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REAR VIEW - Volume II
By Jerry R. Kyle
Introduction
Rear View Vol. I was written to provide an autobiographical resume of my family
background and some of the more eventful and influential events in my life, from birth
to the end of WWII, plus some occasional accounts of activities and situations that I
hoped the reader might find of interest. The book did that reasonably well, I think, and
some of the readers of that volume have suggested that I continue with Volume II to
bring more closure to my life’s history.
I should mention that at my advanced age, like most of my peers, my memory of the
specific dates and details of events of long ago, covering in this case a span of 55 years in
Vol.II, is not 100% perfect. In the previous volume I had the incomparable advantage of
voluminous collections of saved letters from and to my parents and Carol. But after that
book ended, when I became 30 years old and settled down as a well domesticated
husband, the letter volume diminished considerably, and what there was of it was not
retained as it had been in earlier days. The obvious moral here is if you contemplate ever
writing an autobiography, keep a diary! But I will do my best, and here we go.
****
WYOMING
Chapter I: Lander (1945-1946)
Volume I ended with my transition to civilian life on October 16, 1945. I had
contemplated a career as an airline pilot and had obtained a commercial pilot license for
that purpose, but Carol convinced me (wisely) that returning to my profession as a
geologist would provide more family stability and less competition by the thousands of
WWII-trained pilots who would also be job hunting in that category. So I reactivated my
employee status with the Carter Oil company, spent about a month in Wisconsin with
Carol until shortly after she had given birth to our baby boy Jerry Michael on November
6th, and then I left for my new Carter assignment in their office in Lander, Wyoming. I
was fortunate in being able to rent a lovely genuine log cabin of modest size in a
convenient location at the north end of the town’s main street. So Carol and the baby
soon joined me and we began our first experience in married civilian life.
Our year in Lander was a happy time for us. We were still emotionally honeymooners
and had the pleasurable presence of our brand new baby boy. In addition we were very
enchanted with the western culture environment and scenery in Wyoming, which were so
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different from that we had experienced most of our lives inWisconsin. Lander, which is
30 miles southeast of the center of the west half of Wyoming, was (probably still is) a
classically western town of (then) about 2,000 or so population, in the eastern foothills of
the impressive Wind River Mountains. Wyoming is full of similar spectacular mountain
ranges such as the magnificent Grand Tetons, and the Wind River chain is one of the
best. It has nine peaks over 13,000 feet in elevation, including Wyoming’s highest at
13,785 feet above sea level.
We also found Wyoming to be replete with other scenic attractions within convenient
touring distance from Lander,-- Yellowstone Park, Devil’s Tower National Monument,
Flaming Gorge, Fossil Butte National Monument, and numerous national forests and
state parks populated with abundant wildlife. Yellowstone Park, incidentally, was the
world’s first national park, established by Congress in 1872, 18 years before Wyoming
became a state in 1890.
Other interesting attractions were the endless number of rodeos, western culture
celebrations, Indian festivities, etc. Most of the Lander citizens made a point of meeting
and welcoming newcomers, and our social life was informal and plentiful. And we
enjoyed visiting the numerous historical points of interest ,-- forts built in post-Civil War
days for the protection of incoming wagon trains and settlers, graves of prominent
Shoshone Indians, etc. A notable one of the latter is the grave near Fort Washakie (fifteen
miles northwest of Lander) of Sacajawea, the famous Shoshone girl guide and heroine of
the Lewis and Clark Expedition of 1805, whose sculptured face now appears on the U.S.
Mint’s new golden-colored dollar coins.
At the time of our stay Wyoming was next to last in the population density of U.S.
states,-- about 2.5 residents per square mile statewide including urban centers. This
statistic has now approximately doubled to about 5 per square mile, largely due to the
increases in a few of the major cities; nevertheless, the state is now last in population
with a total of about 490,000.Except for the adverse effect of the annual influx of tourists,
such wide open spaces have many commendable advantages, such as minimal amounts of
highway congestion, easier access to the many scenic attractions, and the preservation of
the area’s great variety of wildlife.And Wyoming usually has a very invigorating climate.
****
My geologic duties in Lander were very interesting and enjoyable. I continued my
specialty of photogeology, as I had been doing in the Williston Basin of Montana and
the Dakotas prior to WWII, using aerial photos purchased from the federal government
that had been flown by various agencies for various purposes (except geology!). When
from my studies I occasionally found surface rock patterns suggestive of buried rock
structures that might be oil productive, I was assigned to do field work attempting to
confirm on the ground my photogeologic analysis. I was pleased that several of the
prospects I thus delineated were subseqently leased by Carter while I was there, and a
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“wildcat” (exploratory well ) drilled on one during my stay in Lander was an oil
discovery.
Lander was one of several Rocky Mountain area “District” offices, supervised by the
“Division” office in Denver (one of several in the U.S. which reported to Carter
headquarters in Tulsa). Lander’s District Geologist was an affable middle-aged fellow
named George Downs who, with charming wife Marion, were the gracious host and
hostess for enjoyable social activities and dinners they frequently gave for the six or eight
employees who comprised the Carter’s Lander office staff. One of George’s stunts at his
Christmas parties,--after he’d had several samples of his high octane eggnog--, was to go
to another room, away from guests, where he’d sharpen six or eight wooden matches and
stick them in his bald scalp. He’d light them and return to the party room aglow, singing
“Oh tannen baum, oh tannen baum!”,--his favorite Christmas tree song in German.
Another staff member with whom I worked frequently was Wilbur Holland, a
friendly soft-spoken field geologist with a personable wife named Ada with whom Carol
and I frequently exchanged informal suppers. And a third couple with whom we
socialized most frequently were the Sharkeys, Henry (Hank) and Billie. Hank, like
myself, was a geologist and a recent retiree from the military service, and coincidentally
the Sharkeys had a baby girl almost the same age as our Jerry Michael. We often
deposited them both in the same crib when we adults had dinner together, and both babies
took quite a shine to each other. As we realized in later years, this was a forerunner of
J.M.’s adult interest in the opposite sex, which we of course realized and approved of.
Since many of the areas we prospected were quite remote desert locations or in noroad rugged mountain terrain accessible only by foot, geologists usually did field work
in pairs so as to provide mutual assistance in case of any trouble. Wilbur and I luckily
were mostly trouble-free. On one occasion Wilbur and I had to hike several miles in an
untraveled part of the Wind River mountain boondocks, and an interesting happening
occurred. Wilbur was traversing one side of a river canyon, and I was on the other. The
footing was rather treacherous and as I crawled past a large pile of boulders I almost
stepped on a buffalo skull! It was remarkably well preserved, with horns intact and a fair
number of upper teeth still in place. Needless to say, I was quite thrilled, and knew it
would make an attractive and unusual decoration hung over the door of our Lander log
cabin. When I lifted it, however, I was surprised how heavy it was, and the prospect of
carrying it several miles over rough terrain back to our car was a rather sobering thought.
I decided the best solution was to get help from Wilbur and agree to share it with him
on some alternating time schedule as a house or yard decoration . I managed to lug it to
the mouth of the canyon where we were together again, and proudly displayed my
discovery. But when I offered to share it with him if he would share the transportation
effort back to our car, he laughed and shook his head. “It’s all yours!” he said, “Ada
would never let me hang that fossil anywhere. Besides, I already have a heavy load of
rock samples in my tote bag to take back for analysis. Thanks, but no thanks!” So with
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considerable effort, sweat, and unkind thoughts about Wilbur, I finally hauled it back to
the car and finally to our Lander home. I discovered then that Carol felt the same as
Wilbur thought Ada would, so I had to store it and move it numerous times from attic to
attic in the succession of houses Carol and I lived in until I could finally hang it in our
Colorado cabin home.
Another interesting experience occurred when Hank and I were inspecting a geologic
feature in a rocky prairie area east of Lander. It was a midsummer day, unusually warm,
and Hank and I had hiked quite a way through the cactus and sage brush. So when we
came to a dry creek bed with a rock ledge on one side that offered a bit of shade, we
decided to sit beside it and do some map-checking. We were there about 10 or 15 minutes
when we suddenly heard a faint drumming noise behind us. I peeked over the top of the
rock ledge and was surprised to see about a dozen or so antelope about a quarter mile
away racing toward us, probably spooked by wolves or coyotes. I ducked down beside
Hank, told him what I’d seen and suggested we sit tight with our backs against the rock
ledge where the antelope wouldn’t see us. Suddenly, to our amazement and excitement
we saw antelopes leaping over our heads about two or three feet above us, several at a
time, landing on the far side of the creek bed and frantically continuing their flight in the
same direction. I don’t suppose they saw us until they were in midair, which doubtlessly
frightened them as much as it did us. After the herd had finally passed overhead, Hank
and I collapsed in laughter, slapping each other’s back, and excitedly discussing what we
were pretty sure was an experience not many people had ever had,--getting run over by a
herd of antelope!
Camping in the Wind River Mountains was a popular pastime with Carol and me,
accompanied by Jerry M. We always avoided established camp grounds, preferring to
select our own amidst the aspen forests where the presence of abundant wildlife
(including bears!) was a stimulating and enjoyable feature. A favorite spot was in the
mountain foothills near Dubois (about 75 miles northwest of Lander) where an interesting
point was topography that formed a divide between the waters of the Mississippi River,
the Columbia River, and the Colorado River. It was here we had a rather unique
experience. One morning, while I built a campfire for morning coffee and breakfast, I
asked Carol to bring some water from a nearby stream. She returned shortly, wide-eyed,
and said, “There’s a moose there!” I said, “You mean mouse?” She said “Come see!” I
did and was astounded that there was indeed a huge moose standing unperturbed by our
presence, across the creek not more than 30 or 40 feet from us. We must have been some
of the first humans he’d ever seen, since he was as interested in us as we were in him.
****
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Chapter II: Rawlins (1946-1948)
Another Carter District Office was located in the city of Rawlins, then a city of about
5 or 6 thousand inhabitants in south-central Wyoming. It was on U.S. highway #80, a
major thoroughfare across Wyoming near the Colorado border, which was paralleled all
the way by the adjoining Union Pacific railroad. But the only convenient access from
Lander was an auto trip of 125 miles on U.S. highway 287 south through some relatively
uninhabited hilly and barren terrain.
While still in Lander I became frequently assigned to temporarily assist the Rawlins
geological staff in prospecting projects where my photogeological expertise might be
useful. I drove to and from these assignments, which were usually for 2 or 3 days, in our
old LaSalle (the yellow sexy convertible I’d bought in Tulsa in 1940), and occasionally I
had Carol accompany me in order to give her a broader look at Wyoming’s environmental variety and Carter personnel. We stayed in motels, and Carol usually used live-in
baby sitters in Lander for Jerry M. But two or three times she thought he had matured
sufficiently to bring him with us on what had been promised to be only 2-day visits. In
anticipation of more of these inter-town trips she decided to equip the car for possible
emergencies enroute in such an inhospitable environment during winter weather.
The LaSalle was a front-seat-only convertible that had an open-air rumble seat in the
rear. This was adequate for two extra passengers in mild weather but not very useful as
such in winter weather in Wyoming. So Carol used it as a trunk, loading it to capacity
with an extensive assortment of blankets, thermos jugs of water, and canned food, of
which a large quantity was a voluminous supply of tuna. The LaSalle’s heater had quit
working, and the repair job’s cost (about $30, as I remember) seemed rather expensive
for our budget, so Carol acquired a small gasoline camper’s stove for possible use on the
car floor in case we became stalled for any length of time. I questioned the safety of such
a use, but Carol emphatically argued that using it in a wintery environment under
emergency conditions was somewhat less risky than the possibility of any of us freezing
to death if marooned on the highway. So the heater was loaded into the rumble seat
compartment together with the other supplies,-- none of which, fortunately, we ever had
to use!
We enjoyed life in Lander, and hoped the assignment there would be fairly long
lasting. But in August of l946, about nine months after we’d settled in Lander, we were
advised, to our considerable disappointment, that Carter wanted us moved to their district
office in Rawlins. Rawlins, being at least three times larger than Lander, of course had
more advantages than Lander, such as shopping facilities, restaurants, movies, etc. But it
was on a barren plateau at about 7,000 feet elevation, with a seemingly permanent
vigorous west wind. The Union Pacific railroad and associated facilities extended along
the west border of town, and the wind constantly blew quantities of the rail tracks’
cinders into all portions of Rawlins. Walking in the streets facing the wind was always an
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eye-filling experience, and I suspected that there was more eyewash sold per capita in
Rawlins than anywhere else in the U.S. It did not sound to us like a great place to live.
But in those days the employees of most major companies had few options but to go
where told or resign, so we moved to Rawlins and were able to rent adequate living
quarters in a second floor apartment at 217 E. Buffalo. The location was only six or eight
blocks from Carter’s downtown office, in convenient walking distance, so we were able
to store the LaSalle for most of the time in an enclosed garage that came with the rental
of the apartment.The plus side of the move, of course, was that I no longer had to make
frequent tedious trips to and from Lander, leaving Carol and J.M. home alone for a few
days at a time.
I once sprained an ankle descending our second floor apartment stairs. Walking was a
bit of a problem and a friend had loaned me a cane which helped my hikes to the office.
On one occasion I was using both cane and my dark aviator-type sunglasses as a screen
against the blowing cinders, and when I stopped at a street intersection waiting for the
light to change, a young boy approached, took my arm, and said, “May I help you across,
sir?” I almost started to laugh, but I suddenly thought maybe the kid was a boy scout and
could get a brownie point credit, so I said OK , let him lead me across, and thanked him.
My geologic function in Rawlins was the same as in Lander only moreso since there
was much competitive exploration and leasing activity being done by other companies in
the newly prospective vast semi-desert country west of Rawlins. The Carter staff was
larger than at Lander, including in addition to more geologists a couple of landmen
(lease buyers to acquire acreage on prospects outlined by the geologists) and a scout
(whose function was to keep track of the locations and status of competitive company’s
exploration activities). The District Geologist in charge of Rawlins operations was Larry
Hart who did a good job of coordinating and directing our prospecting efforts.
One of the landmen in Rawlins was an enjoyable fellow my age named Phil Willhite,
who with wife Joan were two of our primary social partners. Another couple was
geologist George Ashland and wife. A frequent Saturday’s activity for the men was an
afternoon rabbit hunt in the sagebrush areas around Rawlins, when the hunters would
usually manage to shoot two or three jackrabbits. Killing animals never appealed to me as
a sport, but I was always invited as an observer. Ashland usually took the game home
with him to prepare for cooking, for which he never seemed quite ready until our rather
extended “happy hour” (wives included) had been under way for some time, which
usually lasted until close to midnight. He did a good job of it though, and he was always
proud of what he termed “bunny gravy”. Baby sitters for those late night events were in
very short supply, particularly on Saturday nights, so Carol had obtained a portable crib
which we usually kept in either Ashland’s or Willhite’s quarters, in which Jerry M. was
established during our festivities and late meals.On one such occasion at Ashland’s abode
a week or so before Christmas the subject of Christmas trees came up. I said that in
Wisconsin I had always been able to cut my own in the extensive pine forests a short
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distance from my home in Downsville, and I greatly regretted the absence of such
opportunities in Rawlins.
“That’s possible here,”said Phil.
“I haven’t seen any pine trees within 50 miles of Rawlins!” I replied.
“If I showed you where would you cut one? Now, tonight?”
I sensed the possibility of some trickery, but it was about 11 p.m. and we both had by
then imbibed enough to feel no pain, so I said, “Sure! Where?”
“I’d hate to take you”, said Phil, “ and have you back out. Is it worth a couple bucks
penalty if you do?” “Sure,” I said, “let’s go.”
Phil specified that I take my car, told the rest of the gang we’d be back shortly, and off
we went. After obtaining an axe and saw at his place, Phil directed me to an edge of town
I hadn’t been in before. About a half mile beyond the residential limits I could, in the
dark night, vaguely perceive a long and high concrete wall with tower-like structures
appearing beyond the wall near the corners.
“Turn here,”said Phil, and he directed me onto a long straight paved road leading
toward the wall. “Why?” I asked , “I can’t see any pines up that way.”.
“Go on,--you’ll see some.” I proceeded, and as we approached it, it finally dawned on
me what the wall was. “Phil, isn’t that the state penitentiary?” (I’d heard that there was
one near Rawlins but had never been near it.)
“Yeh,” said Phil, “Now can you see the trees?”
Yes, now I could. In front of the wall was a long line of small spruce trees, five or six
feet high and about 20 feet apart. “Phil, you crazy idiot! What in hell we doing here? You
think I’m going to cut one of those?”
“Sure. They’ll never miss one. Those guard towers are on an inner wall, and any
guards, if awake, will be watching the inner courtyard. They’ll never hear us or see us.”
The argumentative discussion which followed was the product of too many toddies by
both of us at Ashland’s, and after Phil had finally adroitly challenged my courage, I
removed the saw, proceeded quietly and nervously to a spot distant from the car where I
thought I might not be very visible from a guard tower, and cut me a Christmas tree! I
rushed it back to the LaSalle, stuffed it into the rumble seat compartment, and we hightailed it back to Ashland’s where my dumb feat was the source of much laughter and
many alcoholic toasts. The tree was a good selection, too,--it graced our small apartment
until about two weeks after Christmas.
****
The most notable event during our Rawlins era was the addition to our family of
another member,--a healthy baby girl born June 3, 1947, whom we named Kathleen
Luanne. That name, incidentally, had three sources. One of my father’s favorite songs
was an Irish ballad called “I’ll take you home again, Kathleen”, and I guess my love of
that name came from hearing my Dad sing it. The Luanne was a mix of Carol’s mother’s
name of “Lu" ("Lulu") and Carol’s use of the name “Ann” as a middle name in college
and her teaching career, which she preferred to her given middle name of Marcella.
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Like Jerry Mike she was a cute baby (don’t all parents think their babies are cute?)
with a sunny disposition, and was happy being taken on social visits or car trips. She
accompanied us on a brief camping trip in the mountains when she was only a month old,
with J.M. along having fun helping take care of her. The tent was too crowded to include
her in her basket, so we installed her in a sleeping bag in the car where she fortunately
stayed quiet and comfortable each night, giving us the unexpected pleasure of not having
to get out of our sleeping bags on cold nights to go check on her.
On another occasion, later that year (1947) when we had established J.M. with our
parents in Wisconsin we took a three-week summer vacation on a tenting trip to the
Seattle and Vancouver area. Kathy was about 2 ½ months old, and we left her with our
good friends Margaret and Al Hoxie, who had no children and assured us they would
enjoy the experience. Kathy was apparently a perfect guest since at one point they wired
us and said they’d like to order a duplicate. Jerry Michael was returned to us by my folks
in late September, their first visit to see us in Wyoming.
****
In February 1948 I was asked to move to Tulsa as soon as possible for another
assignment, and in preparation before I left I helped Carol with some house cleaning and
packing. We had found the Rawlins apartment very convenient and satisfactory, and I
appreciated the fact that the owner had allowed me the use of one of his alleyway
garages for the LaSalle at no extra rental cost. The garage was adequate, but very dirty
and very cluttered with assortments of rubbish at one end. So I decided it would be a
fitting gesture for me to clean the place up, and a couple days before my departure I did
so. The rubbish contained piles of old newspapers and magazines under which I found a
collection of ancient and much weathered books. I idly thumbed through a few to note
dates of publication. One was a ragged and page-torn church hymnal which I was in the
process of tossing into a garbage can when a yellowed piece of paper fell out. It was
about half the size of a hymnal page, and as I picked it up I could see it was of rather
ancient vintage (as was the book). The paper had some lines sketched in what appeared
to be ink that had turned brown and faded enough to be almost illegible. I took it outside
in better light and as I studied it I could see it was a hand-drawn map. Two streams were
shown; one was labeled “Sweetwater” and one “Indian Creek”, and a dashed line
crossing through the area was labeled “trail”. And near the streams’ intersection was an
“X” with the words “under big rock slab”. A treasure map! I knew enough Wyoming
geography to know that the old Oregon Trail, on which so many pioneers traveled west in
the early 1840’s, followed the Sweetwater river for quite some distance and crossed it at
least two places. History books recount how often pioneers had to lighten their loads due
to hazardous stream crossings, and/or the problems with tiring teams of horses or oxen.
So it seemed likely that what was “under the big rock slab” was something that some
pioneer had discarded, and that it was probably too valuable to just throw away and not
come back for another time.
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Needless to say, I later spent time checking maps and books about the Oregon Trail to
see if I could identify the location portrayed on the map. But to no avail; in the scant time
I had left before leaving for Tulsa I was unable to find a tributary to the Sweetwater River
labeled “Indian Creek”, and finally decided the pioneer had named it himself to help him
remember it for future reference. For me to traverse the Oregon Trail and find the two
locations where it crossed the Sweetwater would have consumed more effort and time
than I had available in view of my imminent departure. For years after, I often thought
about taking a vacation to hunt for “Indian Creek” and the big rock slab, but never ever
got to it.
In view of the apparent urgency in my summons to Tulsa I had to leave Carol with the
two babies to finish closing the apartment and shipping our belongings (which fortunately
weren’t very plentiful in those days). I drove the LaSalle which I was pretty sure I’d need
in Tulsa and made arrangements for Carol and the kids to fly later, via Denver. Jerry
Michael was then about 2 ½ years old, and was a well-behaved child that Carol felt
comfortable leaving with his baby sister and a friend while she did brief errands (with the
help of our friends who provided in-town transportation). And she was so proud that he
was so easy to manage at the airports when they finally embarked for Tulsa. J.M. was
then unable to say “Kathy” very correctly, incidentally, and pronounced it as “Kappy”.
We thought that was rather cute, and we called her that ever after.
****
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OKLAHOMA
Chapter III: Tulsa (1948-1952)
In Tulsa we lived for three weeks in April 1948 in an apartment while we houseshopped for something we could afford. We finally lucked out and in May bought a
modest but comfortable one-story two-bedroom home with fireplace (our first!), glassedin porch, and a large fenced-in back yard, ideal for two small kids to play in. It was one
block from the scenic Riverside Drive which paralleled the Arkansas River, and only one
block from a bus stop where I could easily and conveniently get transportation to Carter’s
downtown office. (The only time in my career incidentally, that I was able to commute to
work by bus!) The house cost $12,000 and required a down payment of $6,000, which
almost exhausted our savings accounts. But we were pleased with the first real estate we
had ever owned, and were proud to show it off the following year to our first group of
visiting relatives: Carol's parents, Earl and Lu Snell, and her aunt and uncle, Mary and
Carl Snell. Earl, a gung-ho gardener at his Wisconsin home, suggested and helped me
start a vegetable garden in the back yard,which proved to be a decidedly fine contribution
to our grocery supplies,--except for the eggplant which we weren’t sure was edible.
