Remembering Harry

Title slide with a photo of Harry, Cedar City's logo, and a photo of Cedar Canyon

Note: Thanks to Lynne, I think I now have all of Harry’s titles correct. It is my hope you gain a sense of how wonderful Harry was. I know I have more photos of him, but could not find them quickly last night. The photo of Harry holding a Clinton/Gore cup was at a dinner. I’m not sure where the cup came from but someone thought it appropriate to serve Harry, a Republican, a drink in it. As you can see, he took the joke well and played along.


Sunday night I received word through a friend in Utah that Harry died. It wasn’t expected. I later learned his death was sudden. Walking down his front steps to greet friends, he collapsed. It was his time. They were unable to resituated him. So many people close to me during my decade of ministry in Utah are now gone. Harry joins a long list which includes the Armstrongs, the Pevelers, the Behrens, Marcia Beck, Des Penny, Jim Case, Christine Winterrose, Pam Burns, Harry’s son David, among others. 

I met Harry on a Monday in late September 1993. I probably met him the day before when I preached at Community Presbyterian Church, but don’t remember it. In a meeting following worship, they voted to called me as their pastor. That Monday, I went to First Security Bank (now Wells Fargo) to set up an account in preparation for my move. Harry, a commercial loan officer at the time, saw me enter. He came out of his office, greeted me like a long-lost friend. Then he introduced me to everyone as his new pastor. He also made sure I was well taken care of by the tellers. From that point, we were friends. But that’s not unusual. Harry was the type of person who became a friend to everyone he met. He also befriended every dog. .

John and Scott on Angels Landing.

I moved to Utah that November.   A few Saturdays later, Scott, another member of the church, organized a climb of Angels Landing in Zion National Park. Harry, Brad, Craig, and John joined us. We made our way up Walters Wiggles to Scout Landing, where the Angels Landing trail breaks away from the West Rim Trail. Soon, we were on a knife edge, with a 1500 or so foot drop on each side. Heights, we discovered, terrified Harry. John and I led him down off the knife-edge and back to Scout Landing. Harry waited for us as we climbed to the top of Angels Landing, which hovers over the valley of Zion Canyon. When the day was over and we stopped for dinner and a beer on our way back. Harry expressed thanks that we had not abandoned him. 

Angels Landing from the Virgin River
Harry and Lynne after their wedding

In February of the following year, I was honored along with the Reverend Ed Kicklighter, a retired Navy chaplain and the former intern pastor at Community Presbyterian, to officiate at the wedding of Harry and Lynne. Harry and Lynne would become close friends. 

In the fall of 1994, I began teaching a year and a half long class to train lay pastors. Harry signed up. We spent much of the class discussing theology and how to handle Biblical text in preparation of a sermon. Harry felt comfortable speaking in front of groups. His faith was strong, but quiet. He showed his faith in how he worked to better the lives of others.

Two years later, the Presbytery of Utah commissioned Harry as a lay pastor.  The presbytery meeting of the commissioning was held at the brand-new church in Layton, Utah. It had been raining hard for a few days. As I stood with Harry before the entire body, asking him the questions for his commissioning, a spot in the roof failed. Suddenly, a torrent of water poured from above, just behind Harry. I paused, then looked at Harry and asked, “Do you need to be baptized?”  Everyone laughed, as members of the congregation ran around grabbing buckets and mops. For the rest of my time in Utah, Harry would preach for me when I was gone and at Presbyterian Churches in Richfield, Delta, and the Methodist Church in Milford. 

Joking with Harry at a dinner in the mid-90s.

During my time in Utah, our families attended parades together and had cookouts and dinners. Harry could take a joke. At one party before the 1996 elections, Harry, a Republican, laughed when he was served a drink in a Clinton/Gore cup.  Around this time, Harry and I both begin to collect Dutch ovens. Soon, we hosted dinners for the congregation and other groups in town.  Harry and I also participated, in competition with each other, in local chili cookoffs.

A few years after I arrived in Utah, Harry left banking and became the director of the Chamber of Commerce. I believe he was instrumental in bringing the Rocky Mountain Oriental Express train to the city. This was the first time since the 1950s that passengers got off a train in Cedar City. This elegant train traveled across the West, stopping at various National Parks. The trains would spend two or three days in Cedar City. While in town, they made excursions to Bryce Canyon, Zion Canyon, and the North Rim of the Grand Canyon. Cedar City was also known for its summer Shakespearean and Renaissance Festivals. Working with the city’s mayor, Harry expanded the number of festivals so that every month had a celebration. The city lived up to its title, the Festival City. 

After working with the city for a few years, Harry became the hospital foundation and public relations director for Valley View Hospital. Exciting things were happening as the hospital built a new faculty. As I was on the hospital board, Harry and I got to work together on a project not related to the church.  After I left Cedar City, Harry helped raise funds for a new cancer center.

Toward the end of my time in Utah, I began reading a lot about the area in which I had grown up. My family had moved to Petersburg, Virginia when I was six and then moved outside of Wilmington, North Carolina when I was nine. My backyard in both places endured significant battles toward the end of the Civil War.  Harry was also interested in the Civil War and read the books I read on the fall of Petersburg and the fall of Fort Fisher and Wilmington. Even after I moved, when I would visit, we discussed the Civil War. 

I last saw Harry in the fall of 2018. We toured the congregation’s newest effort, a thrift store on the south end of town which sold furniture, household goods, and clothes. I could sense Harry’s pride at what the church had done and how it served those in the community he loved.  Harry wanted the best for his community and worked hard to serve others. 

Anyone who knew Harry also knew of his love for animals, especially dogs. He and Lynne adopted many dogs and gave them a wonderful home. Over the years, I mainly kept up with Harry and Lynne through Facebook. Seldom was there a post that didn’t include dogs in the pictures. 

Cedar Canyon east of Cedar City
Cedar Canyon east of Cedar City

Harry had moved to Cedar City from Las Vegas, where he had been in banking. Before that, he’d lived in Alaska and had served in the Air Force Intelligence Agency. He told stories of how, as a young man, he traveled first class in Japan to attempt to listen in on communications from Soviet leaders staying in adjacent hotel rooms. And before that, Harry, who grew up in the Philadelphia area, was one of the first “kids” to dance on American Bandstand. 

Sadness often broke into Harry’s life. Long after I left Utah, his son David, who had been in our our group died. Harry, I know, strove to maintain a positive outlook on the future and continued to help others. May he rest in peace and may God embrace Lynne, their dogs, Harry’s daughter, and his stepdaughter and their families in love. 

Harry and Lynne after their wedding

Reviews of My March Readings

Book covers for those books reviewed

Kiki Petrosing, Bright: A Memoir

(Louisville, KY: Sarabande Brooks, 2022), 106 pages. 

The term “Bright” implies, within an African American context, a mix-race individual. It describes Petrosing. Her mother is an African American and her father an Italian. This is the second book I’ve read by her in preparation to hearing her at this year’s Festival of Faith and Writing at Calvin University in Grand Rapids, Michigan. Click here to read a review of her book on Virginia. 

In this memoir, written as a poetic style, the author struggles with many issues. There’s her Italian grandfather’s suicide, the meaning of poetry, Catholic traditions, and the struggle between being grounded and a life of the spirit. As in the volume of her poetry I read earlier, she deals with Thomas Jefferson (whose slaves gave birth to other “Brights”). She draws in other poets, such as Dante, Shakespeare, and her mentor Gregory Orr. Learning that she teaches at the University of Virginia, I wondered if she knew Orr. Having read some of Orr’s poetry and his memoir, The Blessing, I was expecting this memoir to be prose. But Petrosing does it her way. As I read, I found myself drawn to the glimpses of her life.  

C. S. Lewis, The Screwtape Letters

Cover photo for The Screwtape Letters

(1942, New York: HarperCollins, 1996), 209 pages. 

The Screwtape Letters is a classic. In this book, Screwtape, an older demon, writes letters to his young nephew, Wormwood, providing advice as to how he might best tempt his “patient.” The book only consists of Screwtape’s letters, but we learn Wormwood regularly corresponds back through Screwtape’s reference to the letters. The world of Screwtape is different than ours. These are evil spirits and everything is upside down. The goal of the demons is to trap the patient into their world where he will become “food.” 

These letters show how even good things can be used for evil purposes. All is not lost to the demons when the patient joins a church. Other temptations appear. The tempters don’t have to encourage bad behavior. Instead, they just have to draw their “patients” away from God and force them to think highly of themselves and their abilities. 

This is my third time reading this book. I read it first in collage, and again maybe 20 years ago. This time, I read much of the book twice along with parts of a study book on the letters as I lead a discussion on it through Lent. 

Gilbert King, Devil in the Grove: Thurgood Marshall, the Groveland Boys, and the Dawn of a New America.

Book cover for "Devil in the Grove"

narrated by Peter Frances James (Harpers, 2013), 17 hours and 53 minutes. 

While driving back and forth to Hilton Head and on to the Okefenokee this month, I listened to Gilbert King’s Pulitzer Prize winning history of a shameful event in American history. King winds together several stories, centering around a supposedly rape, to bring to life a tragedy which occurred in the post-World War years in rural Florida.  

At the center of the story is Thurgood Marshall, who led the NAACP’s legal defense fund. As a young lawyer working for the NAACP, Marshall rode trains south to defend African Americans in Jim Crow Courts. His main strategy was to win appeals and to take the case to the Supreme Court, where he had an envious record, winning 29 of his 32 cases before the highest court. Marshall also oversaw the Brown vs Topeka Board of Education which set the stage for the end of segregation. In 1967, long after the Groveland trials, President Johnson appointed Marshall to the Supreme Court where he became the first African American justice. In addition to Marshall’s work on the Groveland case (which came as they appealed), King provides a background into his early years as a Civil Rights lawyer. Like many individuals who seem larger than life, Marshall had his faults. King notes his problem within his marriage, his womanizing, and his love for bourbon. 

