Camping Atop Half Dome
Once Upon A Time...
I camped atop Half Dome in Yosemite National Park. It was September of 1977. Three of us.
It's the only time I have ever been to the top of Half Dome - and It was also the last. I have no plans of climbing back up there ever again - even with two new hips.
It was 1977. I was 25. Invincible. I smoked too much, drank too much, and took too many illicit drugs. Perfect time to camp at 8850 feet above sea level. To be fair, it was only 1800 feet higher than where I lived at Tahoe, but still...
We had to bring everything - water, food, cigarettes, alcohol - hard liquor because beer weighed too much - tent, sleeping bags... I was 25. Invincible.
Only a couple other folks were camping while we were up there - it wasn't the madness that it is, today. In fact, overnight camping is prohibited, nowadays - too much shit - literally - left behind. I honestly don't recall the bodily function issues, but we did pee off the edge. I can't believe I stood at the edge of half dome and peed! I'm breaking out in a cold sweat just thinking of it! Invincible, indeed.
The top isn't really big and it's not exactly flat - it's kinda wavy-ish - but you won't roll off the edge in your sleep.
It is difficult to describe the beauty. You literally are siting on top of the world. It is simply spectacular. At night - the sky. We don't see stars, anymore - light pollution from the cities is drowning them out. But on top of half dome, that's all there were - forever and ever and ever. It was even clearer than Tahoe or the Desolation Wilderness. And quiet. We had the perfect crystal clear night.
I do not recall the climb up being overly difficult - remember, I was 25 - but it was long. Really long. And hiking down was much more difficult that hiking up.
It's one of the most beautiful places on earth.
From Russia, With Love
Sometime back in the early '90s I got a melamine tray from my Uncle Gene who was living in Hawai’i - I was visiting him for a week of fun-in-the-sun.
It was a reproduction of a mural by Eugene Savage who had been commissioned to create nine of them for the Matson Steamship Line pre-WWII. Matson pretty much had the monopoly on ship traffic from California to Hawai'i back in the day. I know my great aunts took the trip several times.
Although the murals were completed, the war broke out and they were never installed on the ships - the ships were used as troop transports. After the war, styles were changing, so reproductions of them were eventually used as used as keepsake menu covers for the SS Lurline – the flagship of the Matson Line.
The tray may cost him ten bucks - if that. It wasn’t valuable, just decorative.
For years, the tray sat downstairs in the basement collecting dust until one day I brought it to work with some cookies. It then sat at work until one day when I used it at the demo counter. I kinda kept thinking I would bring it home, and I kinda never did.
A regular customer came in and asked where we had gotten the tray. Andrey is from Russia, tall, dark hair, quiet, and a very genuine person. We’ve chatted in the past, he’s married to a really nice woman - Irinia - and he's just a really nice guy. He knew of Eugene Savage and liked his work.
He said if I ever wanted to part with it, he would love to buy it. I smiled, said it wasn’t for sale, he said okay, and off he went to the cashier.
So… a minute later, I’m looking at the tray thinking it’s doing me no good, I don’t have any place at home for it, and if I leave it at work it’s eventually going to fall apart.
He was still at the register so I brought it over and gave it to him.
He was quite taken aback. He wanted to pay for it and I just said no - it's yours. Enjoy it. I tend to cash in Karma points quicker than I can receive them - banking a few is never a bad idea. He thanked me profusely and left with a huge smile on his face.
The Sunday Before Christmas, he and his wife came in with a shopping bag. In it, he said, were the things every Russian family has at Christmas!
First up, was a bottle of a carbonated beverage called Kvass Ochakovskiy. It is made from rye bread and is naturally fermented. It's a really refreshing sweet and sour beverage with a minimal - 1.5% - alcohol content.
Then there was a huge jar of pickled tomatoes and pickles – from Bulgaria! He said the best pickles in Russia come from Bulgaria. We laughed. Next was a hunk of halva. Sesame and honey… And a can of smoked sprats from the Baltic Sea. Sprats are small fish and contains long-chained polyunsaturated fatty acids. The little blighters are actually good for you! And they were amazing!
Finally, there was a Poppy Seed Rillet – a poppy seed pastry roll. Andrey said he hoped I didn’t have to take any drug rests soon!
I think it's really important to note that people are not their governments. Andrey was certainly not a Putin, and I am certainly not a Trump. Immigrants coming into the US are not evil - they're just people trying to build a better life. Just as our ancestors did.
A bit of druzhba because of a plastic tray...
Buried in the Sand
The actual story doesn’t quite reflect the newspaper version…
In 1957, my parents were renting a house on 19th Avenue in the city. In March of 1957 there was an earthquake that caused some damage to the place. It was lathe and plaster construction and a lot of the plaster had cracked and crumbled – especially in the downstairs entry.
In May – a mere 2 months later – my mom gave birth to twin girls – children numbers 4 and 5. We had outgrown the house.
My father had been in the Fire Department for about three years at this point – steady income, albeit not the highest salary for someone running into burning buildings on a daily basis – their salaries were dependent on the whim of the voters – and San Francisco voters were notoriously cheap when it came to their public service employees.
In July of 1957 using his WWII GI Bill, they bought a bouse in South San Francisco – on the street leading up to Sign Hill Park on the south side of San Bruno Mountain where “South San Francisco The Industrial City” is spelled out in white painted concrete letters. It was the model home for the development.
My father was driving back and forth with loaded trailers from old home to new while my mom was upstairs packing and dealing with 5 kids all under 8 years of age. She sent my bother and me out to the backyard to get us out of her hair while she dealt with my 4 year old and 2-month old sisters – and packed more stuff.
We decided to dig a hole – probably to China – who knows… we were kids. Mike had me keep getting in the hole to see how deep it was. It was up to about my shoulders when he started filling it in.
Being that we had been digging in sand, it was compacting around me. The more I tried to move, the tighter it got. I started crying and Mike got scared. My mother heard the ruckus and saw what we were up to. She ran down to try and get me out. The old woman who lived behind us heard the cries and came over to help – by putting a ladder up against the fence, sitting on the top of the fence, and then lifting the ladder over to climb down into our yard. Pretty impressive!
They were having no luck and I was crying like a kid buried in the sand up to my neck. They called the Fire Department.
Fortunately, the closest station was only a few blocks away, and San Francisco’s Finest were there to rescue me – digging out from several feet away to keep the sand from compacting even more. Even though my head was above the ground, the sand was compacting around my diaphragm. It would have eventually suffocated me.
I was saved, no one was spanked or punished, and we spent the night in our new home.
Alas, that home only lasted a year. City Employees were required to live IN the city back in those days. Pop got caught, and they had to sell the house and move back or lose his SFFD job.