Another requirement for our life in Tulsa was a new car. Our 8-year-old trustworthy
LaSalle, though still functioning very adequately, had front seat accommodations for only
2 ½ passengers. J.M. greatly enjoyed riding in the rumble seat, but this wasn’t a very
suitable arrangement in rainy or cold weather. So a 4-passenger vehicle with a front and
back seat was needed and we acquired an economy size Studebaker. Selling old “Sally”
was a sad event, both for me and Jerry M., but we had only a one-car garage and keeping
two cars would have been a bit difficult.
****
The Carter Exploration Department headquarters, to which I was now assigned,
consisted of four supervisory units: Geology, Geophysics, Land, and Scouting. The first
two’s functions were to analyze and evaluate the feasibility and economics of drilling on
Carter lease farmout proposals submitted by the Division offices. The Land unit operated
similarly in the matter of lease purchases; Scouting supervised field office efforts to keep
abreast of competitive company activities and kept headquarters appropriately advised.
All four cooperated in preparing and authorizing budgets for exploration activities. The
Chief Geologist in charge of the unit I worked for was a friendly and capable fellow
named Harold Moses.
The four unit supervisors usually met weekly with staff members, usually geologists,
each of whom specialized in one of four Divisions (Central, Eastern,Western, and
Southern). Staff members present at the weekly meetings would depend on which of the
Divisions had submitted proposals for drilling or farming out Carter leases. I was rather
surprised to find that George Musselman, whom I had known at the University of Texas
and had shared pre-WWII assignments in North Dakota and Montana, was the Western
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Division authority, frequently appearing in the weekly meetings to present their deals.
My initial job, after reporting for work in Tulsa, was to maintain geologic maps and
research geologic data pertinent to proposals coming from the Divisions, before they
were considered in the weekly meetings. I soon deduced that my assignment was a
training job which might prepare me for a higher staff category. I enjoyed the work, had
my own office, and looked forward to a fine career with Carter.
My promotion came sooner than I had expected, when Musselman was promoted to
a job as assistant to the Chief Geologist and I replaced him in the weekly staff meetings
as the Western Division representative. One meeting of particular interest occurred some
time later when all staff members had appeared except Musselman and Harold Moses.
Neither was normally tardy at the meetings, and business discussions were suspended as
those present speculated as to reasons for the absences. Finally George appeared at the
door of the conference room, said “Sorry, but I won’t be with you today,” waved his hand
at us, and left. This puzzled the staff members until Moses finally appeared and gave us
the explanation: Musselman had just been fired, after it being discovered that he had
committed the very unethical and unpardonable procedure of secretly investing in oil
royalties and third-party leases in acreage blocks being assembled by Carter on some of
their prime prospects on which wildcat (exploratory) wells were scheduled to be drilled.
Coincidentally, Carol and I had been invited to have dinner with the Musselmans that
evening. When I got home Carol said Mrs. Musselman had called to briefly tell her they
had to cancel the date, with no explanation as to why. Carol asked me, “ What do you
suppose is the matter? Have you had some trouble with George?” I told her no, and that
George no longer worked for Carter, and why.
****
Hank Sharkey subsequently arrived in Tulsa on a training assignment somewhat
similar to mine, and Carol and I were pleased to be able to resume social contacts with
them. One day I was surprised to see them both appear at my office door. After we had
exchanged the customary greetings Hank said, “Something important has happened to
us.”
“Let’s see,” I said, “are you pregnant again, Billie?” She smiled, glanced briefly at
Hank to see if he’d reply, and when he didn’t she said, “We’ve agreed to get divorced.”
I’m sure my jaw must have dropped. Hank then said “Yep. we decided to split and go our
own ways”.
I was tongue-tied, mentally fumbling for some reply. “Well, uh,--who gets the house?
What about Suzanne? Billie said, “No problems. I’m moving to Louisiana,--was born
there you know. And we’ll each have Suzanne with us for two weeks at a time.”
They both seemed reasonably friendly about it. Hank later assured me neither had
hard feelings about it, but that they had just decided they weren’t a compatible couple.
Hank finally advised me about a month later that the divorce had been consummated and
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that Billie had left for Louisiana. He never seemed especially depressed by the split,--at
least in public--, and eventually began asking for my help or advice in dating some of the
many nubile secretaries in the office. I of course had told Carol about Hank’s situation,
and she was concerned that he would find someone to his liking, especially since he’d
have to be taking care of Suzanne every two weeks. Carol at that time had become active
in social activities at a Presbyterian church we often attended. One day, as I returned
home from a day at the office, she said, “I’ve met a lady at church Hank ought to marry!
Her name is Ruby Lackey, and she has twin boys about Jerry Mike’s age. Her husband
was killed in an auto accident last Christmas time.”
“Well,” I replied, thinking she must be joking, “why don’t you get him a date with
her?”
“Think I will!” And to my utter astonishment she proceeded to the phone and called
Hank. “Hank, I’ve met the lady you should marry. Her name is Ruby Lackey. She’s a
widow with twin boys about Jerry Mike’s age. Would you like to have me get you a date
with her?” Hank must have been stammering a bit, because Carol kept saying, “Yes,
really. Of course. I think so. Sure. Well,--when? Okay, next Friday night? I’ll call her
and tell her about you, and then you can call her and confirm the date. Here’s her phone
number.”
Hank and Ruby did have that date and several later ones, including one when Carol
and I took them to dinner, which is when I first met Ruby. About a month later they both
appeared in my office. Hank said, “Guess what?”
“You’re going to take Carol and I out to dinner?” I said.
“Nope.” Both smiled broadly as Hank added, “We’re going to take you and Carol to
our wedding! Are you available next Saturday?” I stammered my congratulations and
acceptance. And that’s what occurred. Ruby happened to know a minister who lived at
Claremore, a pleasant town of about 7,000 Okies roughly 25 miles northeast of Tulsa. Its
main claim to fame is that the famous cowboy-comedian Will Rogers was born on a
ranch nearby.
Ruby had made arrangements with her pastor friend to do the honors about 11 a.m. on
Saturday, and the four of us embarked in my car, arriving in Claremore shortly after 10
o’clock. “Which way to the church?” I asked Ruby.
. There was a long pause before she replied, “Well, uh, before we go there, I’d like to
make a stop at a drug store where we can have a soft drink and I –ah-, can give this a bit
more thought.” We other three passengers, to put it mildly, were rather startled. Ruby was
having second thoughts about marrying Hank? No one made any comment, and I headed
for a drug store I’d seen a block back. We disembarked, entered, and I ordered a round of
Cokes at the soft drink counter. I’d had the foresight to bring a small pocket flask in my
jacket pocket with which I’d planned to toast the bride and groom after the ceremony. In
view of Ruby’s indecision I decided she could better use some of it now, so I spiked her
Coke and told her why. "Good idea!" she said with a nervous chuckle. Hank decided he
13
could use a bit of the same, so I obliged him with a substantial sample from the flask.
Carol declined my offer of a sample, and I also abstained since I was the driver. There
was a minimum of conversation for the next fifteen minutes or so, which concluded with
Ruby banging her empty glass on the table and firmly saying, “O.K., I’m ready. Let’s
go!” We did, and Henry and Ruby were wedded in a rather informal but emotionally
satisfying ceremony. (And, I should add, stayed happily married for nearly 30 years until
Hank died from cancer in 1980 after they’d moved to Houston.)
****
Jerry Mike and Kappy were delightful family members and the source of much of
Carol’s and my joy and pleasure throughout their childhood. Both were well mannered
and obedient youngsters who enjoyed playing with their peers and each other, and related
well with admiring adults. Like most kids their age they enjoyed costumes. J.M’s favorite
when he was about 3 years old was a fancy cowboy outfit, complete with hat, boots,
appropriate decorative shirt and pants, and of course a belt with holster and toy pistol.
And on his 6th birthday he received a khaki military uniform which he wore proudly five
days later on Veterans Day, 11/11/51. It was modeled after one I’d worn in the Army Air
Force during WWII, complete with military cap, belt, officer’s insignia, and pilot’s
wings.
His favorite toy when he was four was a bicycle-sized tricycle he received for
Christmas in 1949. The rubber-tired front wheel, frame, pedals and seat were the size of
a child’s regular bicycle, but instead of a matching rear wheel it had a pair of smaller
rubber-tired wheels about a foot in diameter. He allowed Kappy to use it occasionally
which she did fairly successfully and with enthusiasm, although she wasn’t tall enough to
sit on the seat and had to stand on the pedals when she rode it.
Kappy’s preferred dress-up attire when she was two was a pretty white dress with a
large matching white bonnet. When she was allowed to wear this on special occasions
she always carried a large stuffed cloth doll wearing an identical outfit that Carol had
made for her as a birthday gift.
At that age she obviously liked being admired by adults but was reticent about
responding verbally to compliments or questions from non-family persons. On one
occasion, after Christmas when she was 2 ½, some guests we were having for dinner
persisted for a couple minutes in trying to get her to tell them what she had gotten for
Christmas gifts. For some reason she would not reply with even one word, even with us
asking her to do so. The next day I had a fatherly chat with her, emphasizing that if she
wanted people to like her it was very necessary that she do her best to respond and
acknowledge their comments and questions. To the amazement of Carol and me, Kappy
gave my suggestion some serious thought, and beginning the very next day became
relatively talkative with anyone who initiated a conversation with her, which did indeed
enhance her attractiveness for our friends.
14
When she was still only a bit older than one year she and I played a rather bad joke on
Carol. I came home on the bus from work one day when Carol was in the back yard and
didn’t see me come in the house. Kappy was playing in her room. I took her with me into
the bathroom, locked the door, waited until I heard Carol re-enter the house, then
whispered to Kappy to call for her mother. This she did, and I kept urging her to do it
louder. Carol finally heard, arrived at the door, and found it was locked. She rapped on
the door with increasing vigor, tried with her voice increasing in decibels to tell Kappy
how to unlock the door, and finally in frustration called that she’d go outside to the
bathroom window and see if she could get in to free Kappy. When I heard her leave, I
took Kappy back to her room, left the bathroom door open, and went out the front door to
the street. I gave Carol time enough to have looked in the bathroom window, see that the
door was finally open and Kappy had gone out, then re-entered the house as though I
was just arriving home. When I got to Carol I tried to look astounded as she excitedly
told me how Kappy had locked herself in the bathroom and finally was able to let herself
out. I didn’t explain the matter to her until the next day, and found that her sense of
humor in this particular event was entirely lacking.
Kappy inadvertently and unintentionally performed a joke on both Carol and I two or
three years later. She enjoyed climbing in a fairly large apple tree that grew in the front
yard, a procedure that we usually wanted to monitor. One weekend when Carol and I
were both in the house we were horrified to have Jerry M. come running into the house
yelling, “Kappy’s hung herself in the apple tree!” We rushed out, expecting the worst,
and did indeed find Kappy hanging in the tree, but fortunately not by the neck, yelling
loudly for help. She had apparently slipped from an upper branch, had dropped down
between two limbs near the tree trunk, and was hanging with a branch under each armpit.
It was a snug fit, and from the angle where J.M. saw her it did look like she was hanging
by the neck. I got a ladder from the garage, and with rather considerable effort finally
managed to loosen her and carry her down. Carol and I nervously laughed a bit after the
rescue, but Kappy couldn’t see much humor in the situation, and it was quite some time
before she tried out her climbing expertise again.
As they grew older J.M. and Kappy always enjoyed outdoor activities,--picnics,
camping, boating, hiking in forested areas, swimming and water sports, etc., due I
presume to their frequent exposure to such pastimes by their parents (and maybe the
inheritance of the appropriate genes). In those years we spent many weekends on various
Oklahoma lakes (once at Spavinaw in a cabin owned and loaned by Harold Moses). I
had purchased a modest sized fishing boat, propelled exclusively by oars, which we
hauled along on most of our lakeside visits. Tenting in the Arkansas Ozarks was a
popular enterprise. There are numerous state parks scattered in eastern Oklahoma, which
we often visited on weekends. A notable favorite was Robbers Cave, about 100 miles
southeast of Tulsa, which the kids could scramble into and around for hours.
Summers invariably included long visits by Carol and the kids with her parents and
15
mine in Wisconsin where J.M. and Kappy were very popular guests and “the living was
easy”. I would usually accompany them during the two weeks’ vacation I was then
allowed (Carter employees in those days didn’t qualify for three weeks until they had
worked for the company ten years.) They all wanted to stay there longer, of course, and
usually did, so I’d have to return to Tulsa by myself, which was a lonesome way to spend
several weeks in a hot summer until my family made their way back.
One summer in 1951 when I took them on a visit to Downsville (population: 300;
where I once lived), a memorable event occurred (memorable to them): I taught them to
fish! It was strictly cane pole and worm bait technique, done in an unattractive pond near
town, but thrilling to the kids. The “catch” was several foot-long ugly fish locally called
“bullheads”, because of a pair of sharp half- inch bone spikes on their heads ( which, if
accidentally stepped on by a bare foot, could cripple a person for several days). I’ve
never seen any reference to them in a fishing guide book, but I think they are probably an
unpopular relative of the catfish. But regardless of their catch’s quality, the kids were of
course excited and proud.
Both kids enjoyed a variety of games, and both became baseball lovers and good
players. J.M. subsequently was a star player on a champion little-league team during our
later years in Oklahoma City (in which I participated as assistant coach). And Kappy, in
her early teenage years during our second stay in Tulsa played on a girls’ softball team
where among other honors she once came home with a case of Coca Colas for having
gotten the most hits and home runs in a crucial game. (At that period in her life, she was
seriously hoping to ultimately become a shortstop on a big-league team!)
****
During my 4-year tour of duty in Tulsa from 1948 to 1952 I had several interesting
part-time assignments in conjunction with my regular function as Western Division staff
representative. Carter was building a large research laboratory on the edge of the city,
and the architect in charge convinced the Carter officials supervising the project that the
large reception room at the main entrance should have an appropriate geological décor of
some sort. For some reason I was assigned to that job. After giving the matter quite a bit
of thought I conceived the idea of having each of the north, east, south and west walls
decorated with plaster murals of geologically correct cross sections, appropriately molded
and colored, portraying the sequential layers of rocks that would be penetrated by wells
drilled at the north, east, south and west borders of Oklahoma. This idea was endorsed by
the head architect and acclaimed by the Carter supervisors. That was the good news. The
bad news was that I was delegated to be the geologist responsible for drawing the cross
sections, to the proper scale and dimensions that would fit the dimensions of the walls.
This project did not relieve me of my regular staff functions, so most of the work I
had to do on weekends or office overtime. But after I had researched the geologic data
applicable to the four Oklahoma boundaries, the drafting of the four murals was not very
16
time consuming. About a week or so after I had delivered the plans to the architect in
charge, I was called out to the new research building to view the results, and the slightly
three-dimensional colored plaster layers on the walls representing buried layers of shale,
sandstone and limestone were quite eye-catching,--especially to other geologists. I heard
about 15 or 20 years later that the Carter lab had been remodeled, and my murals were
lost in the process. But it was always a feeling of satisfaction to know that I, although
hardly qualifying as an artist, had been credited with being a murals designer for a rather
impressive building.
Another interesting and much more time consuming assignment, which did relieve me
of some of my normal staff functions for over a month, was a research project designed
to assess the economic feasibilities of producing from oil shale an oil product which
could be distilled and used like petroleum in refinery operations. Like most commercial
enterprises where the goal is to increase profits, the cost of raw materials is a vital factor,
and this is especially true in the oil business. And the most crucial problem in using oil
shale is whether it can be mined, transported and distilled at a cost competitive with
petroleum obtained by the financially hazardous business of finding, leasing, and well
drilling of prospective oil productive areas.
Oil shale deposits of possible commercial interest are thick bedded outcrops of shale
now at or near the surface, originally deposited in ocean basins, which in many past
aeons of geologic history have been permeated with great quantities of hydrocarbon
materials later hardened by the pressure of overlying sediment deposits. Such deposits are
present in several areas in the U.S. and Canada. But those of economic potential must
have several qualifications: (1) they must be located in relatively undeveloped locations
where large scale surface mining would not be detrimental to the environment or nearby
civilization; (2) oil shale layers must be of substantial thickness and must not contain
numerous inter-bedded thick layers of other sediments (sandstone, etc.) which would
hinder efficient mining; (3) areas must be operable by large mining machinery and be
reasonably accessible to refinery installations; (4) assays must indicate that the average
grade of the shale is sufficiently high to qualify for optimum processing economics; and,
most importantly, (5) deposits are located on government property that can be acquired
by mining claims, or by purchases or leases from private or company owners.
Most of this data I obtained from a variety of mineral resource publications by the
U.S. Geological Survey, and an assortment of government maps showing private and
federal land ownerships and mineral claim records (which had to be obtained at county
courthouses). In some cases I had to make trips to the oil shale areas, mostly in Colorado,
to collect some samples for assays to determine whether a promising deposit was rich
enough to be prospective. (These trips, of course, were the fun part of the research.) My
efforts were subsequently complimented by the Carter managers who initiated the
project, but to my disappointment any action on oil shale mining kept being deferred
since it appeared that mining oil shale would be less profitable than drilling oil wells.
17
Our social life in Tulsa was fairly active, with Carter employees and a few neighbors,
and usually involved drinks and dinner at the host’s house. Sale of liquor in Oklahoma
was illegal at that time, and did not become legal until after we’d left Tulsa in 1952. So
for the customary alcoholic refreshments everyone was dependent on bootleggers, who
were fairly abundant then and usually tolerated by the police who didn’t bother the ones
who remembered them with frequent cash birthday gifts. Service was usually good. You
phoned your favorite liquor dispenser the day before it was needed and he’d usually
deliver the next day. At one time we had a milkman who delivered his dairy products at
our back door early in the morning every other day. One day when he arrived as usual he
knocked and rather apologetically told us he was sorry that he’d no longer be delivering
milk.
“Oh,” I said, “we’ll miss you. Have you gotten better employment?” “Yes,” he
replied, “I’m going into the bootlegging business, and hope I can still make deliveries for
you.”
This he did for most of our remaining residence in Tulsa. However, bootleg prices
were always substantially higher than legal liquor in most other states, so on our trips to
Wisconsin nearly every summer I always scheduled our (or my) return through Kansas
City, where I had located a discount liquor store conveniently located on my trip route
through the city. I purchased as much as would fit into the trunk in addition to the usual
load of luggage, and continued my trip south very circumspectly and observant of speed
limits, so as to limit the chances of any unfortunate encounters with state police.
The illegal status of liquor in Oklahoma was unhandy, but could be coped with using
reasonable precautions. For instance, most night clubs,--except those who objected to
making contributions to the police department’s financial welfare--kept wire baskets
under all the tables on which the club patrons deposited their own bottles. Very few clubs
gambled on trying to serve from the bar, but made their profits from entrance fees,
selling high-priced mixes, ice, and snacks. On business nights, precisely at a time
prearranged between the club manager and the cop in whose regular route the club was
located, an employee of the club would give a customary signal ( bell, whistle, lights
flashing off and on, or whatever) and the customers all deposited their bottles under the
table. The manager then went to the locked club entrance, and let the policeman in who
made a very cursory tour through the patrons’ table areas. He saw no illegal liquor
bottles, and returned to the front door. The manager was waiting for him, shook hands
with him (nearby customers could see some green paper being passed in the process),
thanked him and bid him goodbye. The bottles came out of the wire baskets, and the club
partying resumed.
****
18
Chapter IV: Oklahoma City (1952—1959)
In January 1952 Moses called me into his office.“We’re going to move you again,
Jerry. How do you like Oklahoma City?”
I groaned slightly. “Not very much, what I’ve seen of it. I much prefer Tulsa.”
Moses smiled “So do I. I think most people do. But we need a new Division Geologist
there, and you’re it.”
Division Geologist! All I could say was “Wow!” Carter then had four Divisions and
Oklahoma City was headquarters for the Central Division, which included Kansas,
Nebraska, Iowa, Missouri, northern Arkansas and of course Oklahoma. Most prospecting
and nearly all exploratory drilling at that time were in Oklahoma, Kansas and Arkansas.
The Central Division supervised District offices in Liberal and Wichita, Kansas; Elk City
and Ardmore in Oklahoma; and Ft. Smith in Arkansas. District operations for central,
northern and eastern Oklahoma were handled in the Oklahoma City office.When Moses
had said “Oklahoma City” to me I had assumed it would be some variety of staff support
job like I currently had in Tulsa. So after news of this grade-A promotion had sunk in,
and Moses had briefed me in a general way about Central’s activities and personnel
status, I left his office on cloud nine with great enthusiasm for the impending move. I was
to replace a man of considerable reputation and stature in the geological fraternity named
Rolf Engleman. The problem with Rolf, I gathered, was that he tended to concentrate on
academic themes and lacked the temperament and talent for directing traffic in a
supervisory capacity.
The only fly in the ointment relative to my transfer was that I had to report for work
in O.C. as immediately as possible, since Rolf had already been reassigned to some
urgently needed geologic studies for which he was highly qualified. So Carol again, as
the saying goes, “got the short end of the stick” as had happened when we moved from
Rawlins to Tulsa. She had the burden of packing and shipping our household contents,
and having the house put up for sale. Her subsequent experience the next few weeks,
enroute to her sister Yvonne's wedding, is best described in her fine autobiography “The
Time Of My Life” (written in 1980), and I am reprinting it here :
“He’d been gone only a few days when Yvonne called to tell me she was getting
married the following week. I told her I’d come to the ceremony, which was just for the
family, and I started out the first part of February with a 4 ½ -year-old and a 6-year-old.
All went well until I ran into a truly terrible blizzard in Iowa! I couldn’t see to drive; I
was four hundred miles from Jerry and four hundred miles from my Dad, and scared to
death. I turned into the first place I could see which happened to be a trucker’s stop,--an
O.K. place to spend the night in the car except that there was no restaurant nearby. Kappy
acted sick the next morning, so I called a doctor in the next town who came right away
and gave her a shot of penicillin, She had a 102 temperature and an earache, so the doctor
said to keep her warm and get her to another doctor the next day for another shot. We
19
were all hungry and I didn’t dare drive the car in the blizzard for fear I’d have an
accident, so I left Jerry Mike in charge of Kappy and walked until I found a place to get
food to bring back.
“ The storm had cleared by morning and we got along fine until our Studebaker
(without chains) refused to climb a hill on the outskirts of Des Moines. I instructed the
children to stay in the car while I went for help. I was gone for a long time because lots of
people were at the filling station where I stopped also wanting help. I hung around there
until they told me definitely that they’d come out to put chains on my car. By the time I
was walking back to the car the children were wading through the deep snow looking for
their Mother! But the rest of the trip was uneventful; Kappy got her shot, and we were on
time for Yvonne's wedding to Bill Smatlak".