Another character at the center of the story in Lake County, where the rape supposedly took place, was Sheriff Willis McCall. He’s the “Devil in the Grove,” a man who ruled Lake County, Florida for decades. McCall protected gambling interests, low wages in the citrus groves, and segregation. He was not above taking the law in his own hands, as the recently opened FBI files showed. 

The case, known as the Groveland Boys, begins with a 17-year-old Norma Padgett and her estranged husband attempting to get back together. Going out for the evening and drinking a lot of liquor, the two found themselves broken down on a deserted road. Two young black men stop to help. When Padgett’s estranged husband disrespects them, a fight ensues. Norma takes off. What happens next is subject to speculation. Padgett’s husband made it back into town, telling the story that his wife’s kidnapping. This might have been to protect himself from Norma’s father, also a violent man with Klan ties. Norma shows up early that morning at a diner and doesn’t seem to have been in any kind of fight or rape. Those who saw her thought she was calm. It appears that at this point, she and her husband collaborate on their story, and a posse starts looking for four black men, even though only two were at the scene the evening before. 

A doctor who examined Norma could not positively say she’d been raped but challenged the idea she had been physically attacked. This information, questioned the legitimacy of the Norma’s story and was suppressed. The defense discovered it only after conviction. Another suppressed piece of information was the young man working at the diner who gave Norma a ride that morning. He noted, in the second trial, how she appeared as if nothing had happened. 

Three of the four charged with the crime were arrested. The fourth attempted to run and was later shot. The three who went to trial were found guilty, two of whom were sentenced to death. and moved to the Florida State Penitentiary. During the appeal, Thurgood Marshall became involved with the case and assisted local attorneys. They won a new trial for the two on death row. Sheriff McCall and a deputy, in separate cars, went to pick up the prisoners and move them back to Lake County for trial. Locking the prisoners together in his car, McCall then took a back road where he supposedly had a flat tire. He said that while he was changing, the two men attacked him and he shot them. The Sheriff called the deputy on the radio. He came, realized Walter Irvin remained alive and shot him again. Irvin, wounded, played dead. When the coroner arrived thinking both men were dead, he realized Irvin was alive and had him transported to the hospital. At this point, the FBI becomes involved. 

The second trial also resulted in a convection and a death sentence. But things were changing in Florida. A new governor, who wanted to protect the state’s booming tourist and agricultural interest, had an attorney friend examine the case. He concluded the men had been framed. The governor pardoned Irvin. The state later exonerated and freed him. Charles Greenlee, who had received a life sentence was also freed. At this point, even the prosector, Jesse Hunter, admitted an injustice occurred and the defendants had been framed. 

Harry T. Moore, another character in this story, headed the Florida NAACP.  On his twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, he and his wife were killed when Klansmen firebombed his home. Moore, who had his own battles with the NAACP along with segregationists like Sheriff McCall. He had been influential in bringing Thurgood Marshall in on the case.  In addition to this, Marshall had to be careful during his time in Lake County. And he also had threats and attempts on his life and safety. 

King had access to NAACP legal defense records as well as the recently opened FBI records pertaining to the case. Drawing on this information, the framing of the Groveland Boys can be easily seen.  I recommend this book, especially as today many in our nation desire to undo the gains America has made in Civil Rights over the past 75 years.  It should remind us that our nation’s hands are not as clean as people often imagine.

A Trip to the Low Country

Title slide with a photo from inside the church, kayak in the Okefenokee, and a train

Earlier this month I was able to get away for a week to attend the Theology Matters Conference at Providence Presbyterian Church on Hilton Head. In addition, I was able to spend a few days in the Okefenokee, watching trains, and catching up with a few former co-workers. I left home with temperatures just above freezing, worrying that the rain would begin to freeze. Thankfully, by the time I was down off the Blue Ridge, the temperature was much warmer with no chance of ice. As I continued to drive down, with a kayak lashed to the top of my car, I listened to Gilbert King’s,  Devil in the Grove: Thurgood Marshall, The Groveland Boys, and the Dawn of a New America. I’ll review the book early in April. 

On the way down, I met Deanie for lunch. During my tenure as pastor on Skidaway, she was an associate pastor and a delightful colleague. We had wonderful Mexican meal at a restaurant just outside of Savannah. We caught up on what’s going on in our lives, with our families, and with friends.  Then I turned east and drove to Hilton Head, passing the never-ending sprawl with countless stoplights which has become the South Carolina Low Country.  I checked into my hotel, then headed over to the church for a low country boil (shrimp, sausage, corn, potatoes and seasoning). 

While at the conference I enjoyed catching up with old friends and making some new ones while listening to the speakers at the lecturers. The weather was wonderful, but like always, the island feels overcrowded. I didn’t even walk out to the beach! This year’s theme was “The Good Shepherd Lays Down his Life for the Sheep.” 

Providence Presbyterian Church Sanctuary. Rev. Dr. Raymond Hylton speaking

While I enjoyed all the speakers, especially the sermons by Raymon Hylton, Pastor of National Presbyterian Church in Washington, DC, the highlight was Andy Dearman. A retired Biblical scholar who did a marvelous job of weaving the Old and New Testament together around the conference’s themes. While I enjoyed the conference, I kept looking out those beautiful windows at the church. From my pew, I could se the tops of magolias, pines, live oaks decked out in Spanish moss, and sweet gum trees. My mind kept being drawn to the kayak on top of my car and what I’d be doing a few days later…

After the conference, I drove down to Skidaway and met with Jim, who is still the Administrator at Skidaway Community Church. This was my first time being back at the church since the January of 2022, when I was there to officiate at the funeral for a friend.  It was great seeing the improvements and hear of the plans for the church’s future. Since I lift, Jim has taken to writing, especially “flash fiction.”  He’s even had a couple of pieces published in a local magazine which often published my work when I was living there.

A good sized gator

I then drove down to the Okefenokee.  I spent two days in the swamp, but was unable to obtain camping reservations inside the park due to the busy season and the low water which cut off some of the canoe trails.  

The first night, I was able to stay in a caboose. Folkston is a great place to watch trains as just above the town two main lines merge which bring trains to and from Florida to the Northeast and Midwest. Especially during the night, the tracks seemed busy, often with two trains, one heading north and the other south, crossing at the same time. The caboose was comfortable for me, with a deck out back where I did some writing and reading as I watched trains. There were four bunks on one end of the caboose, a sitting area in the middle and a small kitchen and even smaller bathroom on the other end. 

Home for a night
My plate: Grilled chicken, chopped
barbecue, collards, and beans

 After spending the day in the refuge, and checking into the caboose and then walked over to Jalen’s Barbecue. Many people will probably pass it by as dump, but their chopped barbecue and roast chicken was wonderful. I just wish I had arrived in time to have had ribs, but they’d sold out. And, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but they had the best collards I’ve ever had. They were not mushy and were quite tasty.  Normally, I prefer turnip greens, but I’d go for collards if they were that good. 

It was weird paddling within the swamp as the water was a couple feet lower than any of my previous trips into the swamp. I mostly paddled Chesser and Mizell Prairies. In previous times, you could paddle across the prairies, but this time the water level kept me in the canals.  I was a little early for flower blooms. But as always, birds were plentiful. Egrets, ibis, sandhill cranes, kingfishers, woodpeckers, and so on. There were plenty of turtles and alligators sleeping along the banks. 

It’s been a while since I paddled my Phoenix Isene Kayak. Lately I’ve mostly paddled my big sea kayak, which is 18′ 6″ long. This boat is 14′ 9″ and weighs (empty) 28 pounds. It was good to be back in this boat.

Sandhill Crane

I spent my second night camping in my hammock at Okefenokee Pastimes, a campground and restaurant just outside the park. I had a Philly Che esesteak Sandwich and beer for dinner as I talked with the new owner of the campground. That night, I slept in my hammock. While it was good to camp, I ran around too much with flip-flops and my ankles were well-chewed by sand gnats!

On Sunday, I set my sights north, heading up 301 to Waycross, and then on US 1 up into South Carolina. Somewhere along the way, I finished listening to Devil in the Grove. It began to rain as I crossed into South Carolina, so I slipped over to the interstate and made it home shortly after dark. 

This wasn’t my first rodeo… Links to past events

Theology Matters, October 2021

Theology Matters, March 2023

Day 1 of a 5 Day Okefenokee Adventure

Days 2 & 3 of a 5 Day Okefenokee Adventure

Days 4 & 5 of a 5 Day Okefenokee Adventure

Another Okefenokee Adventure

Reading Reviews from February 2026

title slide with covers of the books I read in February and reviewed in this post.

I am on study leave this week. My next post, God willing, will be the sermon for March 15, 2026. I’ll catch up with folks then!

Cover photo for Memorial Days

(New York: Viking, 2025), 207 pages.

On Memorial Day, 2019, on the streets of Washington D.C., Geraldine Brooks’ husband, Tony Horwitz, died of a major heart attack. He was on a book tour promoting Spying on the South.  

I have read several of Horwitz’s books and have loved them all. However, by far, my favorite is Confederates in the Attic, which explores modern day Civil War reenactors. I read the book early in this century. I started it on a cross-country flight and laughed so hard that everyone in the plane around me wanted to know what I was reading. Several of them wrote down the title so they could look it up. Horwitz’s is a master of blending travel and history with humor. After recently reading his first book, One for the RoadI checked to see if he had written anything recent. That’s when I learned of his death and that his wife, also an author, wrote this book. 

This book flip-flops between a narrative on learning of her husband’s death and its aftermath, along with time on an island off Australia (Brooks is a native of Australia). We learn of everything she had to do starting with the time a hospital internist call. She wants to see her husband and immediately takes off for Washington, but that is hard to do because they lived on Martha Vineyard and it’s the height of tourist season. The flights off the island are booked. She catches a ferry to the mainland. She also must take care of their dogs and to call her sons and his mother.  Thankfully, she has caring neighbors.

