she'd like to come up to my room and help me drink it. Daisy was thrilled with the invitation so I bought the beer and we headed up to my room. On the way upstairs we had to pass the motel manager at the front desk. He gave me what looked like a dirty look, but I was undeterred. I was taking a girl up to my room to drink beer and who knows what might develop. Well, not much had a chance to develop because before we were even halfway through our second beer, the door bursts open and there in the doorway stood the motel manager. "IT'S A FEDERAL CRIME TO BRING A WHITE WOMAN ACROSS STATE LINES FOR IMMORAL PURPOSES!" he cried as he glowered at the two of us. I was so taken aback by this accusation I was momentarily at a loss for words. Quickly Daisy chimed in, "Oh Howard, you know me. I live right here in Wells and I sure ain't crossed no state lines since I went to Wendover last year for the speed trials at the Bonneville salt flats. And it wasn't for no "immoral purposes" either cuz it was a high school field trip. This here guy just bussed in from Frisco and he's workin' 'round here for the Summer. We're just talkin' is all. Just calm yourself down. Mike is a Stanford college boy and I figure he must be pretty moral. I'm sure a school like that don't allow no deviants to go there!"
This seemed to mollify Howard, and with one last warning, he left, slamming the door behind him. We laughed and drank our beer and started making out. With the lights turned low and Daisy and I laying on the bed in a feverish embrace, I felt the evening was full of promise. Unfortunately, that first evening of my Summer adventure ended when I was thrown out trying to steal third base. We'd had such a good time on first and second, I figured, what the hell---why not try for third? Maybe this wouldn't be such a lonely home-sick Summer after all.
More in the next blog entry on my first Summer away from home; wandering through the sage brush and sand; vainly looking for Trans-continental Railroad bench marks.
Adios, amigos, Mickey da Mayor of Happy Acres
Your author saying goodbye to a Summer riding the waves back home as he contemplates instead, a Summer wandering in the desert, looking for rotted out wooden posts while avoiding rattle snakes.
"Wow, Terry, it does sound like quite an adventure." I replied, "But I don't own a hunting rifle or a fishing pole for that matter. I mean, if we did manage to get a rifle and say we shot a deer; then what? Do we skin it and butcher it and bring huge hunks of deer meat back to our little trailer? I'm sure there are other pursuits we could find to do on the weekends besides hunting. Are you gonna have a car?"
"Don't worry, Mike. In case you hadn't noticed, I've got a sweet little Triumph TR 4-A convertable sports car parked outside." Terry replied pointing out the window. "I have to go home for a couple of weeks when school's over. You could take a bus to the town nearest the job sight. I looked on the map and Wells is right on highway 80 and it's only a few miles up a little side road to the town where we all park our trailers. I'll drive up from LA and meet you in Wells, then we drive together to Montello a few miles north of the highway. Whadda ya say? You wanna do it? Let's do it man! It'll be great!"
Terry's infectious enthusiasm won me over and I accepted. He drove me up to the USGS headquarters and I met the job recruiter. I filled out the application to be a rod-man, GS-3, for $ 2.50 an hour. The little humpbacked trailer we had passed on the way in was to be our home for the Summer and it was provided for us, free of charge. He explained what a rod-man did. "Basically, you will be paired up with one of our geologists who will be on site in their own trailers. You will be spending most of your time walking through the sage brush of the lovely Northern Sonoran Desert. Every day your geologist will have to survey. He sets up his surveying instrument, called an allidade and you hold up the surveying rod and he sights it through the allidade and marks the distance in his little surveying book. There will be other exciting jobs to do, too; like taking helicopters to the tops of the local mountain peaks so the geologists can take readings with their surveying equipment. By the end of the summer you'll be tan and fit from all that hiking and you'll have saved a bundle of cash to take back to Stanford and you will have learned all about the fascinating world of map making. Next year back at school, when you're at some frat party and you hear some guy trying to impress a girl talking about his "book knowledge" of Cartesian Coordinates, you can jump right in and blow him out of the water with how you spent the Summer mapping the Cartesian Coordinates for the Cobre Project in eastern Nevada."
So it came to pass that I found myself riding a Greyhound bus to a little town in eastern Nevada called Wells. This all happened forty-five years ago and I don't remember how long I was on that bus. But I do remember that it was an overnight trip and we made several stops along the way for meals. I had never been on such a long road trip in my life. As we journeyed eastward, away from the gambling casinos of Reno the surrounding area quickly became less populated except for these little towns hugging the highway, like baby rats, sucking on the teat of commerce provided by the passing trucks, trains and cars. It was lonely feeling, being by myself in this strange barren land. By the time I got off at Wells I thought to myself that this must be the midwest, I had travelled so far East. Coming from Hawaii where you couldn't drive for an hour without plunging into the ocean, after this marathon bus ride, it seemed like I was at least a third of the way across the country. As an island boy, my knowledge of U.S. geography was still a little sketchy.