****
In Oklahoma City we bought a house on Dublin Road, which at that time was the
northernmost street in the city with housing development. It was a bit bigger than our
Tulsa home, with two bathrooms and a two-car garage which we needed since I had been
assigned a company car. It lacked a clubroom, so a few years later we had a roomy one
with an attractive big stone fireplace added to the house, which became our primary
location for relaxing and entertaining. But we had difficulty selling our Tulsa house for
about what we’d paid for it. It took about nine months during which time our bank
account ebbed substantially from having to make payments on both houses. We had nice
neighbors on both sides and opposite us, which helped us adjust to our new environment.
Our favorite neighbors, who became our lifelong friends, were the Bolands, who lived
across the street: Dr. John, a psychologist who specialized in speech therapy, and Lillian,
a Ph.D who taught college courses most of the time. They had a daughter Ann and a son
Michael, both in approximately the same age levels as our youngsters.
We rapidly began to enjoy life in Oke City, much more than I’d hoped for. I worked
under the Exploration Manager Dick Hicklin, who was a geologist and a very capable
administrator. He and his wife “Sis” were also very sociable, as were numerous others in
the office who became very good friends, such as Bob and Marilyn Riggs and Paul and
LaVeta Long. Although the areas in and around the city were mostly rather dull and
monotonously flat dry expanses of treeless terrain (except for those planted by residents
and a few farmers), there were numerous attractive state parks and a few lakes within
convenient distances from O.C. Two fine lakes were very close: Lake Hefner within the
northwest edge of town, and Lake Overholser about 6 miles west.
Carol was able to spend more time with friends, now that the kids attended school and
required less care and attention at home. She became involved in a number of civic
projects, which made her family very proud. She became a Girl Scout Leader of groups
which included Kappy, and conducted numerous weekend stays at a Girl Scout camp site.
She became active in the Parent Teachers Association, ultimately becoming president.
20
And her interest in politics got her busy in the League of Women Voters where she
eventually was made a Board member (which she said was the most work of any of her
civic enterprises).
J.M. and Kappy quickly became acclimated to their new environment, and ultimately
adjusted to school life. Our house location was well away from the hustle and bustle
existing in neighborhoods deeper in the city, and bicycling, games and sports could be
enjoyed in our street without much fear of traffic hazards. This was conducive to the
commingling of kids in the block, and our two lost no time in finding friends.
Our fenced-in back yard was popular, especially when I had the croquet game set up
or occasionally gave impromptu magic shows on the patio to our kids and a group of their
friends. Another backyard attraction during our early days, when Jerry Mike was about 7
and Kappy about 5, was an airplane swing I built and hung from a high tree branch. Its
popularity was sufficient to enable our kids to charge their friends one cent a ride, which
would eventually accumulate enough for an occasional seven cents popsicle purchase at
the popsicle truck. Still another backyard attraction, a few years later, was when Jerry M.
erected a large tepee which became an entertainment center for many friends.
Baseball became increasingly popular with Jerry M. and Kappy as they grew a bit
older. J.M. had several friends who shared his baseball hobby, with whom he often had
impromptu games in nearby vacant lots. And he and Kappy enjoyed playing catch in the
front yard (which provided more space than the back yard for long throws). Once Kappy
missed a vigorous pitch that came to her a bit high and broke a house window. They were
of course quite distressed, and eagerly agreed to my suggestion that they might like to
help pay for it by doing odd jobs around the house that I would pay them for. So they
began doing so, and were kept busy shining shoes, waxing furniture, doing dishes,
emptying garbage, etc. until after several weeks I let them off the hook.
Both enjoyed our frequent picnics and boat rides on the lakes, and when he was about
thirteen Jerry M. decided he wanted to build a small boat. Somewhere he’d seen pictures
of a small one-passenger craft, and solicited my help in creating something similar. I was
never much of a carpenter but agreed to work with him. After two or three weekend
efforts we produced one that looked floatable, which he christened “Sea Sled”. It did
look more like a sled than a boat; it had a flat bottom (I wasn’t talented enough to
construct a conventional V-shaped keel), and a gently up-curved bow, In nautical
terminology it would probably be considered in the “pram” category. The hull, as I recall,
was about 3 ½’ x 7’, give or take a half foot each way, and the sides were about a foot
high. The stern was solid enough to mount a small outboard motor. Paint job was yellow
and green. The maiden voyage in Lake Hefner by a life-jacketed J.M. was an exciting
event, and one that on later occasions was repeated many times by the kids and me, in
O.C. and later in Tulsa.
****
21
My duties as Division Geologist were primarily supervisory. But being an effective
supervisor of geological operations and personnel in the Districts obviously required a
substantial knowledge of the geology throughout the Central Division areas, as well as oil
production activities, past and present, by Carter and other oil companies. This required
an inordinate amount of time, both at the office and at home, during my first several
months, poring through a mass of maps and geologic reports. But I finally educated
myself enough to discuss exploration data and plans with District personnel,--a vital need
since my authority was required for any modifications of wildcat well drilling locations
or procedures, leasing of prospective areas, core drilling activities, etc. During the drilling
of wildcat wells I often got calls in the middle of the night from the “well sitter” geologist
reporting problems and requesting approval for non-budgeted changes or remedies.
For example: Time, 2 a.m. at the Kyle residence. Phone rings. I answer, “Uh,--hello?”
“ Hello, Mr. Kyle. This is Johnson, on the Ft.Cobb wildcat,--the Carter # 1 Bigfoot.”
“Ah,--oh yeah, west of Anadarko on the Kiowa Indian property, right?” (yawn).
“Yeah. We’re at our contract depth of 10,000 feet in the Springer, but it’s been all
shale. We haven’t hit any sand bodies like they’ve gotten production in over in Grady
County. Do we quit?”
“Well, let’s see--.there was a Conoco dry hole over by Hobart that did get some good
sand layers in the Springer with a few oil shows, but mostly water. Let’s gamble another
500 feet and if you don’t hit any good oil sand give up and abandon the well.” “O.K., sir,
we’ll give it a try and maybe get lucky.”
I did a lot of traveling to review and assess the Districts’ prospective areas, so I would
be better equipped to participate in their annual budget meetings, which were customarily
attended by Hicklin, myself, and the Division’s Geophysicist and Landman. Preparing
budgets was usually a lot of work, but made enjoyable by the dinners and evening events
planned and sponsored by the Districts’ personnel. The “beef and bourbon” circuits, as
our visits were termed, made me gain a few pounds over the course of a few years. I once
reached a high of 170 lbs., up from my (then) normal of about 155, which I guess was an
improvement in appearance of the skinny “Lanky Yankee” as I was occasionally called
by my Okie friends.
****
We journeyed to Wisconsin nearly every summer to visit our parents and other
relatives. We always favored the Smatlak’s hospitality (Yvonne and husband Bill).
Several years after being married they got a fine home overlooking Rice Lake’s lake,--a
beautiful scenic setting that would be a million dollar piece of real estate in Houston or
O.C. We always enjoyed our stays there. And Carol’s parents, Earl and Lu Snell, also
hosted us in fine fashion. Earl was a good gardener, and he enjoyed brewing wine from a
variety of berries and cherries he would harvest in the local countryside. When we visited
the Snells the first evening’s order of business was for Carol and I to get established in
the kitchen and sample his latest products. This usually involved at least two, and his idea
of a good sample was a water glass full of his high octane product. His wine was always
22
delightfully tasty, but after two or more “samples” we often had trouble finding our way
out of the kitchen!
Earl and Lu came to see us two or three times during our seven-year era in O.C.
These trips were during the winter season, and one incentive for them of course was to
have a brief relief from Wisconsin’s cold weather. Since Earl had had a slight stroke and
no longer felt able to drive very far, they always came by train. For some reason the
train’s north-south route missed Oklahoma City but made a night time stop in El Reno, a
small city a few miles west of O.C., before it proceeded south into Texas. We were
delighted to get them in El Reno, and during their customary stay of two weeks or so we
took them on several trips to points of interest in Oklahoma, accompanied by the Kyle
kids.
The longest and most interesting trip was the first one, in 1953, when we headed
southwest through Texas and into New Mexico, during which Earl was thrilled to see his
first wild turkeys. We toured Carlsbad Caverns and the White Sands National Monument,
then headed south to El Paso and into Juarez, Mexico, for a brief stop. A highlight there
was when we stopped in the Manhattan Club bar and another American visitor, Parker
Curton of Las Cruces, insisted on being our host for several rounds of drinks as we
listened to his numerous entertaining stories of his experiences in Mexico.
A remarkable incident occurred during the initial stage of that trip through Texas. It
was the Snells’ first visit to Texas, and they were interested in Texas lore, history, and
legends which I related as we cruised through the state. I mentioned that opportunities for
social recreation were very limited for cattlemen in those early days, most of whom lived
on ranches in remote areas many miles from each other, and that they always looked
forward to an occasional weekend when they could enjoy activities in the nearest small
town.
“What did they do in town?” asked Earl.
I said, “Well, saloons were about the only source of recreation, and the only entertainment was drinking, associating with the women for hire, or gambling.”
Earl smiled. “I guess all I’d care for would be the gambling , for small stakes.”
“Sometimes stakes got pretty big among well-off ranchers,” I said. “I recently read an
interesting account somewhere about a game in the early 1900’s where two ranch owners
were playing late at night and had eliminated all the others by their increasingly big bets.
Neither would call the other and stop the betting. Finally all their cash was on the table
and one better said to the other, ‘O.K., I’ll bet my ranch against yours.’ The other thought
a minute and then said, ‘All right, it’s a deal. Let’s see your cards.’ Turned out that one
had a full house, three kings and two tens. The other grinned and turned over his four
aces!”
“Pretty stiff competition, eh?” said Earl.
“Yes. The loser groaned, had another drink, and then told the other he’d honor his
bet. In a few days he delivered the ranch title, and the winner eventually moved to his
23
new ranch (which was better than his). He later sold his own ranch and used the money to
improve his new holdings. And he named it,--‘The Four Aces’!”
Earl chuckled a bit. “That’s a pretty good story, but too implausible, even for Texas.”
“Well,” I replied, “the article I read said it was true.” Earl shook his head.
An amazing thing then happened, about a half hour later. We were then driving
through ranch country, and we approached one spread that looked in very good shape,
with new fencing and good-looking buildings in the distance. In the most incredible
coincidence I have ever known, the big sign over the entry gate said “Four Aces!
Earl laughed. “Holy Moses! You sure timed that story well. How did you know we
were that close when you told it?”
I don’t think Earl ever believed, in spite of my efforts to convince him, that I’d never
been in this part of Texas before, and didn’t have any idea we’d actually see that poker
game’s prize. And I sure couldn’t blame him for his disbelief.
After our quick visit in Mexico we headed back into Texas. Our only souvenirs were a
couple bottles of tequila and a big bag of pepita seed snacks like the kids had sampled in
the Manhattan Bar that they thought were very tasty. (I don’t know what botanical family
they belong to, but they’re somewhat similar to sunflower seeds.) At the border we had
to be approved by the U.S. customs agents. Their walk-through office was congested with
home-going tourists like ourselves. I decided to send Lu, Earl, and Carol through first,
and me with the tequila and pepitas last so I’d be sure they made it through with no
problem. As we waited our turn I suddenly remembered that it’s forbidden to transport
any type of plant or seeds across the border without prior arrangements and authorization.
I was sure that a customs agent wouldn’t inspect a six year old child, so I quietly handed
the paper sack containing the seeds to Kappy, with whispered instructions not to talk
about it or show it.
Our turn finally came and Snells and Carol started through in single file. Lu and Earl
had gotten through, Carol was saying “no purchases” to a customs agent, and ---good
grief! Kappy had stumbled and dropped the sack which burst and spread pepita seeds all
over the floor! Confusion ensued as the two agents scanned the deposit, and stopped
inspection operations while they procured a broom and dust pan. While they were busy
sweeping up and depositing the seeds in a garbage pail, I motioned Lu to come back to
me. She was carrying a rather large “tote bag” (for gifts she had intended to buy but
didn’t), and in it I inconspicuously deposited my bottles of tequila. “Lu,” I said, “you’ve
been through customs, so go on and wait for us outside. We shouldn’t be long.” So she
did, and we followed shortly, having had nothing to declare. Earl shook his head when he
heard what we’d done and said he thought my maneuver was a bit risky. I agreed, but
said I did it mostly for fun, although it was also nice to save the liquor importation tariff,
which as I recall would have been about $2 per bottle. But we all got good laughs about
it, and it made a good story to tell later at parties.
****
24
We took frequent vacation time trips with the kids during our O.C. era, including a
few in western states. One of the classics was a long one in August 1955, through New
Mexico, Colorado, Wyoming, South Dakota and Minnesota, ending in a final visit with
our folks and relatives in Wisconsin (which was admirably recorded in a comprehensive
document with text and many pictures by Carol. It was a journey of many adventures and
new experiences for the kiddos, when Jerry Mike was 9 ½ and Kappy was 8 years old.
We stayed in a motel in Raton, New Mexico, the first night, and one of the journey’s
many highlights was the next day when the youngsters got their first ride on a mountain
chair lift at Raton Pass just north of town. It was a thrilling experience, for both kids and
adults, and the scenery from on top was spectacular! We then headed west from Raton
into the eastern foothills of the Rockies, and began using our new tent for the first time
near Taos, N.M. It, with camp supplies and warm sleeping bags (much needed in those
mountain area cold nights!), were to be our overnight residence facilities for most of the
remaining journey.
After a day a day of enjoying that vicinity we headed the next day north into
Colorado on a picturesque mountain highway through Alamosa and Salida toward the
historic mining town of Leadville. A short distance before getting there we stopped at
“Gold Camp”, a roadside tourist attraction near a stream containing some sand bars that
included slight amounts of gold flakes. For a small fee the visitors were allowed to, and
taught how to, pan for gold. J. M. had a go at it, and actually recovered a small quantity
of gold which he stored in a little glass bottle,--and added a little bit to it later when he
was prospecting and panned some on his own initiative.
Leadville was a fascinating locality and in the late 1800’s the locale of many rich
silver mines. We attended their annual Burro Race, the Healy Home (the historic and
well maintained home of a super-rich mining investor), and of course the Matchless Mine
where Baby Doe Tabor, the famous socialite and once-wealthy wife of the millionaire
Horace Tabor, spent her last twenty years or so in poverty.
We left Leadville in a late afternoon and looked for a campsite. But after getting to
Loveland Pass and getting thoroughly chilled in that snow field country we decided a
cabin might be a better option. We finally found a fine rustic one at the Clear Creek
Ranch, where we felt lucky to be when we heard it rain that night. Next day we went
through and examined Central City, another historic mining town with many attractions
of interest. One of special interest was the Teller House Bar, the site of that famous
historic poetry epic, “The Face On The Bar Room Floor”. The Sharkeys had recently
been transferred to Carter Oil Co.’s Denver office, and we phoned them. Ruby wanted us
to come out for an overnight stay, as did Hank when he got home from work. He and
Ruby hosted us well, taking us to a delightful dinner at an attractive restaurant. But
before bunking in with them that night, at their suggestion we paid a visit to some other
25
old friends (from Rawlins), Phil and Joan Willhite who had also been transferred there.
Phil, the ultimate party giver and go-er, insisted that he and Joan take Carol and I to a
nightclub. So it was rather late before we retired at the Sharkeys.
We next paid Rocky Mountain Park a brief visit, then continued north into Wyoming.
Kappy was so thrilled to finally return to the state where she was born! We had lunch in
Rawlins and showed the kids the hospital where Kappy had entered the world. Then we
proceeded to Lander and admired the log cabin we’d lived in for a while ten years ago.
Carol and I were pleased to renew acqaintance with our friends there then, Dr and Alyce
Dunkin (he had been our dentist). They insisted on hosting, wining and dining us for a
couple days. Alyce toured us, including a visit to the Shoshone Indian reservation which
was of considerable interest to the kids, especially the spot where the braves held their
annual Sun Dance. It was hard for them to believe that, as Alyce explained, they danced
for three days and nights without food or water, which was supposed to cure loved ones
of sickness and make the dancers themselves immune to sickness and evil spirits.
Carol’s birthday occurred there. Gemstone jade had been recently discovered in
Wyoming and Lander rock shops displayed many samples and jade jewelry. So I bought
Carol a jade ring and pin, which really thrilled her. One of J.M.’s current hobbies was
rock collecting and mounting, and he wanted to buy a jade sample for his collection. But
the one he wanted most was $2.50, –a big amount then for his modest financial assets--,
and I tried to talk him out of it. Finally he said to Carol, “Mother, I wish you’d ask Daddy
not to try to talk me out of buying that for my rock collection. It takes me half an hour to
get up the courage to decide I really want it again. And I want that big piece of jade!” He
got it.
Our next stop was near the site of DuNoir, a mining ghost town, where Carol and I
had camped during our former residence in Lander. But the Forest Service had for some
reason entirely cleaned up that historic site, and DuNoir was no more! So we had to do
some careful map study before finding the area for private camping we’d once used. But
we did, and spent two fun days there, sharing our campsite with chipmunks, deer, moose
and elk, all of which we saw from time to time. Jerry Mike decided to bury a treasure in a
cave we found. He wrote a message, sealed it in a wine bottle, and labeled a rock in front
of the cave with an “X”. Then he drew a map of the location, to enable him to find it
again some day. (The pencilled map, rather faded, still resides in Carol’s trip document.)
Next stop was the Grand Teton National Park, full of fabulous forests and Alps-type
snow covered mountains always in the backgound. Most fun there was when we rented
horses for a scenic ride around Jenny Lake. Our youngsters felt like real Cowboy kids!
Finally, into Yellowstone Park There we of course had no camping option other than
tenting in a public campground with many neighbors. But the abundance of people was
somewhat offset by the abundance of wildlife we saw on our tours in the park: buffalo,
moose, bears, deer,---name it! On one occasion a bear stuck his nose in our tent, but he
26
was relatively tame,--unlike the one that raided our campsite during a tenting tour of
Colorado a year or two later. (More on that later.) At one point when we were cruising in
forest terrain we encountered numerous friendly bears begging tourists for handouts.The
kiddos took a shine to a cute cub and invited him to the car for a sandwich. While he was
hanging by his paws on the open car window Mama bear showed up to investigate, and
acted very unhappy until the sandwich was tossed out and junior scrambled down from
the car to retrieve it.
As I’m sure any reader of this text will know, Yellowstone is full of scenic wonderlands and intriguing exhibits of nature’s magic.And we saw most of them on our 150 mile
drive through the Park: Old Faithful, hot springs, the Canyon and its magnificent falls,
etc., etc. So I won’t waste time and space trying to describe them, and I’m sure you can
imagine the thrills and enjoyment they provided us.
When we left Yellowstone we headed east, naively expecting to cover the 470 miles
to Rapid City, So. Dakota, in one day. But we had overlooked the very time-consuming
difficulty of crossing the Bighorn Mountains, fifty miles of which took us nearly two
hours, and we stayed in Gillette. The next day we meandered through the Black Hills and
spent some time in Rapid City where we all were interested in the dinosaur exhibit and
(me, mostly) in the rock displays at the South Dakota School of Mines' geology museum.
We’d been traveling for fourteen days after reaching Huron for our overnight stop,
and the following day we finally were able to settle down for a good visit with families
and relatives in Wisconsin. I drove back to O.C. a week later; Carol and kiddos lingered
longer and eventally came back on the Rock Island Rocket. But their trip excitement was
not quite over. Near Mason City, Iowa, the train going 75 mph was struck at a crossing
by an auto doing 65 mph , which decapitated one auto passenger and nearly so another,
and scattered sections of the auto for 150 feet from point of impact. This delayed the train
for a couple hours and quite a few passengers got out to view the disaster, including J.M.
and Kappy.They of course were awestruck, and the experience might have influenced
their safer driving habits as adults.
Coincidentally, as will be described later, my family had a car-totaling auto crash
abut 20 miles from the train accident on a Christmas trip to Wisconsin four years later.
None of us were badly hurt, fortunately. But we decided Iowa wasn’t a very safe state to
travel in.
****
My father had owned and operated the Kyle’s General Store in the small village of
Downsville, Wisconsin, for 47 years, having bought it from his father in 1905. In
December of 1950 he had a mild stroke which partially paralyzed his right arm. He was
determined to continue working and with considerable effort taught himself to write with
his left hand. His 1951 script was legible, but quite unlike the free-flowing handwriting
he’d been previously capable of. (A sample can be seen in the Appendix of Volume I of
27
Rear View, and in the 15-lb. accounting ledger in which he and his father maintained
store records beginning January 1, 1900. (This leather-bound antique is on display in the
club room of my current residence, by the way.) But the rigors of storekeeping and left
hand writing finally became too onerous. He finally sold the store and retired in 1951,
and with my mother moved to Menomonie ( a town seven miles away, where I went to
high school).
My mother and father were married on January 1, 1906, so in early January of 1956
we persuaded them to come to O.C. for us to have a 50th wedding anniversary party for
them. It was a nice one, in an elegant restaurant, and guests were the Bolands. My folks
appreciated it, and we all enjoyed their week’s visit. For some reason I couldn’t
accompany my family to Wisconsin that summer, and that anniversary occasion was the
last time I ever talked to my Dad in person. A year later he was completely paralyzed by
a major stroke, and died on February 23, 1957 at an age of 81. Mother continued living in
their lovely Menomonie home until her death from cancer in October 1961 at age 76.
Several months after their visit in O.C. I was downtown and decided to get a haircut.
There was a nice barbershop in the building I was visiting so I stopped in. Each chair was
labeled with the barber’s name, and I was interested that one name was “Kyle”. He was
white-haired and looked a little bit like my Dad did 10 or 15 years ago. So I took that one
when I had the chance, and introduced myself. He seemed a bit surprised to hear I was
from Wisconsin, and said that he thought all Kyles were living in Texas. I asked why and
he explained that his grandfather and three brothers migrated from Scotland to the U.S. in
the early 1800’s. The grandfather and two others headed into Texas, but the remaining
brother went west somewhere into the north central U.S. They never were able to contact
him again, and assumed that he had died.
“My gosh!”, I replied to that explanation. “Sir, you are looking at that lost brother’s
great-grandson! My great-grandfather’s name was Sam Kyle, and my Dad has told me
that Sam’s three brothers moved south somewhere shortly after they migrated from
Scotland, He lost track of them and never heard from any of them again. My Dad said
that Sam initially settled in Canada, where Dad’s father John was born. That family later
moved to Wisconsin, where my Dad was born and still lives.”
“Incredible!” The barber exclaimed. “What a remarkable discovery! Let’s see, that
must make your father and me—what? Second cousins?’
“I’m not an expert on cousins,” I said, “but you must be some grade of cousins.”
“Does your father ever come to see you here?” “Golly,” I replied, “he was here in
January, when we had him and my Mother down for their 50th wedding anniversary.
“He’d have been so pleased and excited to visit with you. He’s somewhat older than you,
I’m sure. He owned and operated a general merchandise store in a small town for forty
seven years, but retired about five years ago. He’ll want to meet you; maybe we can get
him down here next year.” The barber was delighted, and didn’t charge me for the
haircut.