Catching up with one of her sons is difficult because he was flying to Australia to see her sister. Unfortunately, as her son gets off the plane, the news arrives prematurely in a text from a friend expressing his condolences. The next few months is hectic with all she must do. She discovers she and her sons’ medical insurance is cancelled because it’s in her husband’s name. As a native Australian, she knows American medical insurance lacks compassion. And then, after spending the fall taking care of business and two memorial services, in Martha’s Vineyard and near Washington DC area) COVID hits. 

Her time away in 2023 to West Tisbury, a remote island off Australia, allows her to grieve and to recall her relationship with her husband. We learn how they met and some of their travels as foreign correspondents. We also learn that she left journalism to become a novelist at her husband’s encouragement.  We also learn about grief and death traditions, especially in Judaism as she had converted to her husband’s faith. 

I felt like I was reading about the death of friend as I read this book. I recommend it. And sadly, I only have a few more of Horwitz’s books to savor before I’ll have to start rereading. 

Ronald C. White, On Great Fields: The Life and Unlikely Heroism of Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain 

cover for "On Great Fields"

(Audible, 2023), 14 hours and 23 minutes.

At the battle of Gettysburg, Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain’s troops held back the Confederates at Little Roundtop. Late in the afternoon, as his troops ran out of ammunition, he ordered them to fix bayonets. They then changed down the hill, routing the exhausted Confederates. Had this not been successful, the South would have taken the hill, and the battle may have ended differently. But as White shows in this biography of the Maine intellectual, this was only a part of Chamberlain’s story. 

A native of Maine, Chamberlain lived most of his life in the state. He attended Bowdoin College and then Bangor Theological Seminary. He debates becoming a Congregational minister but finds himself drawn to academics. Chamberlain excelled in languages (he mastered 7 languages during his lifetime).  Teaching at Bowdoin, he married Fanny Adams, an adopted daughter of a Congregational minister, and they began a family. He enjoyed teaching and was offered an opportunity to spent two years studying in Europe, but the Civil War interrupted. He joined the war effort in 1862 and led the 20th Maine Volunteer Infantry Regiment.  

At the beginning of the Petersburg Campaign in the summer of 1864, Chamberlain was wounded on the Jerusalem Road near “Fort Hell.” While the location probably doesn’t mean much for most people, this was in the Walnut Hills area where I lived as a kid from 1963 to 1966. (I should write more about Fort Hell in another post).  Chamberlain almost died. He survived but dealt with the wound for the rest of his life. Miraculously, he returned to the field in March 1865, near the end of the Petersburg Campaign. Again wounded, he remained on the field as Petersburg fell. At Appomattox, Grant gave Chamberlain the honor of receiving the Confederate arms and colors at the “official surrender,” three days after Grant and Lee signed the surrender documents.  

After the war, Chamberlain became governor of Maine, serving four one-year terms, as the state had yearly elections for governor. White hints at the fact Chamberlain and his wife had troubles during this time and she stayed away from the state capital.

After serving as governor, he returned to teaching and later became president of Bowdoin college.  He was also later called on to settle an election dispute over a new governor. While violence was a possibility, he was able to calm both sides and worked out an acceptable settlement. In 1883, he retired from academic. During this period, he worked as a lawyer in New York, as the port surveyor in Portland, Maine, and then involved himself in various businesses including land speculation in Florida. He continued to be interested in the Civil War. Chamberlain became friends with those who fought on both sides, often called to speak and to write articles. He also had to deal with his wife’s health as she became blind late in life.

Chamberlain died in 1914, at the age of 85, partly from an infection of the wound he received in Petersburg. 

White goes into detail as to Chamberlain’s religious and academic beliefs. A solid Calvinist during a time when Unitarianism and Transcendentalism were on the rise in New England, Chamberlain remained close to the church. As for academics, while classically trained, Chamberlain encouraged the school to embrace other disciplines, especially in science. He attempted to make room for such studies at Bowdoin. 

White’s biography of Chamberlain’s life during a time of great change in the United States is a worthy read (or listen) to those interested in such history.  The book is read by the author, who was the Dean at San Francisco Theological Seminary when I was doing my doctoral studies there.   White has published biographies of Abraham Lincoln, U. S. Grant, and two books on Lincoln’s speeches. I also highly recommend Lincoln’s Greatest Speech, which is on the President’s second inaugural address. 

Doris Kearns Goodwin, An Unfinished Love Story: A Personal History of the 1960s 

Book cover for "An Unfinished Love Story"

(2024, Audible), 17 hours and 38 minutes. Read by the author with insert recordings of speeches.

Doris Kearns Goodwin is a presidential history. I once heard her lecture and have enjoyed reading some of her books and many of her articles. Her late husband, Dick Goodwin worked within the Kennedy and Johnson administration. After he had moved on, she worked for Johnson. The two of them met at Harvard in the early 1970s. After Dick’s first wife died, they married in 1975. Dick died in 2018. Before his death, Dick and Doris went through the 300 boxes of papers from Dick’s years working with Senator and later President Kennedy, President Johnson, as well as working on the Presidential campaigns of Eugene McCarthy and Robert Kennedy.  The two of their insights provides for a unique review of all that happened in the 60s. 

This was a unique book to hear. Doris Kearns Goodwin read most of the text. But as her husband primarily (but not exclusively) served as a speech writer for the two Kennedys and for Johnson, where speeches were quoted, the Audible book inserts the actual speech. Some of the Johnson speeches I have vague memories of, and it was interesting to hear him again. It was also interesting to hear her husband’s role with phrases like “The New Frontier” and “The Great Society.” 

The early LBJ years were so hopeful. Johnson articulated a vision of “The Great Society.” It promised hope for all Americans, especially the poor and those of African descent. Sadly, our current administration also uses “great” in their logo (Make America Great Again), but I never hear a vision of what a Great America entails. Instead of being forward looking, like LBJs vision, MAGA looks backwards to some mythical place and time which never existed. 

As Vietnam began to consume the Johnson Presidency, many of the President’s advisors bailed, including Goodwin. He left with hard feelings for the two men never talked again. Dick Goodwin went to work for Eugene McCarthy in the 1968 primaries. He told McCarthy that if Robert Kennedy (a friend) entered in the race, he would have to support him. So, after the early good showing by McCarthy and LBJ dropping out of the race, Goodwin moved over to support Kennedy. And after Kennedy’s assassination, he was back with McCarthy for the 1968 Democrat Convention. 

Doris came to work for LBJ late in his presidency. She was picked by Johnson to help him work on his memoirs and organizing his papers. She wanted to go back to teaching at Harvard. He finally agreed with a compromise, which her commutating back and forth between Texas and Boston. Her insight into Johnson was as a broken man whom she came to care deeply. In a way, Doris and Dick had differences with LBJ, which makes the book even more interesting. 

The book is also about the hope they both had in the 1960s. That’s the love story, but it’s also about their love story which didn’t begin until after the decade had ended. I appreciate Doris Kearns Goodwin’s writing. It’s easy to understand and she catches the reader up with the hope the decade began and the tragedy with how it ended. 

While the book is about the 1960s, it also contains wisdom which our world needs today. I recommend it. 

Amy Leach, The Salt of the Universe: Praise, Songs, and Improvisations 

title cover for "The Salt of the Universe"

(New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2024), 221 pages. 

This is the second book I read by Amy Leach.  In 2013, I read her book, Things That Are. Then, in 2014, she was a presenter at the Calvin Festrival of Faith and Writing. As her first book focused on nature, I arranged her to make a presentation for Pierce Cedar Creek Institute on nature and literature. Having found her first book delightful, when I saw this book, I picked it up and thoroughly enjoyed it.  Leach creates wonderful essays by pulling dissimilar things and ideas and mixing them together.

Much of The Salt of the Universe comes from Leach’s background. She grew up in Texas as a member of the 7th Day Adventist Church. She attended 7th Day Adventist camps and college and have worked on their mission field. While she has moved away from the church’s teachings, she remains a vegetarian. This is not because of the teachings of Ellen White, who I learned in reading this book helped solidify the church’s position. Leach draws on scripture and especially Peter’s vision in Joppa to question the church’s fundamentalist view against eating meat.  She also challenges the church’s position on supporting the community over against the individual. Quoting a church president who said, “the individual is nothing,” Leach insists the opposite is true. “The institution is nothing; individual is everything.” 

Her writings encourage her readers to take notice of the world, its wonder and awe. She draws on all her interests to create these essays. As a classical trained musician, she pulls music into her stories. She is obviously well read, drawing on diverse authors from Shakespeare to Jim Harrison, from the Hindu poet Tagore to her favorite poet, Emily Dickerson, and dozens of others. She is also a keen observer of the natural world. Her weirdly mixed concepts that are often dissimilar create delightful essays. 

The Battle of Moores Creek 250 Years Later

title slide with photo of the bridge and the 250 anniversary logo
My dad paddling in Moores Creek in November 2018

This July, our nation will celebrate its 250th anniversary. But before signing of the Declaration of Independence in Philadelphia on July 4th, battles occurred between British loyalist and colonists. Most these battles occurred in the New England states, and in New York and New Jersey. But one small yet significant battle occurred in Eastern North Carolina. This Friday will mark the 250th anniversary of this skirmish.

To raise troops to suppress the rebellion, the British set their eyes on raising an army of 3,000 soldiers from the Scottish Highlanders who had settled in the Sandhills of the Upper Cape Fear River region of North Carolina. Many of these Highlanders moved to North Carolina following the failure of the Scottish Bonnie Prince Charlie to take the British throne in the Jacobite rebellion. After the Battle of Culloden in 1745, under the threat of death, many Scots confessed their loyalty to the British crown and left Scotland. Quite a few of them ended up in the Sandhills of North Carolina. Others, who had not participated in the Jacobite Rebellion also relocated on the promise of free land offered by the frown. 