I found a little motel with a coffee shop and checked in. Terry would be along in a couple of days to drive us up the road to Montello and our little group of USGS trailers. I asked the proprietor of the motel how far away Montello was. "Well, son, you go another twenty-five miles or so East on 80; take a left at Oasis and drive another thirty-five miles or so up 233, a little two-lane road that goes north-east through northeastern Nevada. If you kept going, it would take you through the northwest corner of Utah and eventually you cross the southern border of Idaho. You're in the northern end of the Great Sonoran Desert; it extends clear down into northern Mexico. I sure hope you and your partner like the smell of sage brush, cuz that's all your going to see for next three months; sage brush and sand and the occasional jack rabbit; oh, and keep an eye out for rattle snakes; lots of them around heres too."
Sage brush, snakes and sand; what the hell had I gotten myself into? Already I was feeling homesick for my home on the beach in Hawaii. "I've made my bed and I've got to lie in it", I sighed to myself. I took a seat at the counter in the mostly empty coffee shop and ordered dinner. "I'll have the flank steak dinner and a Coors beer." I told the waitress. One redeeming fact about my new home; legal drinking age, back then, was eighteen. As I sipped my beer I looked around at the patrons. The men were done up in basic cowboy motif; faded jeans, shirts with pearl snaps and cowboy boots. A couple of seats down I noticed a thin young blond girl drinking a coke out of a straw. She looked over and gave me an encouraging smile. She gave me a little wave, inviting me to scoot over next to her.
"Hi! I can tell you're not from around here, are you?" she said. "No ma'm, I'm from Hawaii. I'm in the area for a summer job with U.S. Geological Service" I replied. Back at Stanford if you called one of your female classmates "ma'm" they would, no doubt, give you some good natured grief about it. But here in Nevada cowboy country, 'ma'm' seemed appropriate till I got the little filly's name. "Wow, you're from Owyhee? You sure don't look injun." She remarked. She had made a small mistake in mis-hearing the name of my place of origin. Apparently there was an Indian reservation in the area called the "Owyhee Indian Reservation". It was not the last time, that summer, that I would have to parse the difference between the two.
As I ate my steak she talked about the town; her dissatisfaction with being stuck out there and her youthful yearning to see more interesting parts of the country. "Daisy", we'll call her---come on; it was forty-five years ago---was fascinated by the fact that I was a college boy who lived in the San Francisco area and that I was actually born and raised in Hawaii. I told her a little about growing up on the beach and a little about college life at Stanford. Daisy was going to be a high school senior next year at the local school. Her dad worked at one of the several large alfalfa farms in the area. "I hate Wells. There's nothing to do around here. It's just dry, hot and dusty and there's nothin' around here but sand and sage brush as far as the eye can see. When I meet someone exciting like you, it makes me want to leave this place in the worst way!"
By this time, I had finished my steak dinner. I told Daisy I was going to buy a six-pack at the local liquor store (the town only had one) and asked her if she'd like to come up to my room and help me drink it. Daisy was thrilled with the invitation so I bought the beer and we headed up to my room. On the way upstairs we had to pass the motel manager at the front desk. He gave me what looked like a dirty look, but I was undeterred. I was taking a girl up to my room to drink beer and who knows what might develop. Well, not much had a chance to develop because before we were even halfway through our second beer, the door bursts open and there in the doorway stood the motel manager. "IT'S A FEDERAL CRIME TO BRING A WHITE WOMAN ACROSS STATE LINES FOR IMMORAL PURPOSES!" he cried as he glowered at the two of us. I was so taken aback by this accusation I was momentarily at a loss for words. Quickly Daisy chimed in, "Oh Howard, you know me. I live right here in Wells and I sure ain't crossed no state lines since I went to Wendover last year for the speed trials at the Bonneville salt flats. And it wasn't for no "immoral purposes" either cuz it was a high school field trip. This here guy just bussed in from Frisco and he's workin' 'round here for the Summer. We're just talkin' is all. Just calm yourself down. Mike is a Stanford college boy and I figure he must be pretty moral. I'm sure a school like that don't allow no deviants to go there!"
This seemed to mollify Howard, and with one last warning, he left, slamming the door behind him. We laughed and drank our beer and started making out. With the lights turned low and Daisy and I laying on the bed in a feverish embrace, I felt the evening was full of promise. Unfortunately, that first evening of my Summer adventure ended when I was thrown out trying to steal third base. We'd had such a good time on first and second, I figured, what the hell---why not try for third? Maybe this wouldn't be such a lonely home-sick Summer after all.
More in the next blog entry on my first Summer away from home; wandering through the sage brush and sand; vainly looking for Trans-continental Railroad bench marks.
Adios, amigos, Mickey da Mayor of Happy Acres
Your author saying goodbye to a Summer riding the waves back home as he contemplates instead, a Summer wandering in the desert, looking for rotted out wooden posts while avoiding rattle snakes.
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