28
I of course immediately phoned my folks when I got home, and gave Dad the news.
He was intensely interested and said he and Mom would be coming down again the next
year. But it was not to be. As mentioned above, Dad died in February, 1957.
****
Dick Hicklin, the O.C. office Exploration Manager, enjoyed kidding people in a
humorous way. Somehow I was expecting that one morning in 1956 when his secretary
called me in and, with a wink and smirk unusual for her, told me Dick had some
interesting news to tell me. I went into his office.
“I have some interesting news.” Dick began with.
“So Helen just said.”
“The Tulsa office tells me I’m being moved to the Denver office.”
I wasn’t sure what to say. Finally, “Is that good news or bad news?”
“A little of both, I suppose. I’m sorry to be leaving all the friends I have here, but
Denver is a fine town, I’m sure, and I’ll still be an exploration manager.”
“Well, I –uh, that sounds like mostly good news. Did they tell you who’d replace you
here?”
“Yes,” Dick replied with a slight shoulder shrug “They told me who, and I thought it
was a good choice.”
“Somebody from Tulsa headquarters office, no doubt?” I asked.
“No. From here in the Central Division. Want to guess?”
I hated that question. If I guessed wrong it would seem that my opinion as to who in
this division was most qualified would indicate that either he or I was a bad judge of
the performance quality of my coworkers.. But I had no choice. “Well, let’s see. I
suppose maybe--John Folks?”
“Nope. Try again.” I tried again: “ Ah, --well, J. B. Coffman has been a great
supervisor in the Wichita office. Him?”
“Nope. Want to keep trying?” I shook my head. “Well,” said Dick with a wide grin,
“It’s YOU!”
I was greatly startled, of course, but then remembered Dick’s penchant for crude
humor. “O.K., Dick, this is your idea of a joke, right?”
“No sir. Jerry , you’re really it.” I gulped, dumbfounded at such a great unimagined
promotion, and mumbled some expression of my amazement and appreciation. Dick
then got down to details, telling me that he’d be making a preliminary trip to Denver on
the coming weekend, and that he’d spend the rest of the current week instructing me on
my new duties and administrative procedures.
Exploration manager of the Central Division,--Wow! The Central Division was the
biggest Carter Oil Co. division: most production, most current drilling operations, and
most exploration personnel. And I was suddenly in charge of all those personnel and their
activities in the geology, geophysics, land and scouting functions., plus division budget
29
preparations and administration. Frequent appearances before the Carter officials and
board members in Tulsa headquarters were necessary to explain and justify our division’s
exploration goals and operations, and a time-consuming duty was to host the occasional
visits by Standard of New Jersey’s New York officials and conduct them on tours of our
five district offices.
I could hardly wait to get home and break the news to Carol, and when I entered the
house I was walking on air. I greeted her with, “Guess what happened to me today, hon.”
“You got fired?”
“Nope. Get this: I was promoted to Exploration Manager!” I gave her a bear hug.
She smiled. “That’s nice. Did you remember to get those groceries I told you this
morning to bring home?”
Carol didn’t really appreciate my enthusiasm until we sat down, each with a drink in
our hand, and I explained the function and stature of “exploration managers” in the
Carter Company.
****
The first producing oil well in Oklahoma was drilled in 1889 near Chelsea, about 20
miles northeast of Claremore. Since then well over 100,000 commercial oil wells have
been drilled (not including the dry holes). And much of Oklahoma’s oil production has
been on Indian lands. Except for a few scattered bands of native Osage, Comanche, and
Kiowa Indians, Oklahoma was quite vacant until the U.S. government began moving
tribes from eastern and southeastern United States areas onto western reservations to
make more room for white settlers to replace them. Between 1820 and 1846 the so-called
Five Civilized Tribes (Seminole, Cherokee, Chickasaw, Choctaw and Creek) were all
moved into eastern Oklahoma.
Each tribe was assigned land on which they formed “nations” which were called
protectorates of the U.S. They and other tribes began to occupy other areas in the state,
and at one stage of history Indians owned all of Oklahoma except the Panhandle. (Recent
statistics indicate there are more Indians now in Oklahoma than in any other state except
Arizona.) But after the Civil War, during which the Indians had been pressured into
supporting the Confederacy, the U.S. government invalidated many Indian property
rights. However, they did buy about two million acres from the Creeks and Seminoles in
1889, and opened the land to white settlers who staged the great land rush in which about
50,000 persons occupied that area in 24 hours! Land in other areas was also sold by
Indians to whites, but after some rather complex negotiations between tribes and the U.S.
much of Oklahoma was still owned by tribal organizations or by Indian individuals.
When the oil boom began and spread from northeastern Oklahoma into other areas,
the tribes soon recognized that the greatest financial value of their land was from oil lease
sales and the royalties from oil production. So they began the lucrative practice of having
30
open-bidding lease auctions of their properties in or near producing areas. Carter often
participated in some, and sizeable sums were often spent by the major companies in
obtaining lease rights on valuable properties.
On one occasion our geological staff had decided that certain wildcat (undrilled)
acreage to be put up for leasing at a forthcoming Seminole Indian auction had remarkably
good potential. One 160-acre tract in particular, about a half mile from some good
producing wells, was a prime target. In our planning conference on the subject John
Folks, Division Landman, who often attended such auctions in which Carter was
interested, was of the opinion that a lease on this property would probably go for between
$250 and $300 an acre, since he was sure several other major companies would be
competing bidders. (These prices are modest by modern standards, but the value of
produced oil was a lot lower then, and dollars were worth more than now.)
We finally all agreed our maximum bid would be $325 per acre, a total for the 160
acres of $52,000. I had never been to one of the lease auctions, and while Folks was
preparing his notes on tract description I told him I’d decided to accompany him. He said
“Fine”, and three days later the two of us drove to the town of Seminole, about 55 miles
southeast of O.C., where the auction was to be held.
The auction site was fully occupied, and John pointed out a few individuals that he
recognized from a few companies such as Shell, Texaco, and Conoco. As scheduled, the
auction began promptly at 10 a.m. Bidding was brisk, with fairly large sums being
offered. The tract we wanted was 3rd or 4th on the list. Finally it came. The auctioneer
called out “Northeast quarter, section 10.”
“Twenty thousand.” someone called out. After a brief interval another bidder said
“Twenty five.” A few minutes later thirty thousand was bid, and John decided it was
time to participate. “Thirty five thousand,” he called out. Another bid topped that by a
few thousand, and bidding finally climbed to fifty thousand. “Fifty two,” said John.
That bid was topped at fifty five and finally sixty thousand. John looked at me, shook his
head, and whispered, “Way over our limit.” “Yeah, everybody thinks that’s a good tract,”
I replied, also shaking my head. After a pause with no more bids the auctioneer began,
“Sixty thousand once.” Pause; “Sixty thousand twice.”- - “Sixty five!” I yelled.
John looked at me aghast. After a long pause with no more bids the auctioneer again
began his ritual: “Sixty five thousand once.” Pause; “Sixty five thousand twice.”--Pause;
“SOLD! to Carter Oil!”
“Do you know what you’re doing?!” John demanded of me. I suddenly felt rather
weak. “Guess it's auction fever.”
On the way home, after John had consummated the paper work for the purchase, he
kept repeating comments like, “My God,--why did you do that? Do you know what
you’ve done?” My knees were quite shaky by then, but I told him “John, I have the
31
authority to do that. Don’t worry. No skin off your nose. Let’s hope our geologists knew
what they were doing.”
And they did! We drilled five good producers (and one dry hole) on the tract, which I
later heard had ultimately gotten Carter a net profit of about fifteen times the price of the
acreage plus all the drilling and production costs.
****
One of the geologists in the Oklahoma city office was Chinese, named Bing Yee. I’ve
heard that many Chinamen are fond of gambling, and Bing had that reputation. I don’t
know if he ever played poker, or ever spent any time in Las Vegas casinos, but one type
of gambling I know he enjoyed was the stock market. I don’t know if he ever bought any
investment grade securities, but I know he was addicted to the speculative “penny
stocks”, which were especially abundant in the Canadian markets. Bing apparently had
some source of current information on stocks of small risky oil companies, whose
fortunes could either rise or fall dramatically in very short time periods.
Bing frequently appeared in my office mornings shortly after we were open for
business, and regaled me with many accounts of stocks selling for loose change per share
that his inside data indicated had good possibilities for rapid appreciation. Many
apparently did so, and Bing claimed to have frequently profited with his buy-and-sell
ventures during short periods of time, but never mentioned any losses he probably had.
(This was no breach of company ethics in trading in Canadian oil stocks, of course, since
Carter and other domestic Standard of New Jersey companies had no business interests in
Canada.). Bing usually concluded his brief discussions of a particular stock that sounded
like a winner with his suggestion that I ought to buy a few shares. I never did until one
morning, after I’d checked on a few of his previous recommendations that did turn out to
be winners, I decided to have a fling at one he seemed quite excited about. It had the
improbable name of “Zeno Oil Company”, and Bing said his information source had
reported that the company had about a thousand acres a short distance from, and “on
trend with”, a wildcat well being drilled somewhere in the Canadian boondocks by a
major company,--Mobil, I think it was.
“Bing, what’s that stock selling for?” I asked. “Well,” he replied, “when I checked it
early yesterday it was 25 cents a share.” After he’d left I decided it might be fun to try,
gave my broker a call and told him to buy me a thousand shares at “market price” (which
means whatever the asking price would be when he placed the order). He called me back
a couple hours later and told me I’d bought the thousand shares at 35 cents per share. He
laughed and said, “Looks like you’re into high stakes now. That’s $350, plus my
commission of $25.” “It’s just for fun,” I said, “I ‘ve always wanted to own a penny
stock.”
To my amazement, when I had my broker check a day or so later, Zeno was selling for
45 cents a share. I mentioned my “investment” to Carol that night, and I was surprised by
32
her interest in the subject. “I’ll bet my bridge players would get a kick out of your big
gamble,” she said. “Do you have any objections if I tell them?” “Nope,” I replied.
“Maybe they’d like to buy some too.” So she did. And they did. A couple days later I
asked Bing how much he’d spent on Zeno, the next time he appeared in my office.
“Well,-uh, actually I didn’t get any.” He shook his head in embarrassment. “It was 40
cents a share the day after I told you about it, and I thought I’d wait till it dropped back a
bit. But it never did.”
Carol and I watched Zeno climb with much interest and enjoyment. Two weeks or so
later it was about 60 cents, as I recall, and one night Carol said, “Maybe you ought to sell
when it doubles at around 70 or so. That would be a nice return on your money.” “Yes,” I
agreed, “but I hate to get out when it’s climbing so fast. Let’s decide on a higher sellout
point.” “O.K,” said Carol. “But we shouldn’t be pigs about this. Let’s sell when it triples
what you paid. Let’s see,--say, $1.05.” I agreed.
With pleasure we watched Zeno climb nearly every day, by 5 or 10 cents a jump.One
morning Bing told me his information source said the wildcat was near the target
producing zone, and that if it hit oil the stock would really soar. A couple days later Zeno
hit $1.00 per share. The following day Bing’s face hung low when he came in my office.
“It’s a dry hole.” he muttered. “Mobil’s abandoning the well.” Next day my broker told
me Zeno’s shares were down to 25 cents, and would probably keep dropping. I told him
to sell me out. That was my last venture in penny stocks.
****
Our seven years in Oklahoma City were productive of many fine friends, social
activities, and fun events for our kiddos. Jerry Mike went to Casady, a nearby private
school, for a year or two, and played football on their junior team until a knee injury kept
him on the sidelines. He later left Casady to return to Ridgeview school where Kappy had
been attending. His primary organized athletic activity afterward was being a star player
in a little league baseball team, the Ridgeview Rams, which won several city league
championships. During our O.C. stay, both J.M. and Kappy enjoyed hosting a number of
cute kittens which they somehow accumulated in spite of Carol’s mild disapproval.
Thereafter pussycats from various sources and generations became relatively regular
residents of our household.
Kappy’s best friend was Christy Dissing, who lived next door, and one of their
favorite pastimes was creating tap dances or ballet dances with appropriate costumes.
Performances were frequently given for their young neighbors, invited to attend with the
added inducement of cookies and soft drinks supplied by the performers. Another of
Kappy’s enjoyable events was attending Girl Scout camps near Oklahoma City. On one
such occasion (not conducted by Carol, as many were) when she was about 7 or 8 years
old, she impressed a number of her fellow campers (and Carol and I when we heard about
it!) with two of her unofficial achievements. One was winning an impromptu contest in
33
her tent one night as to who had the most mosquito bites, and the other was accepting a
supervisor’s joking offer to let Kappy skin a snake the supervisor had killed. Carol and I
of course never saw the results of Kappy’s introduction to biology (a subject in which she
later majored in college), but we both had a case of the shudders when we heard about it!
Summer temperatures were always miserably high, and whole-house air conditioning
systems were extremely rare. Our first year in O.C. was a bad one until we heard about
window air conditioners. I bought one but had difficulties installing it since it didn’t fit
my window sizes. When I mentioned that at the office a draftsman who was a very good
carpenter ( a “draftsman craftsman” –how appropriate!) volunteered to install it for me,
and did. We were at first undecided as to where to install it, but finally settled on the
master bedroom. And how marvelous that was! Hearing of our pleasure in such night
time comfort, the kids requested to be allowed to sleep (on the floor) in our bedroom. We
could hardly refuse, and the rest of the summer we all shared that bedroom. We later got
more window conditioners for other house areas, but got used to them and none ever
gave us quite as much exquisite pleasure as that first bedroom air conditioner.
****
One of our preferred methods of coping with the summer heat was to go camping in
the hill country where fresh air and cooling breezes were most apt to be found. I and my
family had no interest in public campsites. We enjoyed finding our own campgrounds in
rather remote wooded areas devoid of the clutter of civilized activities where we could
(as the cliché says) “commune with nature”. And such campsites often provided a small
element of adventure for the kiddos, frequently involving wildlife.
One example occurred one summer when we decided to spend a weekend tenting in
the Wichita Mountains wildlife refuge northwest of the Ft. Sill Military Reservation, in
southwestern Oklahoma. We had two tents, large enough to accommodate the four of us.
After cruising the refuge trails until it was almost dark we found a fine spot in the vicinity
of a small creek, miles from any visible civilization or other campers. It was not a very
wooded area, but had great expanses of rolling terrain well covered with a variety of wild
grasses and shrubs, which gave us a fine feeling of being alone in a wilderness.
On our first morning I awoke before anyone, and decided to get a fire going to be
ready for breakfast for what I knew would be a hungry group of campers. I quietly
dressed and exited the tent. As I went to pick up some of the firewood we’d assembled I
glanced eastward to admire the sunrise, and was dumbfounded to see about two dozen
buffalo grazing about a quarter mile away. I had hoped and expected to see some deer
during our stay, but I had forgotten having heard that the wildlife refuge, appropriately
enough, was home to such a herd. As I watched them with great interest for a few
moments, I was a bit startled to realize they were slowly heading in our direction. Our
34
campsite was in the midst of a broad patch of grass adjoining the small creek, and I
realized that the buffalos’ objectives were probably both grass and water. I was not much
of an authority on such critters, and I doubted that they would attack people, but I
suspected they wouldn’t be as easy to shoo away as a herd of cattle. So I hurried back
into the tent where Carol and Kappy were still sleeping.
“Carol! Kappy! Get up and get moving,--looks like we might have some buffalo
visitors here pretty quick!”
Carol came to immediately. “Oh my! Might they hurt us? What’ll we do?”
“I think we all better get in the car,” I replied. “ They might walk right through these
tents!”
Carol excitedly roused Kappy as I dashed back into the other tent. “Jerry Mike! Get up
quick,--a herd of buffalo is coming!” He woke up slowly. “What? What did you say,
Dad?” “I said a whole batch of buffalo are headed here, and we need to get in the car in
case they decide to waltz through our camp.”
Jerry M. settled back in his sleeping bag and said, “Aw, Dad,--this is a funny way to
wake me up. Some joke! There aren’t any buffalo in this country any more.” I said, “Get
up and see. And hurry! We need to get in the car.” He finally did get up, got dressed with
some mumbled complaints, and I led all three of them out were they could view the
slowly approaching hairy horned horde.
They were astounded, especially the kids who had never seen a live buffalo before
outside a zoo.Their jaws hung open momentarily; finally, “Wow!” from Kappy, and
“Holy smoke!” from Jerry Mike. We all assembled in the car, and in about ten or fifteen
minutes the animals were arriving in our area, cutting a wide swath as they grazed and
slowly meandered toward the nearby small creek. About a half dozen headed directly into
our campsite, apparently unconcerned by the presence of the tents. “Toot the horn!” said
Carol, “Maybe that will scare those away.” But I was dubious about doing so. “I’m
afraid if they do scare they might spook and run right through the tents.” So I didn’t
honk. Two or three managed to stumble over the tents’ stake ropes but not badly enough
to topple the tents. They came quite close to the car and inspected it, but I was thankful
they didn’t consider it was any hazard and nudge or butt it with their horns. Eventually
the herd moved on through to the creek with minimal damage to our camping facilities.
But we decided not to risk the chance of another possibly more hazardous visit the
following night, and we packed up and headed home, --an exciting weekend that
provided good conversational material with our friends.
By early in our O.C. stay I had worked the ten years with Carter to qualify me for
three weeks of vacation, which we could divide between Wisconsin visits and other trips
and camping ventures. We began doing some of the latter in Colorado, and found many
good non-public campsites in the mountains and aspen forests. On one occasion we
selected a rather remote spot in the San Isabel National Forest near a sparsely inhabited
35
village named Cuchara, which is 28 miles north of the Colorado-New Mexico state line
and 28 miles east of the center of that line. (“Cuchara” means “spoon” in Spanish; the use
of this word for a town name is puzzling.)
We arrived about 6 p.m. and after unloading camp equipment, setting up tents, and
laying a circle of fire control rocks around our campfire area, we had supper and enjoyed
a hike through the surrounding aspen forest. After a good night’s sleep we exited the tent
the following morning to find that our grub box and other food containers had been
trashed and looted. “Good grief!” exclaimed Carol. “Wow!” and “Gosh!” echoed the kids
and “Damn!” said I. After some discussion and analysis we concluded that a bear must
have done the deed, since no other animal resident of that forest would have been big
enough to upend the big grub box and scatter our camp equipment quite so thoroughly.
Breakfast was rather minimal, with much of the food scattered or inedible. The ice
chest was knocked over and the milk in it spilled; the box of cornflakes was ripped open
and what hadn’t been eaten was strewn on the ground, as were the remains of our bacon
and eggs supply. But the kids were too excited to be very hungry anyway. Jerry M. said,
“I’m glad he found some food outside so he didn’t come in our tent to sample us!”
After we had cleaned the camp up a bit we took an inventory of our remaining food
supply and decided we’d have to drive to Walsenburg (another 28 mile distance!) for
replenishments.(On our trip in I had noticed there was no grocery in Cuchara.) Carol was
rather dubious about being able to drive through the narrow and extremely rocky wagon
trail we had come in on, so I suggested she stay in camp with the kids and I would drive.
“Hey,” exclaimed J.M., “ Kappy and I don’t want to stay here. Can’t we go?”
“Wait a minute!” said Carol. “Suppose the bear comes back for lunch while you’re
gone. He might come back to look in the tent and I sure can’t climb a tree.”
“I don’t think he’d try to hurt you, hon. You could probably scare him off.” Carol
finally agreed to stay, I agreed to take the kids, and off we went.
Getting to and from Walsenburg took time, but we got back about noon. Offhand I
can’t remember an occasion when Carol welcomed me quite so enthusiastically. “I sure
wouldn’t make a very good hermit!” she exclaimed. “Are we going to stay here another
night?” Kappy asked apprehensively. “Yes,” I responded, “but don’t worry. I have an
idea on how to set a booby trap for ol’ bruin.” J.M. said, “Wouldn’t a good bear trap be
better?” I think I reassured everyone when I explained how I was going to mount all the
metal pots and pans in a barely balanced pile on the grub box, and encircle it several feet
in all directions with a cord mounted on stakes a foot or two high, with one end tied to the
bottom pot. Then, if the bear came again, he would trip the cord and down would come
the pile of tin crockery with a loud clatter which would certainly scare the bear off.
It took a bit longer to get to sleep that night, since we were all wondering if the bear
would show up again. But we finally did, and it must have been around midnight when
36
we were all suddenly awakened by the noise of tumbling tinware. Carol and I stuck our
heads through the tent flap to watch the intruder run off, and were startled to see him in
the moonlight still there, inspecting the fallen pile of pots and pans with great interest. He
apparently didn’t see us, or at least didn’t mind us, and we retreated hurriedly back into
the tent.
“I’ll scare him with my revolver,” I said to Carol. “Don’t shoot and wound him,” she
replied, or we’ll really have trouble!” I got my gun, aimed at a kettle nearest the bear,
and shot. But the resounding bang didn’t send him running. To my amazement he looked
toward the source of the noise, and then to my relief he slowly waddled away into the
woods. He must have heard gunfire before. That morning we proceeded to pack up and
move our camp to an area we hoped would be less bear populated. It was an exciting
experience that provided some fine conversational fodder for use at social occasions.
****
37
Chapter V: Tulsa (1959-1961)
Seven years in one place with Carter was a record for us, and we began wondering
where the next move might take us. Our few years’ stay in Wyoming, our frequent trips
to western states, and our numerous visits and vacation camping trips in Colorado, had
given us a love of the West, so we hoped I’d be sent to Denver to replace Dick Hicklin,
and not to the Eastern Division office in Mattoon, Illinois, nor the Southern Division in
Shreveport, Louisiana. But neither move was to be. In early 1959 we were returned to
Tulsa, with my assignment to be in Carter’s headquarters office. We were quite happy to
be again in Tulsa, and my new job had rather exotic implications,--Chief of Foreign
Geophysics! I was flattered to have my name and title added to Carter’s headquarters
stationery letterhead, and the nature of the job would be an interesting change to a more
adventurous work style.
In those days Standard of New Jersey, which operated worldwide through a variety of
subsidiary companies (e.g., Creole in Venzuela, Imperial in Canada, etc.), conducted
exploration in many countries by the use of geophysical crews. Geophysics included the
use of such instruments as magnetometers and gravity meters to ascertain the nature of
subterranean rock formations, but at the time of my new job the great majority of the
geophysical work involved seismograph crews and equipment designed to set off
explosive charges in shallow holes at planned intervals. The energy reverberations from
buried rock layers would be registered on recording devices planted at the surface. The
subterranean differences in height of prominent rock layers occurring from station to
station might hopefully indicate the presence of buried anticlines or fault ruptures which
geologists might interpret as being potentially oil producing. A typical seismograph crew
would include a truck-mounted drill and personnel to drill shallow holes and install and
detonate explosives in them. An Operator with perhaps an assistant would supervise and
interpret the resulting recordings and plan the layouts of dozens of cable-connected
surface recorders (“jugs”). These had to be moved and reinstalled after every “shot”
along a continuous mapped line where data was to be obtained. The moving of recorders
was done by several “jug hustlers”. Total personnel would typically be about thirteen.