Cypress knees and ice, February 2010

The British governor of North Carolina, Josiah Martin suggested raising an army of Highland Scots from the Sandhills of North Carolina to help stabilize the Southern Colonies and give the British a base to quell the revolt. Martin hoped to raise an army upwards of 10,000, but his military commanders were only able to raise an army of approximately 1,600. 

In late February, the troops lead by Donald McDonald assembled at Cross Creek (now Fayetteville) to begin their march to the port in Wilmington. The plan was to unite with a larger British force coming to the colony by sea. They found the main road, on the south side of the Cape Fear River blocked at Rock Creek by Patriots led by Col. James Moore. Unwilling to fight as only about half of his new recruits had firearms, McDonald moved his force northeast, crossing the Cape Fear, and then south, along another road which paralleled the Black River. There were a few skirmishes along the way.

Reconstructed Moores Creek’s Bridge

On the night of February 26, the loyalist found a small contingent of patriots camped in from of what known as Widow Moores Creek bridge. They sent a Messager asking the colonist to surrender. They laughed the suggestion off. Thinking they vastly outnumbered the patriots, Mcleod, who assumed command on MacDonald’s illness, planned to attack. 

Two units of patriots had converged at Moores Creek, some twenty miles from Wilmington. The site was considered an ideal location to stop the Loyalists. The swamp around the creek would force the army to stay on the high ground. This allowed the patriots to create an effective field of fire. Col. Alexander Lillington and his unit of 150 men dug in along the eastern approach. These men were whom MacDonald’s scouts had observed on the 26th. What he didn’t know is that Col. Richard Caswell with 850 men from New Bern had dug in on the opposite bank. 

Reconstructed earthworks on the east side of the creek

Thinking there was only a small contingent of men guarding the bridge, Mcleod’s soldiers prepared to attack in the early morning hours on the 27th. After a six-mile night hike on a spooky road running through a swamp with trees draped with Spanish Moss, they prepared to assault Lillington’s forces in the early hours of the morning. Instead, they discovered his camp deserted, but the campfires coals remained warm. 

Col. Mcleod handpicked a contingent of men to cross the creek and to see where the enemy might be hiding. Dawn was just beginning to break, and a fog concealed the lowlands around the water. They carefully crossed the slippery timbers which had been greased with fat.

Road heading through the swamp

Coming off the bridge, they silently made their way through the fog and up the road out of the swamp. Maybe a twig snap. Suddenly, someone ahead shouted, “Who goes there?” “A Friend of the King,” was the response. At that point, knowing the enemy was just ahead, they drew sabers and charged up the road yelling “King George and Broadswords.” They were brave but foolish. But the patriots had dug in. It was a trap.

The patriots held their fire, hiding behind breastworks as the Scots came out of the fog. They charged like William Wallace reincarnated. When only 15 or 20 yards from the line, the patriots opened fire. In addition to their muskets, they were armed with two small canons loaded with grapeshot. With the road flanked on both sides by swamp, the Scots had nowhere to go. McLeod fell first, followed by fifty-some of his handpicked men. The rest of the Highlanders fled. The battle lasted only minutes. Over the next couple of days, they captured 800 or so of the Highlanders. They granted some pardons and went headed back to their farms. But many they banished to Nova Scotia, Florida or the West Indies.

It was a small engagement early in the war. But the battle discouraged the British from trying to conquer the Southern colonies. Their forces moved north where most of the fighting would occur for the next several years. The battle also helped the colonists in North Carolina by providing weapons and supplies. Interestingly, most of their Patriot weapons had been given to them by the British during the French and Indian Wars. That’s a lesson we still haven’t learned from history.

The battlefield is a National Park site. The earthworks are reconstructed. Numerous monuments have been erected, most given by the people of North Carolina in the great monument age (1890-1920). Two of the larger monuments are for Pvt. John Grady, the only death on the Patriot’s side, and for those Scots fighting as loyalists. After 120 years, old grudges died and the state (which after the Civil War entered a Scottish revival era) no longer harbored ill feelings for the losing side. 

In addition to the battlefield trail, there is a small museum with several period weapons. There is also a short “Tarheel” interpretive trail. This trail focuses on the role the longleaf pine played in the development of the “naval stores” industry. Interestingly, all the native longleaf pines have been cut. There are younger longleafs growing, but all the mature pines are loblollies. The battlefield trail takes you along a boardwalk into the swamp around Moores Creek, allowing up close views of a cypress swamp. The water is stained brown from the tannic acid of the cypress trees. These trees also have “knees” that protrude up from the muck. The Spanish moss gives the swamps an eerie feeling. In the summer, there’s a good possibility of encountering snakes and perhaps, if lucky, of seeing an alligator. 

I was last at Moore’s Creek in November 2018, with my father. We paddled up the creek from the Black River. 

Speaking at the Savannah St. Andrew’s Society in November 2019

In 2019, I spoke of this battle at the St. Andrews Society of Savannah annual St. Andrews banquet.  To read this speech, a part of which I used above, go to:  https://fromarockyhillside.com/2019/12/01/st-andrews-talk/

Remembering Ralph on his 100th Birthday

title slide with photo of Ralph in California Majove Desert and his truck near Hamilton, Nevada

bottle of scotch with a glass of scotch on ice

Last Thursday, February 12th, Lincoln’s birthday, was also the 100th birthday of a late friend of mine, Ralph Behrens. That evening, his son (Rob who lives in Northern Utah) and I each had a Scotch in memory of his dad. 

Ralph and I met at a potluck dinner for Boy Scouts Troop 360. It was late 1993 or early 1994,, shortly after I moved to Cedar City, Utah. Sometime that evening we started talking. Ralph learned of my interest in mining towns as I had written a few journal articles on the Comstock Lode. At the time, I was considering returning to school for another degree. My hope was to write a dissertation focusing on the role the church played in mining camps.

I learned that Ralph grew up in Goler Gulch, a mining community in the Mojave Desert of California. It was a rough place to live during the Depression. Ralph graduated from high school in 1944 and joined the Army Air Corp. He arrived in the South Pacific near the end of the war, but earn a combat ribbon because, as he was fond of say, “some General wanted another metal so they loaded up a bunch of bombs on a 100 airplanes and we flew and blew the hell out of a handful of Japanese on an island we didn’t deem important enough to invade.” 

Shortly after that potluck dinner, Ralph and I started taking regular trips out into the desert. I’m not sure exactly how many trips we made, but we did at least a dozen or so trips in Utah, Nevada, California, and along the Arizona Strip. I even helped Ralph cut and haul wood for several years to heat his house. One trip we didn’t get to make when I was in Utah, but had discussed, was to the Hole in a Wall. In 2006, a couple years after having left Utah, I flew back and the two of us set out to visit this spot. While not an overnight trip, this was the last big trip we took. The next few times I visited, Ralph’s health had declined to the point he could no longer able to travel in such a manner. Ralph died in 2010. 

Ralph, his dog, brother, and father around 1930 in Goler Gulch, CA
Ralph’s dad, Ralph with his dog, and his brother. Goler Gulch, CA, around 1930

The story below I wrote in 2006. I’ve edited it and republished it here. 


We arrive in Escalante around 11 AM. This must be one of the strangest towns in Utah. A few years ago, the Mormon influence remained so strong you had a hard time finding 3.2 beer. Interestingly the town isn’t named after a saint, but a Catholic priest. Father Escalante came through here a century before the Mormons settled this area. He searched of a faster way from Santa Fe to the California missions. At that time only a few small bands of Paiutes lived in this hostile environment, descendants of the Anasazi whose culture flourished here until abruptly disappearing around 700 years ago. As Escalante discovered, travel in canyon country is difficult. It’s easier today, but by modern standards is still difficult.

I hadn’t been in Escalante for five or six years. The town appears prosperous; almost negating the doom predictions of the naysayers who predicted President Clinton’s creation of the Grand Staircase National Monument would be a catastrophic event. The town now has sidewalks with classic streetlamps, several new businesses and a new high school. Ralph pulls up in front of the Golden Loop, a diner. The logo has a cowboy standing tall in the saddle, with the “golden loop” of his lasso falling over the neck of a calf. As it’s not quite time for lunch, we hit the Roan Pony Bookstore next door first. I know right away things have changed in Escalante. 

“Don’t sell too many books to locals, do you?” I quip sarcastically to the salesclerk.

“We sell a few children books,” she replies, “but not many to adults.”

“I bet not,” I say while reading through the titles of books critical of the Mormon faith. She has a couple copies of Fran Brodie’s, No Man Knows My History. It’s a good biography of Joseph Smith, the faith’s founding prophet, and written by a granddaughter of Brigham Young, the faith’s second prophet. It’s been over fifty years since this book came out. Its publication got Brodie excommunicated and the book placed on the church’s blacklist. There are other books critical of the Mormon Church including a few titles by people who have left the church, encouraging others to follow in their footsteps. In another section of the small store are the works by Michael Moore, Calvin Tillian, Al Franklen, and other liberal thinkers. Not only is this Mormon country, but this is also Republican country, and these titles won’t gain her any friends. 

The Roan Pony also features a section reserved for environmental writers, Abbey and McPee and a host of others. The only thing worse than a liberal in this country is an environmentalist. Pick-up trucks all sport bumper stickers critical of environmentalists and nature lovers. “Hungry: Eat an Environmentalist,” reads one. Not too far from here, over on US 89, more than one effigy of Robert Redford has dangled in a noose. It’s obvious the Roan Pony isn’t marketing itself to the locals, but there are now plenty of tourists now flocking in to see this rugged country. I admire the owner. She’s a brave soul. Just having this bookstore in Escalante is akin to Jeremiah of the Old Testament standing up and telling King Zedekiah and his court what they didn’t want to hear. Of course, Jeremiah got thrown into a well.


The Roan Pony advertises a 20% off sale. She’s preparing to close for winter in a few weeks. I pick up a book that’s been on my reading list, Paul Theroux Dark Star Safari, figuring with a 20% markdown, I can support the local economy.

After the bookstore, we enter the restaurant and sit at a table. It takes a few minutes for the waitress to get to us. I order a hamburger and iced tea. Ralph asks for chili and coffee. After a few minutes more she brings out drinks. Then the waiting really starts. After a good fifteen minutes, after I’ve finished my tea and he’s drunk his coffee, Ralph quips: “If they keep up at this pace, we can make it dinner.” Not very happy at the service, I nod in agreement, saying something about them having to catch a cow before they can butcher it. But then the meal comes and the burger is tasty. This isn’t any corn fattened cow, its range fed and you can taste the difference.


As we’re finishing up with lunch, Ralph tells me the problem he’s been having with the lights on the truck. He can’t remember if he got ‘em fixed. I’m sure there was a speck of horror on my face. Ralph doesn’t use this truck much anymore, but he’s always keeps it in good running order. Seeing that we’ve lost an hour between the bookstore and diner, and there is little chance we’ll get back before dark, I heartily agree that we should check the lights out before we leave town. They work!

Ralph then tosses me the key and asks me to drive, complaining of his shoulder. As I maneuver out into the street, I ask if we should top off the tank. He doesn’t think so since the truck has a full 18 gallons reserve tank. We have plenty of snacks and water, just in case. We leave the town and civilization behind.

Just out of Escalante, we take the graveled “Hole in a Rock Road,” which runs southeast. Its fifty-four miles from the point we leave the pavement until the trail dead-ends on an overlook at the Colorado River. In the 19th Century, Mormons used this road to migrate into the Arizona Territory. It was a long and punishing trip. Once they got to the “Hole in a Rock,” an opening in the mountains above the Colorado, they lowered their wagons with ropes down to the ford in the river. The ford is gone; the Glen Canyon dam has flooded this part of the river to create Lake Powell.

Imposing cliffs rise to the right of the road, with bands like chevrons of different colored sediment running nearly the fifty miles. To the left, the country drops off into canyons that lead down into the Escalante River. There are a few signs noting points of interest along the way. There are also a handful of mileage signs which aren’t consistent. After ten miles on the road, a sign says its 51 miles to the end. Then, after only a mile, another sign says its 42 miles, which is about what we expect. Yet just a few miles beyond that sign, another one says we got 46 more miles. 

“You driving backwards, Ralph asks? We don’t place any confidence into the signs.

Hole in the Wall Road, Utah

The first thirty miles of the road is good; or as good as gravel roads in this country get. This is high desert; as far as one can see there are pinion and juniper trees, yellow rabbit brush, and sage. Just off the road, to the west, are acres of unique rock formations known as the Devil’s Garden. Large beige columns of mushroom like sandstone cover the area.

Afterwards, the road continues to lose elevation, and fewer trees are seen until somewhere under 4500 feet, they become non-existent. However, there are flowers: Orange Mellow, Sego Lilies, Snakeweed. It’s a pleasant surprise to find so many flowers blooming this late in the season, but the area has recently had rain as evident by the muddy bottoms in the ravines. Yucca plants are also prevalent, their spring blooms long dried by the sun and wind. Cottonwoods grow in a few washes, an indication of water in this barren land.

at the beginning of the Hole in a Rock road

As we approach the end, the cliffs and the canyons draw closer and the road snakes down into washes, only to wind steeply out of them. Driving is a challenge. The truck has no power steering, and I fight with the wheel while constantly downshifts to keep from burning out the brakes. On a few occasions, I even double clutch the truck into low, to get enough power to climb a steep embankment. We’re swung around at every bend. Driving, I recall the chase seen across slickrock in Edward Abbey’s Monkey Wrench Gang. But we’re not being chased by the Sheriff out of Moab, so I slow down.

It’s getting late in the afternoon, and we both begin to worry about getting back to the pavement before nightfall. Around 4 PM, after having covered maybe 2 miles in the past thirty minutes, we give up. We’re at least 4 miles from the “hole.” I was willing to continue, but I’d been there about 10 years earlier. Ralph had never been out this far. After swearing that it’s the worst road he’s ever been on (and he grew up in the desert Southwest), Ralph suggests we turn around.



Coming out goes faster than going in even though we’re driving into a north wind blowing sand down the road. Whenever we stop and get out, the sand stings my bear legs. As the sun drops closer to the Kaiparowits Plateau, we have one final adventure. I tell Ralph we’re low on fuel in the main tank and he instructs me on how to change tanks. I do and a minute or so later, the truck runs out of fuel. We stop to check things out. The switch has broken. 

“What are we to do now,” I ask? 

“Don’t worry,” Ralph says. “I’ve got my Oklahoma Gas Card,” as he pulls out a flexible tube from behind the seat. Although a toddler when his family left Kansas for the desert, Ralph somehow retained a prejudice against the southern neighbors of his infancy. 

Cliffs with pocket of water from recent rains

For the time being, I switched back over to the main tank and drove cautiously. The needle pegged empty as the sun slips below the mountains. I let out a sigh of relief when we turned back onto the blacktop of Utah Highway 12. A few minutes later, we’re back in Escalante and I pull in under the lights at a gas station. Filling up the main tank, I calculate we had less than half a gallon left in the tank. Had we continued on to the hole in a rock, we’d been out of gas and siphoning it from the other tank before we got back to civilization.

Once back on the highway, I watch the stars appear as we head west, arriving back at Ralph’s home in time for a late but wonderful dinner of short ribs, prepared by Pat, Ralph’s wife. Ralph fixes himself a martini and offers me a Scotch. 

Other stories of traveling with Ralph

Great Basin Mining Trip 

Camp Bangladesh (A humorous look at the two of us as summer camp Scoutmasters)

Goler Gulch (where Ralph grew up)

A 94 year old red head and the mother of Ralph’s childhood friend

Bodie, California

title slide with photo of road leading into Bodie
The Methodist Episcopal Church in Bodie

In early October, Sandy, a woman I had dated while in Pittsburgh that spring, flew in. She had an interview for a job in California, but before that spent a few days with me. On Friday night, we checked out the bars and nightlife in Virginia City, listening to Murray Mack pound the piano playing ragtime tunes. Then, on Saturday, we went with Victor in his old Bronco and checked out the country around the Comstock.  We were looking for the petrographs, which we never found. Then, on Sunday, after church, we packed up and headed South on US 395, with plans to visit Yosemite from the backside. I don’t remember if someone had suggested I check out Bodie or if I learned about the town on this trip. 

This being in early fall, bursts of yellow aspen dotted the mountains on both sides of the highway. Unlike in the East, where the fall landscape becomes colorful with reds, yellows, and oranges, in the West color shows up in patches up on the hillside. Our first stop was for ice cream at Bridgeport, an old town on the east side of the Sierras. Then we went to Mono Lake, a place I’d wanted to see since reading Mark Twain’s Roughing It late that spring. It was one of several books I read in preparation to moving to Nevada for a year. While at the lake, we saw the unique geological monuments left behind by calcium springs when the water was higher and experienced the brine flies that cover the shoreline. Thankfully, they don’t bite. 

Mono Lake looking toward the Sierras. I took this photo in 2013

As the light began to fade, we headed to Lee Vining where I rented the last hotel room in the town. This older hotel had shared bathrooms, something I was surprised to find in America in the late 1980s.

The next morning, we rose early and drove over the Tioga Pass to Tuolumne Meadows on the backside of Yosemite. Most everything had closed for the season, so after hiking a bit, we had to head back to Lee Vining for lunch. 

After lunch, we drove to Bridgeport, turned east and drove 13 miles on mostly a gravelly wash boarded road. At one point, we crossed a ridge and Bodie stood in front of us with mountains rising behind the town. The town’s old woodened structures and the mill’s industrial complex sheltered under tin, appeared to rise out of the sagebrush. Coming into town, we saw only a few trees, cottonwoods and aspen, nestled in ravines which protected them from the strong winds. We parked, paid our entrance fee as Bodie is now a California State Park, and proceed to spend several hours walking around the old buildings.  

The road leading into Bodie. Parking is below the town and visitors must walk

Bodie shares a few things in common with Virginia City. Both areas were discovered in the late 1850s, just before American fell into the Civil War. But Bodie’s start was slower than the mines along the Comstock.  While Virginia City was remote, it was only 10 miles north of the Pony Express and the Overland Stagecoach route. Dayton, Mormon Station and Carson City, while small towns, were all close, while Bodie had only Bridgeport, which was not much more than a stage stop. And the Southern Sierras are higher and wider than the those around Carson City. So Bodie was harder to reach. 

Warning sign on road to Aurora r

However, 15 or 20 miles east of Bodie sits Aurora, Nevada. It’s discovery also occurred around the same time as Bodie. Aurora had higher grade of ore and in the early 1860s became very prosperous. One of its citizens in 1862, who learned how difficult mining came be, was Samuel Clemens. While in Aurora, he wrote a series of articles and mailed them to the Territorial Enterprise, a leading Nevada newspaper in Virginia City. This lead to a job which didn’t involve a pick or shovel and there, as a reporter, Clemens would begin to go by his nom-de-plume, Mark Twain. Sadly, lacking a high clearance 4-wheel drive vehicle, I never made it to Aurora. 