The initial assignment in my new job was to prepare a new contract detailing all the
mutually agreeable terms and financial arrangements which would regulate the loaning of
geophysical crews by Carter to Jersey. The previous contract had become out-dated by
some deficiencies which often caused operational problems frequently requiring intracompany conferences and negotiations. This required me to spend quite a bit of learning
time conferring with Carter’s headquarters geophysicists and accountants, but after about
a week or ten days of head scratching and pencil pushing I finally produced a contract of
which the Carter managers approved, as did Jersey representatives after I had a quick
visit with them in New York.
Thereafter my job duties mostly involved the logistics and approval of crew
assignments and facilities, and personnel placements and records. To do so it was
38
advisable to visit the geophysicists locally in charge of the crew operations, so I enjoyed
occasional visits to South America, Europe, and Africa. More on these later.
****
We assumed we’d be in Tulsa for a lengthy stay this time, in Carter’s headquarters
group regardless of specific job assignments. So we bought a large house on a corner lot
at 4310 East 53rd St., where I did some extensive yard work and planted numerous trees.
I assigned a space in the back yard to Jerry M. for his vegetable garden, and I think his
fine results there were probably the origin of his love of gardening for many subsequent
years.
Our move had some disadvantages for all of us, however. We all regretted leaving the
many friends we’d acquired during seven years in Oklahoma city. The kiddos, now in
the seventh and ninth grades, found it a bit hard to get adjusted to the big new schools,
especially with their fraternities and sororities at the Junior High level. And we found it
hard to get acquainted with our neighbors who were not like the outgoing and sociable
ones we’d had in O.C. and previously in Tulsa. But one of our compensations for being
with a major company was that in spite of numerous moves we always knew some of the
other employees to socialize with.
One notable addition to the Kyle family in Tulsa was a female puppy we named
Chica. Carol and the kids had gone to the SPCA and after inspecting the numerous
candidates for adoption decided a young Border Collie was the cutest and friendliest of
all, and took her home. That night we introduced her to all of us. We all sat in a big circle
on the floor in the club room and deposited Chica in the middle. Chica was obviously
ecstatically happy to be out of the SPCA kennel, and ran to each of us in turn, leaping
into our laps, licking our hands or faces, and telling us with body language how happy
she was to be in our family. The first few nights we let her sleep in the garage, then in the
utility, and finally in the club room. She was easily trained to follow proper hygiene
procedures, and always stayed where told to in the house.
At Christmas that year (1959) we decided to drive to Wisconsin and be with our folks
and the Smatlaks. We had recently bought a new car, a big beautiful gray Buick that was
artfully decorated with a black top and long curved black panels along the sides. We had
never been on a long trip in it before, and greatly enjoyed the passenger room and riding
comfort. But we didn’t get to show it to our folks. On the day before Christmas, as we
were cruising through mid-Iowa near Forest City and Carol was driving, we encountered
a long stretch of icy U.S. highway 69. For quite a way we were behind a slow moving
large truck, and Carol finally decided to pass. The truck was too big for us to see ahead of
it, but as Carol cautiously began to maneuver around it we could suddenly see an
oncoming car. Carol began to slow and ease back behind the truck, but the ice kept her
from turning back into our lane and we suddenly had a crashing head-on collision! We all
39
got bruised, the worst being Kappy who was in the front passenger seat, and was thrown
severely against the dashboard. (We unfortunately weren’t using seat belts.) But the only
serious injury was suffered by the wife of the other car’s driver; she was thrown forward
like Kappy but her head smashed out the windshield, and she also suffered a broken knee
cap.
Our car was totalled, and we had to stay overnight in a motel in Forest City. The next
day I was able to rent a car to finish our trip and use the few days we were in Wisconsin.
I can’t now recall how we eventually got back to Tulsa,--whether we kept the rental car
or flew, or what. I eventually bought a Ford Fairlane to replace that fine Buick.
****
By early 1960 we were established in some social circles with quite a few new
acquaintances (mostly Carter employees), and had renewed association with friends we
had known before in Tulsa. One enjoyable activity we and three other couples we’d long
known was a monthly dinner meeting hosted by each couple in turn. Two couples lived in
Oklahoma City,-- T.P. (“Tepee”) and Mary Woodward, and Francis and Gloria Stewart.
Our Tulsa partners were Bill and Robbie Bramlette. All the men were geologists. The
ladies had once taken issue with some menu suggestions some of we men had made at
an initial get together, and had challenged the men to take over future dinners and do
better. In an irresponsible and liquor lubricated mood the men agreed to henceforth do
so,-- plan menus, prepare and serve dinners, and do dishes afterward.. And the only
obligation of the women, we specified jokingly, would be to repaint the kitchen afterward.. So from then on dinners were prepared and hosted exclusively by the men, in
cooperation with each other, and we agreed among ourselves that each dinner would have
a menu based on a foreign theme.
I thought our dinner group ought to have a name, and since I mentioned the matter I
was voted to christen it. I have always liked acronyms that would form a word that would
suggest the organization’s objectives, so after considerable thought I came up with a title
with an acronym that would doubtless appeal to the ladies It was: Inter-City Chapter of
the Fraternal Order Of International Epicures,with the acronym of ICC FOOIE,--which as
two words might conceivably be a lady’s comment after tasting some of our concoctions.
The name was unanimously approved by both the men and women.
We had some unusual dinners with foreign dishes that took some research to produce,
and most of our culinary creations were more or less edible. But we four men often had
some unusual experiences as we tried to interpret foreign recipe specifications. On one
occasion at the Woodward’s T.P. thought a Cajun menu would be appropriate since he
was from Louisiana. We assembled the sauces and spices without undue trouble, and
were ready to cook the rice to go with it. His kitchen had a big supply of rice in a large
jar, but we couldn’t spot any recipe for cooking it. “No trouble,” said T.P., “I know that
all we have to do is put it in a big pot of boiling water and cook it until tender. But I’m
not sure how much we may need. What do you guys think?” After some discussion the
40
consensus of opinion was that a cupful of rice per person might be enough, cooked in a
huge kettle T.P. had found in the pantry.
And it was! We ended up with cooked rice all over the stove, the floor, and most
everywhere in the kitchen. The ladies never understood why we had to spend so much
time after dinner cleaning up the kitchen, and we never told them.
One of the dinners I hosted was with an East Indian theme. Bramlette and I had some
difficulty trying to find East Indian recipes in any cookbook, and at that time we could
find no East Indian restaurants in Tulsa to consult with. We finally went to the public
library and after some food research got enough ideas for our purpose. One menu
included “Bombay Duck” as a recommended item, but we couldn’t find any cookbook
that told how to prepare a duck in “Bombay” style. So we began shopping for pre-cooked
ready- to-serve ducks of that category in a few grocery stores that included foreign foods.
But we had no luck in finding any, or even anyone who knew what we were talking
about. We’d decided to switch to another main entrée when we somehow heard about a
small restaurant in a remote section of town, populated mostly by recent immigrants, that
did include some East Indian dishes in their menu. We went to find it, and were greeted
at the door by a friendly young fellow who offered us a couple of printed menus
“Thanks.” I said, “but we’re not here to eat. We’re wanting some information about an
East Indian recipe for cooking duck Bombay style, if you wouldn’t mind us asking.” And
I went on to explain about the dinner party we were planning. The man laughed. “I’m
sorry I can’t give you a recipe for cooking ducks, but we do serve Bombay Duck here,
and I could sell you some. But you obviously don’t know what it is. It’s a type of cooked
and spiced fish, served as an accessory dish,--not a main entrée.”After some embarrassed
laughter on our part, we decided to buy some. We ultimately served it and it was rather
delicious.
Our main dish was also pretty good,--East Indian Chicken Curry, the recipe for which
we had found in our library research. To add to our dinner theme we served Singapore
Slings, and for dessert we listed on the printed menu “Yogi Berries” and “Mahatma
Candy”. (We actually served cake, but we liked the puns.) The “Nightcap” was listed as
“Sparkling Alka Seltzer, en carafe”.We also added to the main menu a supplement
section labeled “Today’s Diet Special (for no-guts guests)” which read “Try Our Omar
Khayyam Slenderizer: Jug of wine; Loaf of Bread; Thou.” And to add to the East Indian
atmosphere I donned a white towel headdress and full black beard while I read my rather
long poetic creation titled “Thoughts on Board the Ruby Yacht of Omar Kyleham”,
describing some of the interesting features of living in India. (Copy on next page.)
It was a good party.
In addition to the ICC-FOOIE dinners, Carol and I enjoyed staging parties with some
unusual themes, at our home both in Tulsa and later in Houston. Some of the classics that
41
the many guests enjoyed included such ones as our “Going-To-The-Moon” party (after
NASA’s first man-on-the-moon event) and our beatnick era bash (where the invitations
decorated with my appropriate cartoons read, “Hey—feel like you’re a little Beat, Nick?
Well, then,--better come to our Greenwich Village Party, at the Kyle pad.”)
One of the best was in Tulsa,--our Hallowe’en Treasure Hunt. It was a big production
with 36 guests, that took a lot of advance planning and preparation. I had selected 20
locations scattered throughout suburban areas and edges of Tulsa where I planted clues,
each of which would in rhyme direct the finder to the next clue. Carol and I grouped the
treasure hunters in parties of 4 each, with all married couples split up into different units.
After administering everyone a drink or two to get them in the mood, each party was
given a different numbered clue in an envelope which they could open and study after the
start of the hunt was announced. (Each party was given a clue to a different location so
they wouldn’t all be arriving at a clue location more or less together and simply follow
each other from clue to clue.) The hunters were told that there were exactly 20 clues
hidden, each to be left intact after being read, and that the winning party would be the one
who returned with a correct description of the 20th clue they encountered.in their
sequence. (I had previously recorded each party’s sequence of clue finding, so none could
report back and describe, say, the 18th or 19th as being the 20th , since my records would
show which the 20th would be for each party’s sequence.)
Most of the clues had spooky settings or situations. I had enlisted the help of a former
neighbor and good friend, Bolte Nickel, to costume himself as a Borneo wildman who, as
a party came to the clue location, would suddenly jump out of the brush where he was
hidden, yell and shake a big spear at them. He had fun doing it, and got lots of reaction
from the surprised hunters, especially the women. Just outside Tulsa’s south edge I had
found an abandoned rundown house sitting alone in a wooded area. There was little
furniture in it and an old moldy wooden table in one room. I cut a small hole in the
middle, shortened the legs a bit, and cut another small hole in the floor directly beneath. I
asked Jerry Mike, who happily agreed, to stand on a box in the basement area below
where he could reach up through both floor and table and leave his hand showing on the
table, decorated with catsup so it looked like a severed hand. Clue instructions specified
that the hunters not use flashlights, and the only light in the room was a candle on the
table, so it was too dark to see J.M.’s arm reaching up from below. The fingers would be
holding the next clue envelope the hunters would be looking for, and as they took it
J.M.’s fingers would wiggle. It was a huge success; Jerry Mike said the women’s gasps
were really loud enough for him to hear even in the basement.
My clue function was in a cemetery, and I had to leave the house before the game
started to get ready. Instructions to my clue specified that only one of the women was to
enter without a flashlight and the other three remain in the car parked outside. A small
map in the clue directed the woman to follow a path marked by a few candles, about a
block’s distance to a grave where I lay in repose in front of the tombstone on which a
couple candles flickered. I was wearing some old dirty clothes, a Frankenstein mask, and
42
masked clawlike hands crossed on my chest. The walkway was gravel covered, and I
could hear the women approaching. When they spotted me I could hear their footsteps
stop briefly a few times, then proceed and stop as they got a good look at me. One or two
of them said, “Jerry,--it’s you, isn’t it? Jerry?” I remained dead quiet, and when they
finally decided I was just a dummy and I could feel them reaching for the clue envelope I
was holding on my chest I’d grab them by the ankle. Talk about screams,--Wow!
At that time in my life I was interested in the mathematics of the odds and success
percentages in various games of chance. I was never wanting to actually experiment in
such matters in Las Vegas since my calculations confirmed the rather obvious fact that
the longer one played in any casino game the worse his chances were of being a winner.
My only active ventures in gambling were the occasional penny ante poker games that
some friends and I occasionally sponsored as social activities. But as a hobby I was
interested in learning about the variety of casino games usually available at most of the
commercial casinos, and finally decided it would be fun to make some myself. I made a
vertically mounted roulette wheel, and on several 2 ½’ x 4’ poster boards I drafted
number-painted squares to be used on tables for placing of bets by the gamblers. I made
boards designed for roulette gambling, blackjack, craps, and a few others including a
couple games I invented. At game stores I acquired a large supply of imitation paper
money and poker chips, and I was ready to entertain friends at the Kyle Casino!
My occasional casino parties were of penny ante caliber, of course. Players would
begin the evening by investing a dollar for $1,000 in paper money and/or chips, and when
gaming was over would cash in their remaining casino cash at that rate. My several
games of course required operators for each, so my parties had to have enough guests that
I could teach a few the relatively simple operating procedures, and then switch two or
three times during the evening so that everyone had a chance to gamble.
The Kyle Casino began getting some publicity as a conversation item among my
friends’ friends and other Carter employees in Tulsa. It wasn’t long before I was asked
by Laura Huston, who with husband Steve (a Carter landman) were close friends of Carol
and me, if I would put on a casino night for the entertainment of her local sorority, Kappa
Kappa Gamma. She explained that on a weeknight they could rent a meeting room at a
large motel for their group, and that attendance would be strictly limited to sorority
members and their dates. At first I said no, not wanting to get involved in any large
gambling enterprise, either private or otherwise. But after we discussed the financial
aspects I agreed to do it on the same basis I had done at my private parties: Laura’s guests
would buy $1,000 in play money for, say, $5. But in lieu of cashing their remaining paper
money for dollars at the end of the evening the players with the top two or three
remaining paper amounts would win some suitable prizes. So we scheduled such a party.
I enlisted and instructed five or six of my men friends to serve as game operators and
cashier, and had them all wear white shirts and black bow ties to give the party some
professional casino atmosphere. The evening was very enjoyable by all, and my fellow
operators and I were thanked profusely at the end of the evening.
43
That party’s success was a satisfying event. But a bad feature was the increasing
publicity. Not long afterward I was contacted by a member of a young men’s junior
league association who asked if I’d consider putting on a casino night as a fund- raiser
for their organization. I initially declined ,--the term “fund-raiser” had ominous
connotations in my mind. But in the next couple days I was called by two other
association members, one of whom I knew quite well, who begged me to do it and
promised me a share of any profits that might accrue. This I vigorously rejected, not
wanting my casino hobby to acquire any commercial implications for me, but finally
agreed to do a casino party for their association if it would be strictly private for members
only, in a closed and locked door establishment, using paper money only on the tables
as done in my previous party. This they agreed to.
The event was held in some lodge hall near the edge of the city. It was scheduled to
start at 8 p.m. I arrived about 7:00 to train the game operators who, like me, had to agree
to not receive any percentage of the casino’s profits that evening.That they all agreed to,
and looked forward to the fun of being game operators. I think we had six or seven
casino type games plus a couple of non-casino poker tables, which would accommodate
the 40 or so expected guests. The casino games were conducted with paper play money
which they bought from a junior leaguer, but I wasn’t told (and didn’t want to be) what
the exchange rate was for buying and later cashing in the paper money. Drinks and
occasional snacks were being served by another junior leaguer, but I don’t know if they
were being sold or just given. But we operators got ours for free.
The party proceeded well, and midnight had been announced as closing time. But
about 10:00 p.m. or so there was a sudden knocking and thumping at the front door. One
of the party sponsoring junior leaguers made a quick round of the tables to be sure no real
money was showing, and then went to the door and opened it. The ensuing scenario was
identical to ones we had encountered at night clubs during our first time in Tulsa. As
we’d been warned to expect, a policeman was waiting, and was escorted through our
casino layout without comment by him or anyone. When he left the junior league host
went out with him and closed the door behind them, so we couldn’t see what was
happening. But we knew! The host came back in very soon, grinned and waved, and said,
“Back to the games, gang.” And the games were renewed with vigor until closing time.
That was the last time I consented to conduct games at such functions. After we
moved to Houston I frequently used the equipment again at our private social parties, but
no money more than a few dollar bills were ever used to buy the play money.
****
My new job in Tulsa, and in Houston where we had to move in mid-1961, required
quite a few interesting visits to foreign countries where Carter’s seismograph crews were
either operating or scheduled for work. The earliest one was in June of 1959, to check the
44
status and current progress of crews in Venezuela and Colombia, which were supervised
in offices at Caracas and Bogota. I was also asked to pay a visit to Guatemala City where
a Carter geologist, Larry Vinson, was reportedly thinking of requesting some seismic
work to support his exploratory investigations.
Carol expressed much interest in my trip plans, so I asked her if she’d like to
accompany me (with her traveling expenses being our personal obligations). She was
very enthused to be joining me, so we had to make arrangements for the kids to spend
time at summer camps while we’d be gone. We booked J.M. at Camp Lincoln, a toprated boys’ camp near Brainerd in central Minnesota, and Kappy was assigned to a girls’
camp at nearby Lake Hubert. Both would bus to their Aunt Yvonne’s in Rice Lake after
the camp sessions were over, and we’d pick them up after our trip.
I took a few days’ vacation first, for time to drive to Shreveport and New Orleans. In
Shreveport we visited a couple of friends we’d known in Wyoming, Marge and Dick
Morehouse, who hosted and housed us with great hospitality. We then continued driving
to New Orleans. Carol had never been there, so we allocated three days to visit the many
interesting scenes and sites, much enjoyed by both of us. Then we flew to Guatemala
City where we were met and welcomed by Larry, and established for a two day visit in
the Hotel Maya Excelsior.
We spent a couple days in Guatemala City and the geologist Larry briefed me on his
work. He’d done a good job, but I told him that some more would be necessary to secure
approval from Tulsa for a seismic crew. He reluctantly agreed, and said he’d keep me
posted on his geological studies when I was back in Tulsa.. But he wanted to show me
the terrain and environment of the area where he’d like to have seimic work done, which
was in remote rain forest country in northern Guatemala. His thought in so doing was so
that if he ever submitted a request for geophysical work to Tulsa, I’d be in a position to
give information and opinions about working conditions and terrain problems. I agreed
and he scheduled a visit our second day to visit the area he proposed for seismic work, in
a small 4-passenger plane and pilot he often rented for company business. I asked him
what Carol could do for entertainment while we were gone, and he said “Bring her with
us. There’d be only three of us and the pilot, and she might enjoy seeing some jungle
country.” So, needless to say, Carol was tickled to be included.
It was an interesting flight over much uninhabited country. I could see that it would be
hard to get a crew into it, and extremely difficult to operate without considerable effort in
tree clearing for the seismic lines and shot hole drilling rig. So then I asked Larry
“Do you think the government would approve cutting so many roads and trails through
here?” “I don’t know.” he replied, “Do you know about Tikal?” “No,” I said, “But it
sounds like a Guatemalan beverage.” Larry chuckled. Tikal, he explained, was a recently
discovered large thousand-year-old Mayan city further north in the jungle that was once a
civilized culture center and apparently home base for the Mayan rulers in past aeons. Due
to some catastrophe the city’s population had suddenly disappeared and the jungle had
45
reclaimed most of the city over the ensuing hundreds of years. Larry said he mentioned
Tikal because a U.S. university anthropology research group had obtained permission
from the Guatemalan government to move in, establish temporary living quarters, and
spend a year or two studying the site. In so doing they had to hack out of the neighboring
forest a landing strip for small planes to ferry in supplies and personnel. “So,” said Larry,
“if they were able to cut trails and a landing strip I would think the government would
approve similar work for some geophysical exploration.”
“Sounds possible,” I said. “Have you and this pilot ever tried to land there?” “Yes,
a.couple times. Rather exciting,--a very bumpy landing, as you might imagine. Say,-would you like to try it, as long as we’re in that neighborhood?”
I looked at Carol, who nodded vigorously. “Yes, yes,--I’d love to.” So we did. After
another 15 or 20 minute flight we could see the city’s remnants below, and the landing
strip that looked no wider than about two plane widths. I was glad to know that this
wouldn’t be our pilot’s first try at it, and, as a former pilot myself, I was greatly
impressed with his skill at setting down in that narrow vegetation covered alley cut
through thick jungle terrain.
We walked a short distance into Tikal and were amazed and impressed by the number
and extent of disintegrated stone building foundations amidst the thick vegetation and
tree growth. We proceeded to a large tent where there were several university student
researchers studying maps and artifacts, and we were effusively greeted by them. Not
many visitors outside of the university group, obviously. They were delighted to give us a
tour of building remnants they thought they had identified, including a temple and what
was probably the ruler’s residence. But the most impressive structure was a huge pyramid
of massive stone construction, the peak of which loomed well above the tops of the
surrounding forest jungle. One fellow said proudly, “We measured the height of that with
an altimeter, and found that it’s taller than any other structure or building in Guatemala!”
I can’t remember now what that height was in feet, but we were quite impressed, enough
so that our guide added, “How would you like to climb it?”
That looked like it would be quite a physical effort, but we decided to try it, and it
was! It took us about 30 or 45 minutes, including frequent rest stops, but the result was
well worth the climb. We could see miles and miles of nothing but rain forest, with
occasional drainage channels detectable. But the most fascinating feature was a small
inset area, almost at the top, with what appeared to have been a stone table in the middle.
“That,” said our guide, “we think is where ceremonial human sacrifices took place,
with the city’s inhabitants presumably all gathered near the pyramid base to watch.”
“Carol,” I said, “how about your lying down on that table and pretending you’re to be a
sacrificial virgin?” She laughed, but wouldn’t do it.
46
The most mysterious thing about Tikal, we were told, is why the city was so suddenly
evacuated about 800 years ago. Was it some plague that suddenly erupted, or perhaps
some invasion by enemy tribes, or an abnormal drought period that destroyed their food
supply,--or what? I’ve forgotten the researcher’s explanation of how they knew of Tikal’s
loss of residents and when;-- something to do with scientific study of rock carvings, and
similarity of Tikal artifacts with those in other Mayan localities. Impressive studies, I’m
sure.
I’ve now heard, incidentally, that Tikal has since been developed for regular visits,
and is a popular tourist attraction. I’m glad we saw it when it wasn’t.