In addition to its isolation, Bodie sits at 8300 feet, two thousand feet higher than Virginia City. This is harsh territory.  While the Sierras capture much of the snow, it still snows here and there’s little protection from the bitter wind. It’s amazing to consider that once Bodie came into its own in the late 1870s, as Virginia City’s production declined, 10,000 people lived amongst these hills. In those early years, the town developed a mystic as a very violent place. Supposedly, one young girl whose family were leaving Virginia City for Bodie said, “Goodbye God, we’re moving to Bodie.” But such was the life early on in mining camps, which were mostly populated with men. 

Then, as with all mining towns, in the early-1880s, Bodie began to decline. But people continued to mine. In 1932, a young boy started a fire that burned a large portion of the town. Yet, even then, a few hung on, continuing to live and mine in Bodie until World War 2, when the government closed all gold mines as unnecessary for the war effort.  In time, the state of California inherited the town and in the early 1960s created a state park.  

While the state protects the town, private concerns own the rich hills to the south of the town. The mines were located here.. When I visited again in the spring and summer of 1989, I learned a Canadian mining company had its eyes on the potential ore in that hill. California no longer allowed cyanide leaching (a process to remove valuable metals like gold and silver from rock). To get around this, the company proposed to build a ten-mile-long conveyor. This would allow them to transport the ore to Nevada, where such operations are allowed. I don’t know what happened to such plans as California fought it. Such an operation with blasting and heavy equipment would be enough to destroy what’s left of Bodie. 

Bodie’s remaining mill

I would visit Bodie twice more during the year I lived on the Comstock. In late May, my parents visited. We took a two-night trip down to Bodie and stayed in a hotel in Lee Vining. While walking around the ghost town, it began to snow. This ddi not amuse my mother. I knew she didn’t care to share a bathroom with other guests at the hotel. I made reservations before leaving.

On this trip, we left Bodie and took another gravel road to the south, which came out at Mono Lake. Back in the day, train tracks ran down the cuts now used for the road. The train cut along the east side of Mono Lake, then headed into the hills south of the lake. There, east of Mammoth Lakes, a sizable forest consisting of Ponderosa and Jeffrey Pines grew. Lumbering operations cut the trees forr mining timbers, building lumber, and firewood. Kilns converted some of the wood into charcoal. The later found use in heading and in the milling process. The tracks never connected to another railroad and was only used to wood products.  Once the town declined, the train ceased to operate.

After a night in Lee Vining, we traveled over Tioga Pass, across Tuolumne Meadows which still had snow. We then headed down into Yosemite Valley where we spent the second night. The next day, we drove through some of the California mining areas on the western slope of the Sierras, before crossing back over on Sonora Pass and heading north back to Virginia City.

My third visit was late in June. Carolyn, whom I had been dating much of the year, and I took her daughters, Emma and Holly to Bodie and Mono Lake. We camped at Twin Lakes on the eastern slope of the Sierras, before spending the day exploring Bodie.

While I have been back to Mono Lake and over Tioga Pass several times since 1989, I haven’t gone back to Bodie. But I would like to see it again one day. Unlike Virginia City, Bodie is a true ghost town. You’re not allowed to stay there after dark, and the only residents are rangers working for the state. 

The photos were taken at different times. some were slides and others were prints. I have more photos somewhere!

More stories about my time on the Comstock:

Arriving in Virginia City, September 1988

David Henry Palmer arrives in Virginia City, 1863

Virginia City’s Muckers presents Thorton Wilder’s “Our Town”

Doug and Elvira

Matt and Virginia City

Driving West in ’88

Funerals on the Comstock Lode

Sunday afternoon drive to Gerlach 

Riding in the cab of a locomotive on the V&T

Christmas Eve

Easter Sunrise Services (a part of this article recalls Easter Sunrise Service in Virginia City in 1989)

The Revivals of A. B. Earle (an academic paper published in American Baptist Historical Society Quarterly. Earle spent several weeks in Virginia City in 1867)

Review of my January readings

Title page showing parts of the covers of the books I read in January 2026

I did a lot of reading in January thanks to the bitter cold temperatures…


Rick Atkinson, The British Are Coming: The War in American, Lexington to Princeton, 1775-1777

 (New York: Henry Holt, 2019), 776 pages including notes, sources, and index. Also included are maps and plates of photos.

This is the first of a planned trilogy by Rick Atkinson on the Revolutionary War.  The opening books covers the beginning of the war. He starts at the battles at Lexington and Concord, and continues through Washington’s surprising victories in late 1776 and 77,. This was Washington crossing the Delaware with his ill-prepared army on Christmas Eve, routing the British Hessian soldiers in Trenton. That winter, he eventually pushed the British back toward New York. A lot happened in these first two years. 

Atkinson not only provides the American point-of-view for the war, but also the British. He takes his readers inside debates in Parliament. We learn of King George’s thoughts on the war and the British empire. Not all Britains were in favor of the war. But some like the king felt if they lost the war, it would be an end to the British Empire (which was just beginning to grow).  

It’s been a long time since I studied much of the history of the war. While I knew of the battles around Boston, I didn’t realize just how successful the campaign was against a larger and more powerful foe. The British retreated and regrouped in Nova Scotia before moving south to New York. I also knew of our attempts to capture Quebec, I didn’t realize just how much effort the colonists put into this endeavor. While it ended in failure, the Canadian invasion served as a major offensive for a rag-tag army.  

Much of the war covered in this book, especially after Washington assumed command of the army, became an attempt to avoid major battles and to live to fight another day. Washington sensed this would be the best way to slowly wear down the British (and their German merceries). America even attempted novel ways of attacking the British including the first attempted use of a submarine. In a way, I found myself making a parallel to how Ukraine has held out against Russia since 2022. They must keep holding on as they wear down a larger Russian army. And, Ukraine has also utilized new technology to make the most of their smaller army.   

Atkinson also covers the early war in the South. I grew up near Moore’s Creek. This brief but important battle often gets left out of American history books, I appreciated Atkinson’s treatment on the engagement. Click here to read a talk I gave to the St. Andrew’s Society of Scotland on Moore’s Creek.

By the end of 1776, the colonists had lost New York and New Jersey andretreated beyond the Delaware River. Things looked desperate. At this time, most armies didn’t fight during winter. Washington, however, took a risk. He crossed back across the Delaware to attack the British soldiers (mostly German Hessians) on the opposite bank. He continued to press forward, winning small engagements and driving the British back to the Hudson River.  

I look forward to reading his next volume which deals with the middle years of the war.  This is a great book to read in 2026, as we celebrate our nation’s 250-year history.  


James Dodson, The Road that Made America: A Modern Pilgrim’s Journey on the Great Wagon Road 

(New York: Avid Reader Press, 2025), 396 pages.

The Great Wagon Road ran west from Philadelphia to central Pennsylvania where it turned south through Maryland and the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia and then crossing over the mountains and flanking the east side of the Blue Ridge south through North and South Carolina, ending in Augusta, Georgia. Daniel Boone’s father traveled this road to settle along the banks of the Yakin River in North Carolina. Daniel, a wanderlust like his father, would create a spur off the Great Wagon Road, the Wilderness Road, which ran through the Cumberland Gap into Kentucky. 

The Great Wagon Road brought many Scot-Irish and German immigrants into Virginia, the Carolinas, and Georgia. The Conestoga Wagon, the vehicle of choice in the 18th Century, was designed and built along this road. Many important battles in the Revolutionary War occurred on the eastern and southern ends of the road. The Civil War would see major battles along the western side of the road.

Dodson, a descendant of those who travelled the Great Wagon Road, sets out in an old station wagon to follow the road (Today, US 30 across Pennsylvania and US 11 through Virginia roughly follow the path). As he travels along the road over several years (as opposed to traveling from Philadelphia to Augusta in one trip), we learn about his relationship to the road and interesting things which occurred along it.  One young woman joked that he, an older man driving a station wagon, reminded her of Clark Griswold, a character played by Chevy Chase in the National Lampoon Vacation movies. 

In addition to his descendants having traveled this road, another experience drew Dodson to it. In college he had attended with his girlfriend, Kristin Cress, a Moravian Sunrise Service at Old Salem. A professor at Salem college told him about a nearby ford on the road. The young couple caught some of the excitement of the road. They planned to marry. But before they could, Kristin, a student at Appalachian State who worked in a restaurant, was killed at work during an armed robbery. Slowly, throughout the story, we learn more about Kristin. 

Dodson seems a bit odd to be writing a book about history and his experiences along the road. After all, much of his career involved reporting on golf. But he nicely blends his experiences and the history of the road. 

Not only does he explore the good parts of history, he also presents the shameful past such as the murder of the Conestoga Indians around Lancaster at the end of the French and Indian War. The Conestogas had signed a treaty with William Penn and had lived peacefully in a village. I found this hopeful at a time when our nation’s current administration orders the National Park Service to remove interpretation signs which they feel exposes shameful events in our past.  As he points out, “The past cannot be unremembered,”

Dodson spent time in his childhood in Roanoke, Virginia with his aunt Lily. As he stops in Big Lick, Roanoke’s original name, he recalls those times including attending with his aunt to an African American Church. On this trip, he visits 5thAvenue Presbyterian Church. There, Vernie Bolden, one of my fellow clergy members within the Presbytery of the Peaks, showed him around. One of the windows in 5th Avenue’s sanctuary, a historically black church, depicts Presbyterian and Confederate General Stonewall Jackson. As odd as this may seem, when the church was built in 1906, Jackson’s body servant during the Civil War, ‘Uncle’ Jeff Shields, spoke. Jackson also taught the parents of the pastor at that time, Reverend L.L. Downing, to read.  Dodson, however, acknowledges the racial problems in Roanoke, as it was one of the first cities in the south to establish Jim Crow laws. 

A year ago I read Neil King, Jr., An American Ramble. King’s walk from Washington DC to New York City, covers much of the early ground of Dodson’s travels, especially around Lancaster and York. Both write about the history of this area and of the two contemporary 19th Century bachelors: the abolitionist Thaddeus Stevens and President James Buchannan and their role leading up to the Civil War. Also, the Amish and Quaker’s fascinated both King and Dodson.  And both authors are willing to look at the noble and ignoble aspects of history. One difference is that King walked, which limited how far he could get from his path. Dodson, who drove, was able to enjoy things off the main road. 

I enjoyed this book. On a personal note, it’s possible the Garrisons came down the Great Wagon Road, as they settled south of Winston Salem. However, most of my ancestors came from the Scottish Highlands and settled in the Sandhills along the upper reaches of the Cape Fear River. And a few migrated into Virginia shortly after Jamestown and made their way south into North Carolina before the Revolutionary War.  

A couple of quotes:

“Better mind your P’s and Q’s, came from early taverns which sold beer as pints and quarts.” (324)

“Do you know how America was created. The English built the houses, the Germans built the barns, and the Scot Irish built the stills.” (379)


Robin Wall Kimmerer, The Serviceberry: Abundance and Reciprocity in the Natural

 (New York: Scribner, 2024), 113 pages.

In this short collection of essays, Kimmerer envisions a new way to approach community building. She bases her ideas on her study of nature, especially the serviceberry tree. As she did in her other two books, Gathering Moss and Braiding Sweetgrass, she draws on her background as a native American as well as her knowledge as a scientist. But essentially, in this work, Kimmerer writes as an economist, even though she denies knowing much about the science. Or maybe she mostly writes about community building, for that’s what she envisions.

Observing nature, especially serviceberries, she suggests we look for ways to change our local economics from one based on scarcity. In such an economy, money is made by exchange of items in demand, to a society based on reciprocity.  The Serviceberry freely gives of its fruit. The animals who live around it enjoy not just the abundance of berries but share the abundance with others. In addition, they also performing necessary deeds which strengthen the life of the host plant. 

While Kimmerer doesn’t suggest we can quickly do away with the supply and demand economics, she does create a vision for small scale changes of sharing which could help enrich the lives of the participants.  She makes her case while sharing personal stories along with her knowledge of the plant world. 

This is a delightful book and I recommend it. 


Sam Ragan, The Collected Poems of Sam Ragan 

(Laurinburg, NC: St. Andrews Press, 1990), 275 pages.

I have known of Sam Ragan, a former Poet Laureate of North Carolina, most of my life. He edited “The Pilot,” a newspaper in Moore County from 1969 to his death in 1996. While staying with my grandparents, I would read his newspaper and hear my grandmother talk about him. Then, later, for many years, thanks to my grandmother, I received his newspaper while living in New York and Utah. I supposed this was her way of keeping me grounded to the North Carolina Sandhills.

As far as I know, I only meet him once, at a poetry reading in Lincolnton, NC, on April Fool’s Day, 1984.  I purchased two of his books and had him sign both. One I gave to Flora Abernethy, my date for the event. I kept the other book (Journey into Morning), which he signed and dated for me. This is how I knew our meeting was on April 1st. This collection of poems contains all his published work. This is my second reading of these poems. 

Ragan’s poems often draw from a glimpse of life which he captures in a few words. His words are positive and uplifting, as he celebrates life. While he writes about other months, October and April seem to be his favorite. The breaking of morning is his favorite time of day. Most of these verses take place in North Carolina, especially the Sandhills which were settled by Highlanders from Scotland, about whom he has a bit to say.

In addition to the Sandhills, he makes an occasional foray down to the Coast or to Raleigh. We meet interesting characters. A teetotaler who only drinks every fourth year on election day. It’s his way of expressing his opinion.  Or the preacher whose church steps were taken over by bees, keeping people away. Taking a torch, he burned the bees then preached a hell-fire sermon.  And we learn wisdom of one of his fellow editors who insisted the “function of a newspaper is ‘to print the news and raise hell.’” 

Ragan’s voice sounds best outdoors. The reader senses his love of flowers (azaleas and camellias for their beaty and lilacs for their fragrance).  He describes a storm moving through a grove of longleaf pines, and the birds seen in his garden during the seasons. The water’s edge often draws Ragan’s attention. He even named one of his books The Water’s Edge. 

This is an enjoyable collection, and I recommend it to anyone who enjoys poetry. 


cover of "We Must Be Brave"

Frances Liardet, We Must Be Brave 

(New York: G.P. Putman & Sons, 2019), 453 pages. Audible, 16 hours and 7 minutes. 

I’m not sure what drew me to this book when I saw it on an Audible two-for-one sale, but it sounded intriguing. I then picked up a copy at the library which allowed me to read some sections slower. I enjoyed the story which begins in 1940 Britain. Germany bombs the port city of Southampton. As the city burns, people flee to surrounding villages. Ellen and Selwyn Parr volunteer to help. On one bus, Ellen discovers Pamela, a young girl, asleep in a dirty blanket in the back. No one seems to know where her mother is at, but a few women seem to think she was on the bus before this one. Only later, they discovered she died in the bombings when a bomb struck the Crown Hotel. 

Ellen, who did not want children, takes Pamela and insists on keeping her. Unable to find any relationships who want the girl, she stays with the Parrs for the next four years. The book flashes back to Ellen’s troubled childhood and her meeting of Selwyn. She was 18 and he 39. Selwyn has his own story as he had been in the First World War. He’s now a miller in the village of Upton. Then, in the spring of 1944, as the Allies prepare to invade Europe, her father, who had been a navy surgeon, returns. Wounded, he lost the use of one hand, which ends his surgery career. Claiming Pamela, he sends his daughter to his sister in Ireland to raise. 

Pamela and Ellen correspond for a while, till her aunt in Ireland calls a halt to the exchanges. Pamela longs to return to England, even trying to run away. Ellen continues to write letters, but saves them. Then, in the 1970s, there is a flood. Ellen rescues a girl named Penny, from the flood and from her alcoholic mother (her father is with the military in Northern Ireland). In a way, the story repeats, but once Penny is older, she comes across Pamela who is a glass blower living in the American Southwest. She arranges a visit between Pamela and Ellen, who is 90 years old in 2010. 

This wonderful story centers on the love Ellen gives to both girls. It’s also a story about the heartbreak caused by the loss of children, which led me to post a story a few weeks ago about Becky, a foster daughter I’d hope would become an adopted daughter. Ellen was in her early 20s when she met Pamela and Pamela was over 70 when they were reunited. 

Not only is the story wonderful and I found myself caring about all the characters (and I left many characters out in my short synopsis),but Liardet’s writes beautifully. I love how she brings the senses into the story. You felt like you were in damp Southern England or the desert of the American Southwest.  She also includes some surprise twists, such as what happened to her real father. 

As one who doesn’t read a lot of fiction, I enjoyed this book and recommend it. 


The Ordeal

Last week I wrote about being “tapped out” for the Order of the Arrow. But, as I said at that time, before I would be received into membership of this group of honored campers, I had to pass an ordeal. This is the story of the ordeal.


Order of the Arrow memorabilia
Some of my saved Order of the Arrow memorabilia: bottom slash that I received at the ordeal (the top sash was when I was made a Brotherhood member. There is a membership card and both the lodge and camp neckerchiefs.

A few days after the ordeal, I sat at the kitchen table, scratching bug bites while telling Mom all I’d endured. I thought she’d be impressed with her macho 13-year-old son. I was mistaken. While I don’t recall if she used the word fool, but that was essentially what she called me for having allowed myself to endure a day of hard work on meager rations, without the ability to talk back. “You did all that for a patch and a white sash with a red arrow embroidered on it?” she asked. Mom had a way to put me in my place. She knocked me off the high I’d been riding since the ordeal. 

A few weekends after the tap-out, I was back at Camp Tom Upchurch for the ordeal. I didn’t know much about what to expect. In addition to our scout uniforms, they told us to bring work clothes, gloves, and sturdy shoes. As the camp was over two hours from my house, I rode up with other scouts. There were about thirty of us going through the ordeal. Mostly kids but also a few adult leaders, including Mr. Barrow. His son, Ricky, and I were in the same class for the three years I attended Bradley Creek Elementary School.  

After dinner in the dining hall, they told us to stow our gear and to report to the campfire circle with only a pocketknife, a poncho, and a blanket. We knew we’d be spending the night in the woods, so we all doused ourselves with bug spray before heading to the campfire. 

I don’t remember much of the mysterious ceremony. When we arrived, older scouts, dressed like Plains Indians, and already members of the Order of the Arrow greeted us. Someone shot a flaming arrow into the lake. Then the Chief reappeared. He instructed us as to the ordeal we faced. We would spend the night alone in the woods. They required us to maintain silence for the next 24 hours. And, by morning, we needed to carve an arrow to wear around our neck. If we talked, a notch would be made in our arrow. If we received three notches, our arrow would be broken, and we would fail the ordeal. I had worried about this ever since the tap-out ceremony. .

After giving us our instruction, they lined us up. In our left-hand we carried our poncho and blanket. We placed our right hands upon the shoulder of the scout in front of us. In front and back of the line Indian braves carried torches. We were led down a two-track road toward the rifle range. To the right of the road, the land rose, covered by pines and wire grass. To the left, the land slopped into a swamp, with thick vegetation. As we moved down the road, I could hear people running around behind me. Then, the guy behind me dropped his hand from my shoulder and I felt him whisked away. I was next. 

Two braves grabbed me and led me to the left, down toward the swamp. They sat me in a dry spot and told me they’d be back in the morning. It was a moonless night. I looked at the stars as I listened to the mosquitos’ buzz and the frogs sing. Lightning flashed in the distance, but thankfully, the storm missed us. I thought about carving the arrow, but decided it wasn’t a bright idea to carve in the dark, so I spread out my poncho and wrapped myself in my scratchy wool blanket in an attempt avoid the mosquitoes. Surprisingly, I quickly fell asleep.