For our continuing journey south to Bogota from Guatemala we were booked on
another Pan American fllight, but piloted by Colombians who, as they warmed up the
plane and maneuvered it into takeoff position, seemed to me to be acting a little less
capable and efficient than most U.S. crews. But it was scheduled to be a relatively short
flight, arriving in Bogota in mid- afternoon, so we were not expecting the stop we made
in Panama, where passengers were required to disembark and told it would be a few
hours before the flight would resume. After a period of time I tried to inquire as to the
reason for the delay. Initially I could get responses only in Spanish which were too rapid
fire for my limited knowledge of that language to interpret. But finally an airline official
who spoke some English gave me the answer, and I returned to inform Carol. “Did you
find out?” she asked. “Well, ah, yes,” I responded, “It seems one of the plane’s engines
has developed a little problem which they want to repair before tackling that high flight
over the Andes.”
“Oh boy,” groaned Carol. “You know, before we started this trip we thought maybe
for safety reasons we ought to take separate flights, so if either plane had a fatal acccident
the kiddos would at least have one parent left. Maybe we better do that now, for the rest
of the trip.” “Well, maybe.” I said. And as I spoke a Panamanian in an airline uniform
walked by. He was wearing heavy glasses, with lenses as thick as the bottoms of Coca
Cola bottles. Carol watched him go by, then said, “What do you suppose his job is?” I
said, “Well, I saw a pair of wings emblem on his jacket as he went by, so I guess he must
be the new pilot.”
“That does it!” gasped Carol. “I want to go home!” I put my arm around her and
chuckled. “Honey, he isn’t really. Just a joke, OK? I think he’s probably a clerk or ticket
seller here.” Carol glared at me. “Very unfunny! I think I still want to get another flight
for myself to Bogota, just so we’re on the safe side for the kids’ future.”
I decided too, at that point, that it wouldn’t be a bad idea, and went to check other
flight schedules at the ticket counter. But it turned out there weren’t any more flights to
Bogota in the remaining daylight hours (and they didn’t schedule night flights over the
dangerously high Andes). I didn’t think we should be separated overnight, with one of us
in Panama and one in Bogota, so I persuaded Carol to contine with me whenever our
47
flight should leave. Which it finally did after a six-hour delay in Panama. But getting to
Bogota was a hair raiser! Our pilot, we heard, had never made a night flight over the
Andes, and it was dark before we made it there. Flying over the Andes is bumpy enough
at best, but we encountered a bad storm as we crossed,--nearly all the passengers got sick,
as did even the pilot. But we lucked out and made it safely though quite churned up.
Bogota, the capital of Colombia, lies in the eastern foothills (“Cordillera Oriental”) of
the magnificent Andes which flank the entire west coast of South America, 4,500 miles
from Panama to Cape Horn, and include many peaks well above 20,000 feet in elevation
and several in excess of 22,000. Bogota is a bit over 8,600 feet above sea level, and had
about a million residents. It produces a wide variety of manufactured products, and is a
center of art and education. It has the National University, several colleges and museums,
and an observatory. It used to be called the Athens of America. But as I write this its
reputation for cultural aspects has been unfortunately dimished by current problems in
Colombia with cocaine production and exporting by a strong coalition of drug lords that
their federal law enforcement agency is unable to stop or even diminish. And frequent
violence by drug traffickers and conflict between rightist paramilitary groups and leftist
guerrillas are a constant worry for Colombia’s residents.
Bogota is an exciting, beautiful, and quite unique city.We were quartered at the Hotel
Tequendama, an elegant hostelry near the downtown area, a good location from which to
tour the interesting city. We were told it was the only centrally heated building in the city,
which was surprising since the temperature stays about 60 degrees F.the year around, due
to the combination of high elevation and near-equator location.(Winter clothing would
have been quite acceptable!.)
The Carter Oil staff members were very hospitable, and our arrival was an occcasion
for six couples to welcome us with a fine dinner at a first rate restaurant. During our
week’s stay the wives entertained Carol royally while I was visiting the crew operations.
One couple, Dan and Hope Conley, seemed to feel a special rapport with us since they
too were from Wisconsin. They had us out a couple times, and on a weekend Dan took us
both on an all-day scenic mountain drive,mainly to show me some interesing gelogical
structures. Another fascinating experience was taking a chair lift on a long ride to the top
of a mountain on the edge of Bogota where Montserrat, a monastery and church, exists.
What a view! Another company wife, Nona Bell, impressed Carol by having her private
chauffeur conduct them on a shopping tour and then taking Carol on a visit to Nona’s 26room home (rented), which was maintained by 6 maids (who earned only the equivalent
of $6 per month!).
I spent most of the first business day in conference with the office geophysical
supervisor and a couple geologists being briefed on seismic operating results to date, and
geologic studies and plans for further work. The following three days were spent visiting
the seismic field operations. Their base camp was in a lowland savannah (grassland) area
20 or 30 miles east of Bogota, and the current field work was in nearby jungle country.
48
After my return I wrote a letter to Jerry Mike and Kappy which included some of the
following descriptive comments:
“ The camp is in a field full of termite hills,--big rock-hard mounds which average
about 4 feet high and 4 feet in diaameter, but with some being taller than I am. They are
roughly conical in shape, and honey-combed inside where the termites live. There are
thousands of these mounds in nearly all open areas. They’re irregularly spaced, but
average about 20 feet apart. A field of them looks very much like hayfields where the hay
has been cut and stacked in individual “haycocks”.
“Yesterday I went with the crew to work by boat. We made a 1½ hour journey over a
lake and up a jungle river in a native “canoe”,--made out of a huge log about 30 feet long
and only 4 feet wide. We had 25 men aboard, and had a 35 horsepower outboard. It was a
most interesting trip,--lots of strange trees, vegetation and vines, thousands of strange
birds. We saw alligators on the banks and “red howler” monkeys,--about the size of small
dogs, with long goatees (chin whiskers). Didn’t see any snakes, but there are a lot around,
I’m told.
“In villages around here most of the houses are made of big bamboo poles for walls,
sometimes mud-plastered. Roofs are made of palm leaves woven together.The “streets”
in the villages (mostly grass covered with footpaths down the middle) contain equal
numbers of pigs and small, brown, naked pot-bellied children. Sometimes it’s hard to tell
one from another!”
Our trip to Caracas was a 2½ hour 600-mile flight along the eastern slope of the
Cordillera Oriental (which in Venezuela becomes the “Cordillera Merida”). It was an
uneventful but scenic trip, and we arrived in time for dinner at the Tamanaco hotel where
reservations had been made for us. It was large and elegant but like Grand Central
Station, and after one night we moved to the Hotel Avila. The Avila was a quiet and
beautiful hostelry with real “atmosphere”, nestled up in Caracas’ suburban mountains,
and more of a businessman’s place than a tourist hangout.
Caracas is the capital and chief city of Venezuela, situated about six miles south of the
major Caribbean seaport of La Guaira. At the time of our visit it had a population of
about 1 ½ million residents. It’s a bustling metropolis with numerous educational and
cultural points of interest and, like Bogota, has many factories producing a wide variety
of products. Venezuela is a bit larger in area than Oklahoma and Texas combined, and
has rich deposits of such minerals as gold, diamonds, iron ore, copper, coal, etc. The
richest of all are the petroleum resources, mostly in the Lake Maracaibo region at the
west end of the country, which at the time of our visit were being produced at about three
million barrels a day.
The country is divided into nearly equal north and south sections by the mighty
Orinoco river which originates near the southern tip of the country and flows north and
then east into the Atlantic, for a total of 1,700 miles. The most famous scenic attraction in
Venezuela is Angel Falls in the Guiana plateau highlands in the southeastern corner of
49
the country. The falls has a total height of 3,212 feet, which is over twice as high as the
Empire State Building in New York, twenty times the height of Niagra Falls, and over
1,000 feet higher than any other falls in the world!
The geophysical supervisor during our visit was Denny Meyer, an accomplished and
experienced geophysicist and geologist, who with charming wife Waneta wined, dined,
and entertained us in admirable fashion in their home during our Caracas visit. Another
couple who did likewise was Don and Claire Johnson, and it was apparent that both the
Meyers and Johnsons enjoyed their stays in Caracas.
Don was a seismic crew party chief, and was my primary source of information and
coordinator for my work with the geophysical crews and office personnel. He took me on
a 3-day tour to a seismic crew operations in the Orinoco basin lowland jungle country,
during which time either Waneta or Claire hosted Carol and took her on tours of Caracas.
My tour was a very interesting and instructive visit, reminding me of my WWII military
experience in the Amazon.rain forest as far as environmental conditions were concerned.
We saw a few crocodiles in a river near which the crew was camping, and a couple crew
members took great pleasure in telling me about the presence and habits of piranhas in
many of the local waterways. Their discussion was adroitly planned, since the trail we
were traveling on very soon passed beside a pond area near the river, where we stopped.
for a rest.
“This looks like a good swimming hole,” said one man. “Mr. Kyle, wouldn’t you like
to take a quick dip?” I could see the pond was connected to the river by a narrow channel,
and the water was a bit cloudy. “Oh, thanks but no thanks,” I replied. “I prefer to be able
to see into my bath water.” “Well,” said another, “we’re all pretty sweaty and don’t have
many options for baths around here, so let’s take a chance.” Whereupon most of the crew
laughed, undressed, and within minutes had all plunged into the pond. I then realized they
had done this there before, and had been kidding me a bit with the preliminary talk about
water hazards in the area. So, slightly embarrassed, I chuckled, disrobed, and joined the
group. It was pleasant enough, but slightly warmer than I had expected.
When our Caracas visit was concluding Carol and I decided a stopover in Cuba during
our return to the U.S. would be interesting, so we booked a flight into Havana. That time
was shortly after Castro’s revolutionary uprising had overthrown the existing dictator’s
government, and Castro had begun his rule as the new dictator.Then the U.S. had not yet
become aware of Castro’s plans for a communist rule, and neither the U.S. nor Castro had
any objections to visits between countries by their citizens. Cuba, in fact, then warmly
welcomed visitors, especially those who had cash to spend, since the normal supply of
tourists had dwindled considerably during Castro’s military activities. So Carol and I had
no trouble getting a very classy hotel room at one of Havana’s most elegant hostelries,
the Hotel Nacional.
50
One unusual feature was that for several weeks Castro had issued invitations to all of
Cuba’s campesinos (lower class rural-dwelling farmers, sugar cane workers, etc.) to come
and visit Havana for a couple days and enjoy the sights and city environment most had
never seen before, at government expense.They would be free to roam anywhere, inspect
anything, and their food and lodging would be provided at some government-selected
locations. Not being aware of this upon our arrival, we were surprised by the crowds of
ill-dressed people on the streets who seemed to be simply “rubber-necking”. And later in
the hotel, there were more of the same in the lobby, and the elevator up to our room was
also loaded with sightseers who were obviously just enjoying their first elevator rides.
Like many of the fancier hotels, ours had a large gambling casino. As I have noted
earlier in my anecdotes about the “Kyle Casino”, I had an academic interest in such
games, so when I learned of the hotel’s casino and that it was still operating, Carol and I
paid it a visit. Only two or three of the tables had operators, but all of the slot machines
still appeared intact. As I recall, there were only two, maybe three, hotel guests playing,
but the room was quite crowded with the campesino visitors, moving from table to table
and chattering excitedly,--but none playing, of course. They were particulary interested
in the roulette table. Since no one was using it, I thought they might like to see some one
do so. I purchased about $10 worth of chips from the operator, and began wagering. The
many onlookers were quite fascinated with the action, and when I lost a bet they frowned
and mumbled sympathetically, and when I won they smiled, chuckled, and one or two
would clap their hands.
After about 30 or 40 minutes I decided the observers understood the system. As it
happened, at that point I was a few dollars (in chips) ahead. so I told the operator
something like “Basta! Yo estaba muy afortunado,” and distributed my chips to a few of
my most avid onlookers. They were most appreciative and I would like to think they won
something after we left.
****
We retrieved our kids as soon as we were back in Tulsa. They both reported having
had fine times, and no one got lonesome (as they said some of the others did). Kappy had
written us a few times during our South American visit and kept us informed about her
activities. (Before we left we had given them the business offices’ addresses in Bogota
and Caracas.) And early in our trip we had a nice very comprehensive missive from J.M.
sent to us in Bogota. But he concluded his letter with a footnote that he didn’t have any
more stamps and couldn’t get any at camp, so if we wanted to hear from him again we’d
have to mail him some. We found it a bit hard to buy U.S. stamps anywhere during our
trip, so we didn’t hear from him except that once.
One of Jerry M.’s primary interests at Camp Lincoln was sailing. After he and we
were home he enjoyed explaining to us the techniques of sailboat operation, and finally
decided he would like to have one of his own. The Sea Sled had lost status as a boating
51
vehicle, and after quite a bit of discussion with Carol and me on the subject we agreed to
let him have one built to order. He had somehow learned of an independent boat builder
named John Bougio (spelling is questionable, but it sounded like “Boo-joe”) and he
contracted with Bougio to build a Crescent model. I don’t remember the price, but much
of the money came from J.M.’s saved allowance funds and birthday gifts. It was large
enough to seat two or three very comfortably, and the initial voyage on a large lake near
Tulsa was a memorable event! It subsequently had many voyages and lasted well for a
couple years or so, until it suffered damage when moored during a a violent storm. The
guy wires broke, the mast tipped and rather gutted the boat. Subsequently Bill Smatlak,
during a visit by him and Yvonne, agreed to take it. They towed it back to Rice Lake, Bill
repaired it and used it a few years before finally having to dispose of it. But he did retain
the mast which he erected in the back yard overlooking the lake, and adorned it with lots
of Christmas tree lights which made an attractive holiday decoration.
Subsequently, after we’d moved to Houston, J.M. decided to have another sailboat,
and bought a used Lightning model, which was in good condition and moreso after he’d
spent some time refurbishing it. He rented space for it at the Yacht Club in the Clear Lake
area of Galveston Bay, and we and his friends enjoyed J.M.’s frequent weekend sailing
fun in that area. But after a few fine years his ownership of the Lightning accidentally
terminated. He had been paying his dock rental monthly, but during his absence away at
college the management of the rental facilities changed hands, and in the transfer process
their billing records were lost. Jerry M. received no rental due notices, and when he
finally was home and could check out his boat’s docking status he found it had been sold
for overdue rental payments!
That was the end of J.M.’s vessel ventures, but later he found a boat rental facility on
Houston area’s Lake Conroe, and rented a sailboat in which he entertained Kappy, Carol
and me on many summer weekends. I think one of his most enjoyable sailboat piloting
experience, though, was on another of our summer trips to Wisconsin. Yvonne and Bill,
our much appreciated and hospitable hosts, had neighbors named Idamae and Glen
Brown. Glen was an avid amateur sailor who owned an impressive 40-foot sailboat that
he docked near Bayfield, a lovely seaside town adjoining Lake Superior on the northern
tip of Wisconsin. This tip faces into the Apostle Islands, which were apparently named by
someone years ago who couldn’t count,since there is actually a maze of about 20 or 22
beautifully scenic islands. Most are relatively uninhabited except for Madeline, just a few
miles east of Bayfield, which has become a popular tourist resort (reached by ferries). At
Yvonne’s request, Glen took us on an all afternoon cruise of the nearby islands, and gave
J M. the privilege of captaining the boat for extended periods.
****
In October of 1959 I again embarked on an extended geophysical journey. My first
business stop was a seismic operation in Turkey, to be followed by a similar visit to
Libya. The flight from Rome landed in Istanbul (called Constantinople until 1453) where
I was met by a company plane which flew me across Turkey, with a stopover in Ankara,
52
about 500 miles to the small town of Iskinderun, located on the Mediterranean seacoast
very near the Syrian border. The crew was working in one of the few flatland spots for
miles around. Results were looking good, and the supervising operator wanted to extend
the survey a few miles into Syria to provide some marginal control for a very interesting
anticlinal structure they were working on. I was sorry to have to dissuade him, pointing
out that we had no authority from Syria to do so, and if we were caught sneaking in with
a seismic crew there would likely be some embarrassing repercussions from the Syrians.
Incidentally, I never did later learn whether that prospect had been leased from Turkey
and drilled, but if so it was probably a dry hole since I’ve never heard of any oil or gas
production being developed in that area.
After a couple days in and near Iskinderun I was returned to Istanbul where I’d
planned an overnight stop and half a day to see the sights. I’d been told that the ancient
city, one of the world’s oldest and formerly known as Constantinople, was a very
fascinating place to visit. And it was! It lies on both sides of the Bosporus, the narrow
strait between the Black and Aegean Seas which separates Europe and Asia (so the city
lies partly in two continents). It’s the largest city in Turkey (population about 2,000,000)
and was the capital until 1922 when the seat of government was moved to Ankara.
The oldest section is called Stamboul, and is the site of most of the ancient mosques,
palaces and monuments. But more modern elaborate mosques, with huge domes flanked
by much taller, thin, rocket-shaped minarets, are found throughout the city and are as
scenic from an artistic standpoint as any of the greatest Christian cathedrals. The modern
portion of the city is the educational and cultural center of Turkey, and the Bosporus has
been for hundreds of years a main navigable trading route in that part of the world.
I enjoyed visiting the many shops and market places within walking distance from my
hotel (the name of which I’ve forgotten). I had had a couple weeks notice before leaving
on this trip, and found some time to study Turkish in a small “Language Guide” booklet
the U.S War Department had published during WWII. (I didn’t have any such source of
Arabic for use in Libya, and anyway thought Turkish might be a bit easier.) I of course
didn’t acquire a conversational ability, but I mastered enough phrases to be helpful for
simple question and answer needs in shops or restaurants. I managed to purchase for
Carol a lovely small vase that was engraved glass exquisitely decorated with colored
floral patterns and gold filigree. I had looked around quite a bit before spotting it in a
small gift shop clerked by an attractive young Turkish lady. I tried my Turkish with her.
I pointed at the vase. “Fiyati kac para?”(fee-ya-TIH KACH pa-RA?: How much does
this cost?)
“Ucuz-dihr” she replied. (oo-JOOZ –deer: It’s cheap.) “On sekiz lira” (OAN sayKEEZ LEE-ra.”: Only eighteen lira.)
A lira was then worth about 60 cents in American money, so the price was $10.80 in
U.S. currency. I said “Satin almak istiyorum.” (sa-TIN ahl-MAHK ee-stee-YO-room: I
53
want to buy it.) And I did. After I paid her she smiled and said, “Tesekkur ederim.” (teshek-KYOOR ay-DAY-reem: Thank you.) And I replied as I left, “Bir sey degil” (beer
SHAY day-YEEL: You’re welcome.) “Allaha ismarladik.” (ahl-LA-ha ees-MAR-ladihk.Good-by.)
I departed Istanbul October 21, and after a stopover in Rome arrived “to the shores of
Tripoli” (as the Marine’s Hymn says) that evening. I was met by Carter’s geophysical
supervisor who conveyed me to my hotel, joined me in a drink and dinner there, and gave
me some introductory information about Tripoli and Libya, which was then a kingdom.
Tripoli, situated on the extreme northwest seacoast, was one of two capitals, the other
being Bengasi on the northeast coast, and the government met alternately at each every
two or three years. The reason for two capitals was unclear, but it probably had to do with
difficulties years ago in communication and travel throughout the vast Libyan desert
which covers all of the country except for the narrow strip of land along the 1,000-mile
Mediterranean seacoast. Tripoli then had about 200,000 residents and is the largest city in
Libya. It was then the trading center for the surrounding coastal farming region, and the
downtown business area development was rather modest. But, as in most Arabic cities,
there was a fair number of gleaming white mosques towered over by tall minarets.(I can’t
comment on their interior beauty since I never got in one.)
Libya has no rivers or lakes.Most Libyans live along the coast, since the 90% rest of
Libya is part of the Sahara Desert, populated by a few wandering tribes and occasional
camel caravans near the few green oases In an ancient era the country’s only commerce
was supplying grain and other agricultural products to the Roman Empire. It became an
Italian colony in 1912. During WWII Tripoli was occupied by British military forces
when there were many important battles between them and German forces. At the end of
the war Italy lost control of Libya, and the United Nations established it as finally an
independent country, the United Kingdom of Libya, in December 1951.
When I arrived our Jersey personnel had been working there about a year. Geologists
had done preliminary reconnaissance work outlining areas for seismic exploration. I had
known three or four of the exploratory technicians in the States, and enjoyed being
hosted by some. One geologist I had known quite well from my pre-war work in Illinois
was Pete Smith, a personable chap with a talent for dry humor.
“Pete,” I said, “ have you taken any lessons in Arabic during the year you’ve been
here?” “Oh, sure,” he replied, “usually once a week for,--let’s see, five months now.”
“Well, Arabic must be tough to learn. How you doing?”
“Pretty good. I’ve already learned to ask the way to the bathroom, and understand
the anwer!”
The Carter seismic crew had not yet headed into the work area, and were still making
arrangements for supplies, transportation and Libyan work permits. My time there was
limited to helping plan logistics and work schedules, and obtaining maps and geologic
54
analyses to take home and use in familiarizing Carter management with operational
matters and long range planning. The night before my departure Pete suggested I might
like to see Tripoli’s casino, since I had made some reference to my experience in Cuba.
So after a farewell dinner he drove me to the gambling mecca (no longer functioning, I’m
sure), and let me out.
“Aren’t you going to join me?” I asked. “No, sorry. Wife wants me home tonight; she
doesn’t approve of my gambling.”
“So how am I going to get back to the hotel?” He scribbled the name on a piece of
notebook paper, plus a couple of Arabic words. “When you’re broke and want to leave
show this to a cab driver. There’ll be several outside later tonight and one of them will
get you there. But just be sure and keep enough money for the taxi ride! And come see us
again sometime, hear?”
The casino was an interesting one, artfully decorated with numerous games. I was
afraid the language barrier might be a problem, but it wasn’t. The cashier handed me
chips for my paper money with no comment, and I proceeded to the roulette table where I
thought no more than a minimal verbal effort on my part was needed. The operator was
apparently of European ancestry, dressed in the conventional white shirt and black tie,
and to my surprise conducted the gambling operation in French! Most of the players were
Libyan nationals, and except for a few dressed in European style suits, the majority were
in typical Arabian attire,--white gowns, white cloth headgear, etc. I presumed they were
probably wealthy,--perhaps some in the “sheik” category--, since they all exhibited signs
of it in their expensive looking jewelry, pendants and headgear decorations. It was an odd
feeling for me to be gambling and seated elbow to elbow with such exotic individuals and
not be able to speak to them. But I enjoyed the evening, which was well worth the $20
(U.S.) or so I finally lost.
During my stay in Libya one of the Carter staff took me on an interesting visit to what
was left of a Roman settlement a short distance west of Tripoli. During Rome’s heyday
they had conquered most of Africa’s Mediterranean seacoast areas, and had established
outpost settlements throughout, especially in Libya and Tunisia, for the purpose of
controlling production of irrigationally grown agricultural foods for shipment to Rome.