Something moved nearby, waking me up. “Was it an animal?” I worried. I opened the blade of my pocketknife and laid still, clutching the knife and looking around. My eyes had become somewhat adjusted, but the vegetation was so thick that I couldn’t make out what it was. Then a twig snapped and I turned and saw another scout, testing branches, obviously trying to find wood for his arrow. We looked at each other but didn’t speak and, in the darkness, I couldn’t recognize him. His placement was about fifty feet behind me,. Without saying a word, he walked back back to where his poncho and blanket were lying. 

Lying back down, I watched the stars and battled the mosquitoes for a few minutes. The bug repellant was no longer working. I rolled up in my blanket and, despite the heat and bugs, somehow fell back asleep.

When I woke the next time, the stars had faded away and there was enough light that I could orient myself. Mosquitoes were still buzzing. I knew I needed to carve and arrow before they came to retrieve us, so I looked around for suitable wood. Nearby, I found an old stump from a longleaf pine, its inners filled with lighter wood. I broke off a chunk and began to work shape it in the form of an arrow that was approximately four inches long. Such wood splits easily and has a nice sheen from the resin it contains, but the wood is hard and therefore difficult to carve. I worked with it and even though my arrow wasn’t the best looking one in camp, it had a nice rich golden color and, because of the way the wood splits, was probably the sharpest arrow around. This wasn’t a particularly good thing since the arrow had to dangle from my neck. 

I barely had enough time to fashion the arrow before being rousted up and led with others to the main part of camp. They sat us down under a tree beside the dining hall, handing us a carton of milk and a fried egg between two pieces of white bread for breakfast. We sat for the longest time and after eating. I shaped my stick into a more presentable arrow between scratching mosquito bites. Then, they assigned to work groups. As the smallest kid in the group, my fate was to be assigned to the group with the toughest task.

Our taskmaster had our group jump in the back of a truck and drove us to a sandpit beyond the rifle range. Today, they wouldn’t be allowed to haul us in the back of a truck, but this was 1970. They assigned us the task of loading sand onto the bed of a truck and hauling it to the waterfront to fill several gullies. Another group constructed dams in these gullies to help hold the sand in place. As the morning wore on and the sun rose higher, the temperature climbed. We kept making signs of wanting water to our taskmaster, an older and sadistic scout who was probably sixteen as he could drive the truck. He kept saying we’d have a water break later and pushed up hard. At least mosquitoes left us alone in the sun. 

When he finally did let us drink, we gulped water down at an unhealthy rate. Several guys got sick. After a morning of hauling sand, we were led back to the same site where we’d eaten breakfast for our lunch. Large containers of bug juice (watered-down Kool-Aid) sat on a table, and we could drink all we wanted. For lunch, they provided us a bologna sandwich. As it was with the egg at breakfast, this consisted of a slice of bologna between two pieces of white bread. Mustard, mayonnaise, and cheese were not an option. I ate my sandwich hurriedly and laid down, closing my eyes knowing that before too long, I’d be back working a shovel.

That afternoon, our taskmaster continued to be stingy with the water breaks. At one point several of us got so thirsty when unloading the sand into the ravines by the lake, we ran out into the water and wet our shirts as well as cupped out hands and gulped water lake water. Later, our task master stopped the truck at the camp trading post and brought himself a coke with ice. He drank it in front of us, making slurping sounds and then poured the ice out on the ground, taunting us while trying to get us to talk. An adult leader observed his stunt and called out taskmaster over for a serious conversation. I don’t know what he said, but afterwards, our taskmaster provided frequent water breaks and no more hazing. 

Our afternoon ended at about 4 PM. We remained silent. They told us to clean up and to report back to the dining hall at 6 PM in uniform. We showered, first with water, then with calamine lotion. Dressed, I spent a hour resting, waiting for the bugle to call for dinner. 

We gathered at the dining hall filled with memorabilia left behind by camp staff members going back into the 1940s. Paddles, banners, and flags hung from the rafters, one for each year. Each piece memorized the names of the staff members. As we entered, each table contained platters and bowls of food and pitchers of water, bug juice, and iced tea. 

After a scant breakfast and lunch, this was a feast. Fried chicken, mash potatoes, vegetables, freshly baked yeast rolls, and chocolate cake. Still, we could not talk,. This was okay as we were famished . We stuffed our mouths with a seemingly unlimited amount of food, some of the best I’d ever eaten. 

Thinking back, much of what happened after dinner is now a blur. Exhausted, it was a long ceremony. We were again led out into the woods in a single file, with a hand on the scout in front of us, to a secret fire ring located deep in the swamps. When we arrived, a fire blazed.  Behind the flames stood the Chief. He welcomed us, had us sit down and told us the legend of the Order of the Arrow. He then gave us a secret sign and handshake, and presented sashes, a patch, a pocket ribbon with a small pewter arrow, and a neckerchief. We’d passed the ordeal. 

I was proud I endured the ordeal without a single notch in my arrow. However, I can’t say that I didn’t talk during the day, we just made sure we talked away from the taskmasters and others in charge of the ordeal. After the ceremony, we all made our way back to the dining hall where a cracker barrel was waiting. No longer on silence, we talked about our experience as we ate crackers with cheese and sausage and drank plenty of bug juice. I was now an Arrowman. 

Exhausted, we headed to bed around 11 PM. I would be on a high for the next several days, until that morning when I told my mother about my experience. 


Camp Tom Upchurch would close in 1974. For several years, the Cape Fear Council used camps from other councils until 1981, when Camp Bowers opened. For a history of the Council with Lodge history on the sidebar, click here. The Order of the Arrow was based on the Delaware tribe of Native Americans. Interestingly, the name of the lodge, Klahican, supposedly means “Venus Fly Trap” in the language of the Delaware trip. I find that suspicious as the Venus Fly Traps only grows in three counties in Southeast North Carolina and one county in Northeast South Carolina. They would have been unknown in Delaware!

Order of the Arrow Tap Out

Order of the Arrow tappet
Camp Tom Upchurch patch

Wednesday night campfire at Camp Tom Upchurch in Hope Mills was the highlight of the week. Families gathered with their scouts. On this night, my grandparents had driven over from Pinehurst, which was a lot closer than my parents coming up from Wilmington. Grandma brought a picnic dinner consisting of fried chicken, rolls, potato salad, fresh tomatoes, deviled eggs, and a jug of ice tea. We all devoured the food which was a welcome relief from that they served in the dining hall.

About an hour before dark, a bugle called us to the campfire circle. We sat on wooden benches, the scouts in front, each troop sitting together, with family members sitting behind. The campfire circle was really a semi-circle which faced the lake, with two fire pits between the benches and the water. The air was still, warm and humid, when we arrived. Mosquitoes buzzed and, in the distance, we could hear the roll of thunder. Or maybe it was artillery from Fort Bragg, which wasn’t far away. Be prepared was our motto and we all carried ponchos and had doused ourselves with some deet-ladened insect repellant. 

As soon as everyone found a seat, a staff member dressed as an Indian warrior from the Plains called down the fire. Arrows flew into each pit, igniting the wood. It seemed a miracle, but it really as the church camp song goes, “it only takes a spark to get a fire going.”  This is especially true when the wood has been soaked with some kind of petroleum products. With the fires burned brightly as we sang songs, watched corny skits and listened to stories. As the light drained from the sky, a chorus of frogs threatened to drown us out. When it was finally dark, the mood became somber, and we sang the song of the voyageurs. 

Our paddles keen and bright, flashing like silver; swift as the wild goose flight, dip, dip, and swing.
Dip, dip, and swing them back, flashing like silver; swift as the wild goose flight, dip, dip and swing.

Repeatedly, we sang the song, each time softer. Soon, we whispered the words and could hear fish jump in lily pads near the water’s edge. We started another round and then he appeared. In the middle of the lake the chief stood in a canoe, his arms folded across his chest, a full bonnet of feathers surrounding his head and hanging down his back. A lantern sitting in the bottom of the canoe illuminated him as two other scouts, dressed as braves, paddled quietly. We watched in awe. The canoe beached and several other staff members, dressed as Native Americans, joined the canoe at the show to help the chief out of the boat. 

A distant drum began to beat as the warriors danced around the dying flames. Then the Chief joined in, dancing across the front and then up into the benches where he crossed back and forth in front of the sitting scouts, just inches away. We sat, entranced. When he came to me, he stopped, turned, slapped my shoulders, and then lifted me up. Before I comprehended what was happening, happening, one of the braves whisked me to the front. He had me stand by the fire, with my arms crossed over my chest. Several other scouts soon joined me. After a while, the Chief led us away as the campfire closed with the singing of the scout vespers.

Softly falls the light of day, as our campfire fades away. Silently each Scout should ask, “Have I done my daily task? Have I kept my honor bright? Can I guiltless sleep tonight? Have I done and have I dared, everything to be prepared?”

I had just been tapped out for the Order of the Arrow, the brotherhood of honored campers. That night, the Chief told us we’d been elected by our peers to be a part of this elite fellowship, but before we would be welcomed into the group, we’d have to pass an ordeal scheduled later in the summer. I was excited, yet nervous about what I’d have to endure. I’d heard about the ordeals: a night alone in the woods, a day of little food, hard work and silence.

When he told us we could go back to our troops, I set out to find my grandparents. I could tell they were proud of me. Granddaddy asked me to walk with them to their car and once we got there, I spied on the floorboard of the back seat, one each side of the drive train hump, two watermelons. Granddaddy gave me one and he took the other and we walked over to our troop site. My grandma carried a butcher knife and a saltshaker. She cut up the melons on a picnic table in the center of our campsite, sprinkled salt on them, and gave everyone a thick wedge. I sure the watermelons came from Coy McKenzie’s farm. Coy was grandma’s nephew. In addition to growing and curing some of the best bright-leaf tobacco in the county, he was well-known for his watermelon patch.

Klahican Lodge Order of the Arrow patch