All that was left of the site I was shown were lots of rock foundations and a few
crumbling pillars that indicated the one-time presence of a substantial village probably
housing a few hundred people. The most interesting feature was a public restroom,-presumably for men only, who must have gathered there for social as well as nature’s
purposes. There were the remains of a semicircle of about 20 stone toilet seats, all facing
inward, with a shallow stone-lined ditch or trench under all the seats, with access at each
end. The semicircle gradually sloped downward from seat #1 to #20. My Carter guide
explained that some anthropologist had determined that well water was probably
periodically flushed through the ditch for obvious reasons, so I guess this was probably
one of the world’s first flush toilets.
55
I enjoyed my Tripoli visit, and before I left was inspired to write another of my
classical poetry creations, entitled “Tripping Through Tripoli, or, Thoughts While
Squatting On My Oasis”. For any literature lover, I'm including a copy facing this page.
About November 1, I finally headed home. My route, with a stopover or two, took me
through Malta, Rome, Paris, London and New York. (Not many “through” flights in
those days!) I was met at the airport in Tulsa by my loving family, glad to be home, and
with a bountiful supply of travel stories to bore them for many nights.
****
TEXAS
Chapter VI: Houston (1961-1964)
In the spring of 1961 came the big bad news! The Carter Oil Company, long a
subsidiary affiliate of Standard Oil of New Jersey, was to be taken over by Humble (also
a Jersey affiliate,--Carter's “rich cousin”).This was disappointing, and rather unnerving to
many Carter employees who wondered if they might lose their jobs, or if not might at
least have to move to Houston since the Tulsa offices might close. I never heard how
many, if any, Carterites lost their jobs, but most of all who retained their jobs had to pack
up and head for Houston. That included the Kyles. The good news was I would remain
Chief of Foreign Geophysics; the bad news was having to leave Tulsa again. And my
family and I were getting enough tired of the frequent moves that I considered quitting.
But I didn’t; a job was needed to accumulate cash for the kids’ college funds.
As in most of our company moves, my presence at the new location was required
a.s.a.p., so I reported for work in mid-May and had Carol join me to house hunt.We
assumed the new job assignment would be a relatively short one, as were most of my
previous ones, and that we wouldn’t be in Houston long, so our house shopping only took
three days. Our assumption as to length of time we’d live in Houston was, of course, a
classical error! As I write this I’ve been here over 40 years, about 48% of my lifetime!
A Humble employee was assigned to tour newcomers and suggest some of the best
residential locations. He told us school facilities should in our case be an important
consideration and that the Spring Branch school district, within the western outskirts
(then) of Houston, was quite superior to the more extensive Houston Independent district.
The Memorial Forest subdivision looked attractive, and on May 25th we purchased the
third or fourth house we looked at, at 12214 Broken Arrow, for $31,500. (As I write this
the tax appraisal is currently nearly ten times that amount!) Our sales contract specified
that the seller (John Smith; an unusual name!) give us possession no later than July 1.
56
Carol returned to Tulsa to arrange for that home to be put on the market, and Humble
arranged comfortable temporary quarters for me at a rather classy apartment hostelry
called the Savoy Field, in a near-downtown area handy to the office building.
Then a series of sad events began occurring. First, the death of Carol’s father, Earl
Snell, on June 1. Carol and I went to Rice Lake for the funeral, leaving J.M. and Kappy
to keep house in Tulsa. This they did quite well, I was glad to find on my return. I then
continued down to Houston again, but Carol remained in Wisconsin briefly to help
Yvonne and their older sister Phyllis help their mother Lu adjust to having to live alone,
and was back in Tulsa by June 12. Four months later I lost my mother on October 23rd, a
month after her 76th birthday, and Carol and I had another sad trip to Wisconsin. Carol
then remained in Mom’s home in Menomonie long enough to put her house on the
market, and with much help from Yvonne arrange for either the sale, disposal, or packing
and shipping to Houston, of household property and furniture.
During that year, prior to my mother's death, we had the pleasure of an extended visit
by Carol's nephew David Williamson, then about 13 years old. He is the older of two
sons of Phyllis and Jay, who agreed with Carol to have him spend most of the summer
with us in Houston. He is about a year younger than Kappy, and hit it off well with our
kids who enjoyed the experience of having another "brother" in the family for a few
months. He was an active and fun-loving youngster, and evidenced potential athletic
ability in his baseball, swimming, and bicycling activities. (And that ability subsequently
materialized in his becoming a high school football player good enough to be granted a
scholarship to the University of North Dakota. There he became a star quarterback and
was eventually awarded the honor of being in that University's Football Hall of Fame.)
In December we had Lu come and stay with us for four months, to help her avoid the
cold environment of Wisconsin winter and widowhood. But the following summer, on
August 26, Lu also left her life. That time, however, I was on another business trip in
Libya (more on that later), and Carol had to make the sad visit north alone, again leaving
our kids home as housekeepers. So, in a period of about 14 months, Carol and I lost three
of our parents in a very depressing sequence.
****
Our family decided that a Christmas time vacation trip to Mexico would be a very
welcome relief from the hassles of moving and getting settled in Houston. Lu had been to
Mexico with us in 1953, and opted instead to visit some good friends in Oklahoma City.
So we exchanged Christmas gifts early, before Lu left on the train December 14th.
Our ultimate trip objective was Guadalajara, a major city in southwestern Mexico,
which I wanted to show my family since I had spent some time in and out of that area
during my WWII assignment in Mexico. I am indebted to Carol for refreshing my
57
memory of many events of our tour, which she wrote shortly after our trip in a file folder
document with a wealth of included photos.
Enroute on our auto trip we made several overnight stops in cities of interest. Our
first was Monterrey; the traffic was frightening, and I was really ready for a tequila sour
when we were finally settled in the Ancira Hotel. Dinner, our first night in Mexico, was
cabrito (baby goat) which they barbecued on the big lavish patio. Carol attracted quite a
group when she attempted to discuss the barbecuing in her feeble Spanish, and ended up
ordering the kid’s kidney, without realizing what she was doing.
From Monterrey we had a tedious drive across the semi-arid desert, and were glad to
have the "emergency" rations we had brought (crackers, cheese & cookies), since there
were no places to stop and eat until we arrived at Durango where we stopped overnight.
The following day we started across the Sierra Occidental Mountains on the road the
travel books had advised us to avoid. But the scenery was spectacularly beautiful, and the
up and down climbs and curves on the gravel road continued almost to the lovely coastal
town of Mazatlan.
Mazatlan is an enjoyable and sea-scenic town, and our three days there were the best
on our trip. The weather was perfect: daytimes were sunny and pleasnt for beach hiking
and swimming, and the nights were cool enough for sweaters. We had rooms on the
second floor of the Agua Marina motel with a balcony which overlooked the Pacific.
Meals at hotels and restaurants were excellent and usually entertaining.. At the Copa de
Leche the head waiter had mariachis play at our table while we ate, which added color to
our first evenng.
While enjoying the beach we noticed that deep sea fishing was a popular sport (for
tourists) and a profitable business (for boat owners and guides). I decided the Kyles ought
to give it a try, and made arrangements with one of the skippers to take us fishing the
next day. It was another fine, warm, and sunny day, and we enjoyed the boat ride several
miles out to sea, to a spot the skipper assured us would be good fishing for marlin and
tarpon. He equipped me with the necessary big rod and reel, sat me in one of the two
fishermens’ deck chairs in the stern, and gave me instructions. Then, to J.M.’s surprise
and pleasure, he was asked if he’d like to handle a rod too. J.M. was of course thrilled to
be included, and was soon equipped similarly to me. We cast out, sat back, and waited for
action. Nothing happened for a while, as the skipper slowly maneuvered the boat through
his selected area.
Carol and Kappy watched us briefly, then decided to stroll around the boat a bit. After
awhile we heard an excited yell from Kappy, “Look! Look! a whale!” Sure enough, a
whale briefly surfaced off starboard, then submerged. “I think he headed under the boat!”
said Kappy. The skipper came by, smiled and nodded. “They show up every once in a
while to look at our boat,” he said. About then Jerry Mike yelled, “Hey, there he is off
portside!” The whale surfaced briefly a couple times, then stayed under until he
58
reappeared behind us exactly where our fishing lines were trailing. “Better reel in,” said
the boat captain. “If he gets tangled in the lines, he’ll pull them and your rods out to sea.”
So we did, hurriedly. Kappy said, “What if he should come up under the boat? What
would that do?” The boat captain said, “Then we all swim for shore.” We realized later
he’d been kidding, but at the time it made us nervous.
The whale eventally left us, and J.M. and I again cast out our lines to resume fishing.
A short time later I heard J.M.’s reel suddenly unwinding. “I think I’ve got something,”
he said. The captain stood by JM. and gave him instructions on pulling up the rod, then
reeling in a few feet of line, then letting the rod down, pulling it up again, and reeling in
some more until he would get the fish close enough to net or spear it. I reeled in my line
so there would be no chance of tangled lines in that process.
Jerry M. pulled and reeled in, pulled and reeled in, pulled and reeled in. I could tell he
was beginning to tire after ten or fifteen minutes and asked him if I could take over.
“Nope!” he said, “Nope! I’m going to do this myself!” And he finally did, after an
exhausting forty or fifty minutes or so of heavy exertion. Finally, at the end of the line
was a huge marlin which the boat captain managed to grab by the spear-like snout, club,
and hall aboard. He estimated the weight to be about 190 pounds. J.M. was so proud, but
so tired he subsequently went into the boat’s cabin and slept the rest of the trip.
Shortly after that another big one was hooked. Carol took the rod and struggled with
that one till she wore out, as did Kappy, and then the skipper and I finally got him aboard.
I handled the third one myself (abut 100 lbs.). We were all pretty pooped by then and
ready to go in. But the skipper wanted Kappy to hook one by herself, and she did,--just
the right size for her to get it to the boat, --about 35 lbs. Back onshore, the fish were
ultimately hung up on a rack on the beach for photo purposes, and the captain said he’d
sell them for dog food somewhere, if we didn’t want to keep and stuff any.(We didn’t.)
From Mazatlan we continued south on the coastal route to another seaside town
named San Blas.—smaller than Mazatlan but with equally charming beach scenery and
facilities. We spent a pleasant two days there, housed at the biggest hostelry in town
called the Hotel Playa Hermosa. Our most memorable experience was a trip on a small
boat through the nearby jungle. It was a relaxing and scenic trip in an environment my
family had never experienced before,--a great variety of palms and jungle vegetation,
birds and flowers, and a small plantation where coffee trees, avacado trees and pineapples
were being grown
After having spent a week enroute we continued our journey into Guadalajara,
arriving in late afternoon. We spent a difficult two hours there, fighting our way through
the wild and heavy traffic, finding a place to eat and a telegraph office where we sent Lu
a wire wishing her a merry Christmas and letting her know we had thus far made it
safely. Then we continued through the city and southeast about 30 miles to a lovely
recommended “must see” area at Lake Chapala. The lake is surrounded by a half dozen
59
small picturesque villages, at one of which we planned to headquarter for the balance of
our Mexico trip.
Our target town was Ajijic. (That’s not a typo error. It’s pronounced “Ah-hee-heek”;
sounds like a giggle.) It was about 9:00 p.m. and dark when we arrived, and so was the
town., so we had to do some searching to locate the Posada Ajijic inn we’d heard was a
nice one. And it was: clean and picturesque, and we had to walk on a winding path
through a jungle-like growth of coffee trees, palms, poinsettias and orange trees to get to
our rooms, which were spacious and well-furnished. Very exotic accomodations!
On Christmas Eve day we drove into Guadalajara for a tour of the many lavishly
holiday-decorated areas. As evening got close we parked the car and began a walking
tour in some of the residential areas. We saw many groups meandering in the streets, and
occasionally stopping to sing Christmas carols at friends’ homes where they would be
rewarded with refreshments or small holiday ornaments of various kinds. We followed
one such group for a few blocks making several stops, but stayed out of the way when the
refreshment cycle occurred.
We were also intrigued by the number of street peddlers and the variety of items they
had to sell, --food, trinkets, cheap jewelry, Christmas tree decorations, etc. We, especially
Kappy, were intrigued by several sellers of nice hot roasted corn on the cob, and Kappy
talked us into sampling some,--which tasted pretty good!
Christmas Day morning we visited the huge, spacious Guadalajara market, mostly
under a roof and about the size of a football field. We were impressed by the many
attractive dislays of fruit, vegetables, pottery, etc., but didn’t buy much except few
trinkets for souvenirs. Then, in the afternoon, we went to a bullfight! It was a unique
Christmas Day experience for us! Finally, with Christmas over, it was time to head for
the barn, and we started home with few stops.
A slight problem occurred at the border, somewhat similar to the experience we’d had
on an earlier trip with the Snells. We had bought a supply of deliciously ripe mangos
from one street vendor which I didn’t think we’d be forbidden to carry across the border.
But we were. “No fruit.” said the customs agent. So we turned the car into a Mexican side
parking lot, and proceeded to eat as many of our supply of mangos as we could, and
dumped the rest in a huge garbage bin that looked and smelled like its main use was for
fruit disposal. But overall our trip was a fine and enjoyable holiday experience.
****
My job as a Humble employee, I was told during my indoctrination sessions, would
continue to be in foreign geophysics but of course under different supervision. My new
supervisor would be Dr. Will Rust. Will was a gentlemanly and friendly fellow about 15
60
years my senior, who had been in some branch of geophysics all his Humble career and
was a complete and useful authority on that subject. His charming wife Margaret had at
one time been his company secretary, and the two became our close friends and also very
enjoyable social companions. During 1961 my work was entirely office-oriented as I
gradually became familiar with Humble’s organization and procedural processes. And, of
course, the coordination with Standard of New Jersey’s New York office continued as
before, requiring a few visits there by me which were my only business travels in 1961.
The summer of 1962 I was booked to visit Jersey’s French affiliate in Bordeaux, and
also visits to Jersey’s London and Barcelona offices, which were to be my year’s travel
obligations. So I decided, with Carol’s concurrence, that following my business duties, it
would be a fine summer vacation for all our family to spend some time touring Europe.
Passports were obtained and travel arrangements made for Carol and the kids to fly to
Paris, where I would meet them after I’d finished my Bordeaux assignment.
We all arrived on schedule at Le Bourget airport, fairly early in the morning,--about
8:00 a.m. I think it was. My family had a rather tiring trip: Houston to New York the
previous afternoon with a few hours wait in New York and a plane change in London
until the flight to Paris. They, especially Carol, were tired enough that they hit the beds as
soon as we were established in a hotel. My trip was short and easy, getting me to Paris
about an hour before the family did. But I’d had to leave my hotel in Bordeaux before
breakfast, so after the others were sacked in I went out looking for a restaurant. I found a
small one nearby and settled in a booth hungry and ready for sustenance. But I was
disconcerted to find the menu was in French, and even moreso when I found that the
waiter spoke only French. I had had a course in French in college, but that was long ago
enough to have forgotten nearly all I’d ever learned,--which wasn’t very much to start
with. My friends who had been to France has assured me I’d have no problem finding
English speakers, so I hadn’t brought any French phrase book on my trip. But I thought
I’d better give French a try when the waiter began with “Bonjour, Monsieur. Se que vous
avoir desir de manger?"
I was reasonably sure that the “day-zeer” meant “want”, so I said, “Oui, garcon. Je
voudrais un petit dejeuner, s’il vous plait,” (I think that’s “I’d like breakfast, please.”)
That was a mistake for me to try to respond in French, even badly, since the waiter
assumed I knew some, and he promptly became very voluble with a barrage of
incomprehensible rapid fire words and phrases which I assumed were probably menu
suggestions. I rubbed my chin, trying to look thoughtful about my choices, but my
thoughts were really trying to remember some useful French words.
I finally began. “Je commence avec—ah,--”, I couldn’t remember the word for juice,
but tried the word for beverage. “un boisson de orange.” The waiter looked a bit puzzled.
“Boisson de orange?” I nodded. He added, “Bien. Et quel autre?”
What else? I said, “Well, je voudrais, --ah, two eggs. That’s dooz oofs.”
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“Deux oeufs, monsieur? Bien. Comment voulez-vous les oeufs?”
How did I want them? At this point I gve up trying to remember any French, and
conducted the rest of my order in abbreviated English with lots of hand gestures. I
replied, “Over easy,” and turned my hands from top to bottom several times. And for the
accompanying ham and toast I wanted I added, “Also, ham and toast,--that’s baked bread
in a toaster,” accompanied by a flurry of hand motions. My order must have been nearly
incomprehenible, but when I quit the waiter nodded, shook his head slightly, sighed, and
headed for the kitchen.
After quite an interval my garcon finally returned with a tray and put the food on the
table. “Le voila. Espere que vous l’aimez, monsieur.” “Merci, garcon,” I replied, and as
he left I looked at his delivery with amazement. The orange juice I thought I’d ordered
was a bottle of orange flavored soda pop, the two eggs over easy was an omelette which I
found out included the ham, and the toast was a bagel-type hard roll fresh out of the
oven! The only thing I thought I’d ordered and did receive was the coffee.
When I got back to the hotel I found my family was up, and had breakfasted on cereal
and (real) toast in the hotel’s restaurant ( where I should have gone!). The only redeeming
feature of my breakfast experience was the hilarity engendered when I told them about it.
Some time later that day on our return to the hotel after a sightseeing tour, I guided the
family, as they’d requested, past the side-street place I’d had breakfast. We all laughed
hysterically when we saw in the front window a newly placed sign which said, “No
English Spoke Here.”
“Let me try tonight,” said Kappy. She had had a French course in her just-completed
school year, and had brought her French grammar with her to be used “just in case”. The
rest of us thought that would be a fine chance for her to try out her new knowledge. So
after our day’s activities and we were back in our hotel rooms, we thought it would be a
good idea to decide in advance what we’d like for dinner that night so Kappy could
practice giving our order in French. So we wrote out our optional menu choices for her to
study, which she did for about an hour.
We’d learned that the big tourist-trap type restaurants were expensive, and because of
their usual clients the waiters were required to be reasonably proficient in English. So, at
dinner time we decided to find another small side-street café of about the same caliber as
my morning breakfast spot. They are quite numerous in Paris, and we soon found one
that seemed appropriate for our purpose. After we’d entered it turned out to be even a bit
smaller than we’d expected, with only about 8 or 10 tables. And we were quite surprised
when the chef himself turned out to be the waiter too,--and the only one! A real familystyle restaurant indeed, and Kappy smiled at the anticipated challenge of her proficiency
in French. The chef was a tall friendly looking fellow, wearing his chef’s hat and apron.
62
He approached our table, nodded politely, and said, “Bonne soiree, est-ce que voulez
vous le diner?”
With a slip of paper in her hand to remind her of who wanted what, Kappy took a deep
breath and began. It took a couple minutes, allowing the chef to make notes, and sounded
to me like a fairly fluent flow of French. Apparently it also did to the chef. After Kappy’s
conclusion he gave her a big smile and said, in perfect English, “Very good. How long
have you been practicing that, young lady?” That totally unexpected response was good
for laughs by all of us, and, needless to say, all ensuing remarks to and from the chef
were in English. And it was a good meal, too.
For another two or three days we toured many of the tourists’ “must see” attractions:
Notre Dame, the Louvre, Eiffel Tower, L'Arc de Triomphe, etc., and an endless number
of palaces and parks. Paris has the most complex pattern of streets, boulevards and
avenues of any city I’ve ever been in. A street map looks like a white sheet on which
hundreds of black straws have been scattered at random.It is impossible to understand
any verbal navigational instructions without studying a map. During our sightseeing we
got lots of good hiking exercise, much of it the “long way around the barn”. Paris has an
efficient Metro system of buses and subways, but the route patterns are as unassorted as
the street systems. We did get to use it on several trips, however, after being instructed in
great detail by helpful hotel personnel.
****
Having finally “done” Paris to our satisfaction, we packed up and headed east to
Switzerland, famous as a land of beautiful scenery. It’s the most mountainous country in
Europe, being 3/4ths covered by snow-clad Alps and the Jura mountains. Interestingly,
there is no single Swiss language. In different parts of the country, depending on which
other country it borders, German, French, and Italian are spoken. And its name varies
also: it’s Schweiz in German, Suisse in French, and Svizzera in Italian. (But Swiss coins
and stamps are marked Helvetia.)
We arrived at Bern, the capital of Switzerland. It is on the lovely Aare River and is
considered to be one of the most colorful and interesting cities in Europe. It’s of ancient
vintage, founded in 1191 with many buildings in the old section having been built in the
1400’s and 1500’s, giving much of the city a medieval appearance. A classic example is a
cathedral spire built in the 1400’s which towers well above the rest of Bern.
One of the many entertaining features in downtown is the medieval Clock Tower, a
landmark of Bern, which was built in 1406. As it strikes each hour large moving figures
appear above the clock face and rotate on a turntable past a big viewing panel, including
a wooden rooster, a man in armor, dancing bears, a man on a throne, etc.
63
We found Bern easier to navigate and sightsee on foot than Paris, and our first full day
was one of much pedestrian exercise. It was apparent that bicycles were an important and
popular method of transportation, and J.M. and Kappy weren’t long in suggesting we rent
some. That sounded fine to Carol and me, but when we visited a rental shop we found out
that rentals were only available on full day rates. After some thought on the matter we
decided we didn’t want to use them just all day in Bern, so we would instead embark on a
day’s bike tour of the countryside.
So the following morning we were up early and off on a bike tour on a riverside road
to the city of Thun, a distance of about 16 or 18 miles.We made numerous stops along the
way to admire the scenery, have refreshments --and eventually lunch-- at occasional
small roadside cafes. One stop of much interest was a cherry orchard, with many trees
loaded with ripe red fruit. It was in the countryside with no houses or buildings visible in
the vicinity, and we felt the owner would probably feel generous enough to share some of
his crop with tourists. So we disembarked, each harvested a large handful of cherries and
relaxed in the orchard where we enjoyed a pleasant and tasty gastronomic experience.
After arriving at Thun in the early afternoon we biked about town a bit, and then
continued south a mile or two along the edge of the beautiful “Thunersee” (Lake Thun).
We all agreed that if we were ever fortunate enough to move to Switzerland, Thun would
be a top choice of location. About 2 p.m. I said, “Well, gang,--about time we head back
to Bern, isn’t it?” All agreed, but Carol groaned a bit and said, “I don’t know if I can
make it. I’m pooped!” I added, “Me, too. Let’s get back into Thun and see if there’s any
way we could get a bus back and carry our bikes too.”
At Thun the bus depot people were helpful. Can’t ship the bikes on a bus, they said,
but why don’t we try the train station. We did, and were surprised and happy to be told
that a train would be through in an hour or so on which both we and the bikes could be
hauled to Bern. So we did, and arrived back at our hotel in time for a welcomed supper.
Our next eagerly anticipated venture was a trip to the Jungfrau, a famous Alpine peak
with an elevation of 13,670 feet. (Jungfrau means maiden in German.) We left Bern early
one morning, and drove a rental car about 35 miles southeast to the popular tourist town
of Interlaken, then took a train to Lauterbrunnen. This village has the most scenic
location of any town I've ever seen, in a lush green valley surrounded by massive snowcovered mountains, one of which is decorated with a beautiful falls of which the height
must be in thousands of feet. From there we transferred to a "rack" train which began the
mountain ascent with a bewildering zig-zag climb through awesome tunnels and across
dizzily hung bridges. Another transfer is at Kleine Scheidegg which, after numerous
scenic stops, again switches us to our final conveyance, the Jungfau Railway. This treats
us to more exciting (and increasing cold) travel, including passage through a 4 1/2 mile
tunnel, to our final destination at Jungfraujoch at an elevation of 11,333 feet.
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Here there are facilities on a steep side of the peak, including a 46-room hotel, a 200seat restaurant, and an observation terrace. Needless to say, the view was impressive,-snow-covered from the top down to about our level, as were the surrounding mountain
crests. One event that we enjoyed was a brief dogsled ride through the snow, which
certainly was an unusual and fun experience. We had lunch in a small café, seated in
front of large picture windows with a great view. Then (of course), we visited the gift
shop with the expected display of moutain area souvenirs. Our only purchase –and a good
one!--was a nicely decorated hiking stick Kappy bought that is still displayed and in use
at our Colorado cabin.
After our return to Bern, I rented a 1962 Fiat auto for a day's tour to Lausanne and
neighboring points of interest. We saw many lovely lakes. At one of these, Lac Leman,
we visited the famous Castle of Chillon, It's a classic example of ancient architecture,
with its first construction begun in the 11th century. It was renowned for many years as a
prison and torture chamber, made famous by Lord Byron in his "Prisoner of Chillon".
Next day we made one more pedestrian tour of downtown Bern. We enjoyed the fine
restaurants, and at one we were impressed to be told by the waiter that the nice looking
gentleman at the next table was the President of Switzerland (a very informal country!).
The following morning we took the train to Basel, landlocked Switzerland’s principal
port. It’s on the Rhine River at the north border of Switzerland where it, France, and
Germany join at the same boundary point. Basel, like Bern, is an ancient city of attractive medieval décor but much older, having been founded by the Romans in 44 B.C.,-probably because of its strategic location on the Rhine. But we did not get to tour that
city’s many sites of historical interest because we had reservations to leave that day on a
4- or 5-day cruise down the Rhine to Rotterdam, Netherlands., on the luxurious Helvetia.
An exciting prospect, especially for Carol and the kids who had never slept on a boat
before.
The Rhine is the most important waterway in Europe, about 700 miles long from its
source in glacier-fed streams in eastern Switzerland to the North Sea at Rotterdam. For
about 50 miles of its early flow westward it’s a portion of the Swiss boundary with
Germany. At Basel it swings north for about 100 miles where it is the French-German
boundary, then begins a northwestward route in Germany to the Dutch border, and then
swings due west into Rotterdam and the ocean. This trip was the first long boat trip for
any of us, and it was much more interesting and scenic than several ocean cruises Carol
and I took in subsequent years.
The Rhine’s scenery ,--mountains, valleys, rolling plains-- was always enjoyable, and
that wide river’s busy traffic of passenger steamboats and freight barges was interesting.
The boat's restaurant cuisine was superb and our cabins were comfortable and pleasnt.
Our boat made lots of stops at numerous towns and cities such as Mannheim, Koblenz,
Dusseldorf, etc., for the passengers to disembark and visit. At Dusseldorf we took a bus
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tour, observing much construction still in progress after WWII, during which the city was
80% destroyed. But their main shopping center is as fancy as New York's 5th Avenus.
We had an interesting chat with a couple from England, and found their speech rather
amusing. They say scones for biscuits, biscuits for cookies, lay-bys for roadside parks,
fly-overs for overpasses, and joints for meat roasts. They found it hard to realize that our
city of Houston could be 1500 miles from New York and that we'd never attended the
"shows" there.
One visit was to a winery at the town of Rudesheim where great quantities of bottled
and barreled wine were stored in big caves which had a resultingly very aromatic odor. I
suppose we were expected to buy some and I invested in one bottle of champagne ($1.75
U.S.) But I also sampled a lot, which stimulated me to produce this semi-German terse
verse:
Eins, zwei, drei, vier,
Ich bin drinken up das bier;
Sechs, sieben, acht, neun,
Ich bin drinken auch der wein.
Mit eaten und drinken on das schiff
Ich ben getten geschtinken und schtiff!
We arrived in Rotterdam in time for a brief look-see before taking a train to
Amsterdam where we booked rooms at the Park Hotel, an elegant, massive, intricately
decorated hostelry much superior to our Berne accomodations, and less expensive. . Next
day we trained to Baarn and then to Spackenburg,--both quaint towns with truly Dutch
atmosphere and Sunday costumes. The women were wearing white lace caps, floor length
dresses, and many of the towns' resident were still wearing wooden shoes. That intrigued
us enough that we bought a pair for each of us. Back in Amsterdam we took a boat tour
of the canals. There are as many canals in that city as there are streets, and over 800
bridges to cross them.
We decided to visit Denmark and flew to Copenhagen. Because of late reservations
we couldn't get into the tourist-crowded average-priced hotels, and ended up in the Palace
Hotel, the fanciest in Copenhagen. Unfortunately the kids had picked up a bug in some
Dutch restaurant and the next day had no interest in food. We took them to a doctor who
told us to limit their menus to boiled fish and boiled potatoes . That diet, plus some pills
the doctor provided, seemed to do the job and in a day or two they were in shape for a
trolley tour of the city.
The most popular and tourist-populated location in Copenhagen is Tivoli Gardens. It
was opened in 1843 and immediately became a big success. It has a fairyland atmosphere
with a festive array of 10 orchestras employing 150 musicians, 54 of whom play in the
Tivoli Symphony Orchestra. Tivoli is full of theatrical shows, exotic buildings and floral
gardens, a roler coaster, and many entertainment facilities.
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One day we took a ferryboat ride over to Malmo, Sweden, and had an all-day bus tour
of the countryside. which reminded us of Wisconsin farmland,--except for road signs in
Swedish and auto traffic using the left side of the road. (We were told that the Swedes are
the only people other than the English who do this.)
Back in Copenhagen again we were given an opportunity to find out how warm and
friendly the Danish are. The tourist bureau has a "Meet the Danes" system, whereby
tourists have the delightful option of spending an evening in some Danish family's home.
We eagerly signed up for such a session, and a Mr.Helge Poulson met us near his house
in the suburbs in a late afternoon.He showed us through his family's attractive home in
which oil paintings covered most of the wall space, and he was proud to have us see the
sailboat he had built. Then Mrs. Poulson served us coffee, and introduced her very pretty
21-year-old daughter Inge. Inge had many questions about the U.S., and enjoyed talking
with us, especially to J.M. and Kappy. We tried to leave after coffee and an hour's visit,
but they seemed to enjoy entertaining us, insisting we stay and serving us beer and a meal
of snacks until about 11:00 p.m. It was a remarkable display of hospitality! As a gesture
of our appreciation I gave Helge the bottle of champagne I'd bought on the Rhine.
Finally ending our Denmark visit, we flew to London where I had a business commitment. We stayed at the Royal Court Hotel in Sloane's Square where there were good
subway connections available. During my two days at the company office, Carol and the
children spent most of the time during the day (and joined by me after work) in numerous
hikes and bus or subway tours of London. There were many points of interest and sights
to see, including Piccadilly Circus, Trafalgar Square, Westminster Abbey (where Kipling,
Tennyson, Dickens, and many other famous people are buried), Hyde Park, Tower of
London, Buckingham Palace, etc. At the latter my family members witnessed one of the
Changing of the Guards ceremonies, which Carol described as "a ridiculous custom
carried to ridiculous extremes". One evening we went to see "My Fair Lady". We knew
the story and liked the songs, but couldn't understand the British accent or the words.
As it must to all travelers, the time for the family to head home had finally arrived.
They embarked at the London airport on a journey back to Houston, where they were met
and picked up at the airport by Will and Margaret Rust. I left them in London and headed
for a brief business visit to our Barcelona office. But our trip was a fine one for all of us,
remembered and discussed on many subsequent occasions.
****
Barcelona, in the northeast corner of Spain on the Mediterranean Sea coast, with a
population (then) of about 1.5 million, is second in size to Madrid. It’s ancient in age,
having been founded in 230 b.c., but has developed into a prosperous manufacturing,
trading, and shipping city, and an educational center.
No geophysical work was being done at the time of my visit but some was being
contemplated, and the supervisor of the small office with few personnel was my friend
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from Venezuela, Don Johnson, who had been transferred there at about the same time
Denny Meyer had been moved to Libya. I arrived in the late afternoon and after getting to
the hotel where I had a reservation it was about 7:00 p.m. I didn’t have Don’s home
phone number, so had nothing to do but drink and dine. While wetting my whistle in the
hotel bar I noticed that the hotel dining room was not then open for business, so I asked
the bartender if he could suggest a restaurant in the vicinity. With some hesitancy he
named one nearby, but then added, “In thees city you should know los comederos, ah, –
how you say, dine rooms,-- open despues ocho horas en la noche.”
Restaurants not open at night until after eight o’clock! My stomach was already
rumbling. I decided to wait until 8:30 and had another tequila sour. I finally walked into
the comedero the bartender had mentioned and –no one was at any of the tables! A waiter
who was at the far end of the room,-- at a table apparently eating his dinner--, acknowledged me with a brief hand wave, and continued his gustatory activity while I sat and
waited. After five minutes or so he finally came to my table and I began negotiating with
him, mostly in Spanish, for my dinner order. When this was done he left, heading for the
kitchen I assumed, and left me hoping I had not understood him to say as he departed that
the chef hadn’t arrived yet. But that apparently was the correct translation since I wasn’t
served until about 9:30, at which time a few other customers had begun arriving.
I was at Don’s office about 8 o’clock next morning. We were glad to meet again, and
absorbed coffee and each other’s news for awhile. When I mentioned my night’s late
dinner he laughed. “The customary hours here in Spain for dining out, working, and
sleeping, are unlike anything we’ve been used to,” he said. “Party people seldom get to
restaurants before 10 p.m., and midnight is an early bedtime for those I’ve met. I don’t
think any office workers ever arrive before 9 a.m., and our noon lunch hour is from noon
to 2 p.m.,--which allows time for a nap. You probably thought I was the only person in
this offiice when you came this morning. The three others here just haven’t arrived yet.”I
grinned and shook my head. “I suppose vacations are somewhat longer here than in the
U.S. too.” “You’ve got that right! New employees usually get a month.” he said.
Our business was rather brief, involving logistics and personnel provision if and when
the geological studies would warrant seismic exploration. Don and his lovely wife Claire
had me to their home that night for a fine dinner and visit. The following morning I left
for the U.S., with an initial stopover in Portugal’s capital Lisbon. It’s Portugal’s busiest
shipping harbor, on a wide estuary of the Tagus river that flows another seven miles to
the Atlantic Ocean. I was sorry I didn’t have more time to sight-see in that interesting
city and try out the smattering of Portuguese I’d picked up in Brazil. But I was ready for
the trip home, which continued promptly and satisfactorily.
****
68
In 1963 another trip to Libya was again needed. Since my previous visit in 1959
Tripoli nearly four years ago some oil had been discovered and exploration activity,
including geophysics, had increased substantially. Denny Meyer had been moved from
Caracas to Tripoli as the head office supervisor of Jersey’s seismograph work in Libya,
and when I arrived I was given a fine welcome and a celebratory dinner that evening,
attended by a number of the company’s exploration staff.
My function was similar to that of before, pertaining to replacement crew personnel
needs, operational logistics and financial requirements, and information on operations to
date with which I could later brief Humble officials. That was accomplished in a couple
days, at the end of which one afternoon Denny said, “I think you should visit the crew,
don’t you?”
“Well, yes,” I replied, “I’d sure like to, but on your map it looks like they’re 80 or
100 miles from here into the desert. I know those desert trails require slow going, and I
suppose a trip there and back, plus time to watch their operation, would take at least three
or four days and I’m due back in the Humble establishment in about a week."Three days
is all we need,” said Denny. “ We often rent a small 4-passenger Cessna plane for short
trips like this, and if you’d really like to go I’ll see if it’s available tomorrow. We’ll fly
to the crew camp in the morning, have lunch,--we’ve got a fine Italian chef working
there--, visit the crew and stay a couple nights. Be back here in three days. Sound O.K.?”
Sounded great to me, and I said so.
Denny was able to get the plane the following day, and we took off in mid-morning.
The scenery, after we were out of sight of the sea, was all barren desert, with the sparse
coastline shrubbery thinning and disappearing as we flew southeast into the Sahara sand
sea country. Our pilot had obviously made this trip several times with Denny, and
conversed with him (which I couldn’t hear, since I was in one of the rear seats). After a
bit Denny turned around to me and said, “ Pilot wants to know if you’d like to take an
extra quarter hour to detour and take a look at a world war two plane that ditched in the
desert. It’s a B-24 bomber, like you flew back then, and the story about it is pretty
interesting.”
“Yeah, sure would!” I couldn’t imagine what such a plane would have been doing in
a remote area of the Sahara, and eagerly looked forward to the sight and the story. The
pilot swerved off course about 45 degrees, and as we continued in the new direction we
passed over a vast sea of huge sand dunes in all directions. After awhile we were again
over a sandy but relatively flat terrain and the plane began a slow descent from our two or
three thousand feet, leveling off at what must have been a bit under a thousand feet.
Denny turned to me, pointed out the starboard window. “See?!” And down below I could
see the wide wings, four engine mounts and top of the fuselage of a B-24. It looked
relatively intact, like it would if it were on an airport runway except for much of the
fuselage being covered. by masses of windblown sand. I said to Denny, "My God, what
happened? Why is it there?"
69
As the pilot circled around a few times for different viewing angles, Denny began
explaining “After the Germans had finally been forced out of Africa they became well
fortified in Italy. To help push them north up out of Italy the U.S. air force created a base
near Tripoli. Our army had managed to establish a foothold at the bottom of the Italy
“boot” (appropriate terminology, eh?), and their invasion strategy included frequent
bombing raids to dislodge the Krauts from their fortifications.”
“And this is one of the bombers, I assume? But what was it doing so far south of
the air force’s base?” I asked. “We must be 60 or 80 miles south of the coast!”
“Most of the bombing raids were at night,” Denny continued, “to avoid Germans’antiaircraft fire. And on cloudy nights when the returning planes couldn’t easily visually spot
the base or the coastline, they followed a radio beam aimed from the base toward the
targeted spot in Italy. The plane’s navigator tuned in on the beam and had the pilot follow
it to the base where another local signal indicated they were “home”, and the plane could
(hopefully) make an instrument landing.”
“Sounds like a standard homing procedure I was trained to use,” I said, “but what
happened here?” Denny replied, “Well, as I know you know, the beam projects out both
ways from the base, 180 degrees apart. And somehow this plane didn’t get the beam
tuned in until they were unknowingly already south of the base, and when they finally did
they thought they were on the north limb of the beam. But they were on the south end,
and continued following it south. Because of the extra flying time they were taking (in
excess of the normal time from target to base), the navigator must have assumed they
were being slowed by a strong head wind. So,--they kept going, and going, further and
further into the Sahara.”
“My God!” I exclaimed. “that must have been an incompetent navigator. So they
finally crashed.” “They finally realized their predicament,” said Denny, “did a 180 and
headed back north, but they’d flown too long and the plane engines began to sputter as
they ran out of fuel. The pilot decided it would be safer for the crew to bail out instead of
risking a night time crash landing in the desert, and he must have thought they were near
enough to the base that they’d be easily found. So they all jumped and hoped they were
dropping somewhere near the coast. But they weren’t. The plane was on automatic pilot
and continued on somewhere for several miles before the engines completely quit and the
plane amazingly glided down for a belly landing wiith minimal damage. But the crew
never saw it again.”.
“What happened to the crew?” I asked. “They all landed OK,” said Denny, “but after a
few days all died of heat and thirst trying to hike out north, after they made it into the
worst sand dune area. The pilot kept a notebook when he bailed out, and recorded what
happened. It must have been awful! They had no water. (Full water bottles were later
found on the plane by investigating military personnel.) The pilot’s ‘diary’ covered the
first two or three days of their terrible hike, and was found with him when they found his
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body. Imagine the agonizing increasing despondency of those men as they laboriously
crawled up each giant dune, hoping desperately to see the coast line in the distance, only
to see another line of dunes ahead. And they only ever found 4 or 5 of the bodies. The
rest are still buried somewhere in those sand dunes, 50 or 60 miles south of Tripoli.”
I appreciated the opportunity to see that old B-24 “Liberator”, but the story of its
concluding flight was rather depressing, and there was no more conversation in our plane
until the seismic crew’s base camp finally came into view and we landed. The crew was
out working, and the only people in camp were a few Libyan maintenance workers and
the Italian chef. who was expecting us and had a fine and much appreciated lunch ready.
Denny contacted the crew chief by radio before we ate, and told me, “They’re about
20 miles south of here, close enough that we could take a Jeep, visit them this afternoon,
and come back to camp with them when they’re through for today. Or, we could wait
here till tomorrow, then go with them to the work area for an all day inspection visit.”
“I don’t think an all day visit is necessary,’ I replied. “Let’s do it this afternoon.”
After lunch we started south in a no-top Jeep, Denny at the wheel. Our route was the
rough and rugged trail that the crew’s vehicles had created, grinding across the very
sandy and rocky desert, through and around the many topographic irregularities in the
hitherto untouched terrain. It was slow going and a rough ride, and Denny couldn’t safely
exceed more than about 10 miles per hour. We had been enroute nearly an hour when
Denny, without slowing, turned his head to point out some massive dunes in the distance.
“The crew can’t work that kind of country. Need solider ground for drill holes.” And
the Jeep came to a jolting stop, dropping into an unseen depression about two feet deep
and colliding with a huge rock at the bottom.
“Oh, Jeesus! I swerved off the trail,--wasn’t watching. DAMN!” We got out to inspect
the damage, and we could see the front grill was crushed in. We got the hood up with
some difficulty, and found a broken fan belt and a punctured radiator from which was
pouring voluminous quantities of water. “Looks like we’re stuck here,” said Denny. “We
don’t dare drive it in this condition .”
“So what are our options?” I asked. “I think we have two,” replied Denny. “Either we
walk back, or walk on to find the crew. I think we’re about halfway, so it’s pretty much a
tossup.”
After some discussion I voted to walk back to camp, and Denny agreed. “First,” he
said, “I want to hike to the top of that nearby ridge just to be sure the crew isn’t in sight
and closer than we figured.” “Good luck,” I said, and off he went. The ridge was about
two blocks distant, and as I watched him reach the summit I was surprised to faintly hear
him yelling, and see him finally take off his white shirt and wave it frantically at something or someone he could apparently see in the distance. He performed for a minute or
71
so, then I was excited and overjoyed to see a vehicle appear on the ridge, pick up Denny,
and head down toward me. It was a top-down four-wheel Jeep-type vehicle I later learned
was of English make (of which I’ve forgotten the brand name) with a Britisher named
Chester at the wheel.
It turned out that Chet was supervisor of a British mine-clearing crew that had
been hired to clear the WWII land mines that had been laid by both the British and
Germans as they fought back and forth in the area. There were hundreds of mines,
scattered every- where, but the clearing crew (mostly Libyans) had been assigned specific
routes and zones in which seismic work was to be done. Denny of course had met Chet,
who was enroute back to camp. He asked if we minded if he made a detour from the trail
we’d followed, since he explained he had to pick up a stack of several mines that had
been discovered earlier. We of course agreed and off we went, Denny in the front
passenger seat so he could chat with Chet, and me in the rear seat. After a few miles Chet
asked Denny if he had seen the old road the Romans had built when they occupied
Libya centuries ago. Denny said no, so Chet detoured a bit farther and eventually we
came to a remarkable sight,--a straight road, just wide enough for wagon traffic, paved
with large oblong rock blocks which (in the dry desert climate) had weathered very little
and were well exposed above ground level except for occcasional patches of wind blown
sand cover. Amazing!
Chet said, “I’ll drive a few miles on it so you gents can say you’ve actually ridden on
an old Roman road. So he did and we did. It was a bit bouncy in spots, and I quickly
became aware of two or three rusty 1 ½ inch-thick metal objects that looked like covered
and sealed pie tins. They were bouncing around on the car floor, and I finally asked Chet,
“What are these metal hunks rattling around back here?” He said, “Oh, those are some
old mines we found I’m taking back to camp to dispose of.” “MINES?” I yelled, “Aren’t
they dangerous? Couldn’t they go off?” Chet stopped the vehicle, turned around to me,
laughed, and said, “Not very likely,--too rusty. We’ve only had a couple accidentally go
off all summer.If they bother you bouncing around you might feel safer to pick them up
and carry them in your lap.”
Well, I did that. And believe me, the rest of the trip back to camp was about the most
nerve-racking ride I’ve ever had, as I sat cuddling those land mines on my lap. Chet’s
crew had accumulated dozens of old mines which they had brought back and piled in a
big bulldozed cellar-deep hole some distance away from camp. I learned that they periodically destroyed them by exploding them, and as it turned out my second day there was to
be a “blowup” day, in the late afternoon after the crew was back in camp. That was quite
an interesting event. They placed some dynamite with the mines with a long fuse, and
after that was lit everyone retreated to a site about a quarter mile away. What a spectacle
that explosion was! Like nothing I’d ever seen, and we could feel the ground shake
slightly as far away as we were.
The second day Denny and I accompanied the crew to work and back, and the next
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morning the rental plane returned us to Tripoli. In the afternoon I bade Libya the usual
fond farewell and flew home to Houston, via the customary plane change in New York.
****
Most geologists have at least a passing interest in mineral mines. I have always been
especially so, and just missed becoming a mining geologist by a day or two (as described
on page 59 of my first Rear View volume). And the most fascinating mining history and
mystery is that of the Lost Dutchman mine in Arizona’s Superstition Mountain.
Near Apache Junction and about 35 miles east of Phoenix, Superstition Mountain is
actually a collective mass of rugged peaks (with names such as Geronimo’s Head,
Picacho Butte, Black Mountain, Miner’s Needle, etc.). But viewed from the southwest it
looks like just one mountain, so the singular name is usually used. The name derives
from the fact that the Apaches believed it was holy ground where their Thunder God
resided. The adjective lost in the name “Lost Dutchman Mine” refers not to the Dutchman (who was the last person to use the mine), but to the fact that no one has ever been
able to find the mine since the Dutchman died. And that it was once a rich mine seems
beyond doubt.
In 1528 a Spanish expedition to Florida disappeared (massacred by Indians?), and only
two or three survivors were captured and became slaves of the Indians. One was named
Cabeza de Vaca (“Cow’s Head”; quaint name, eh?) who after several years was able to
escape to Mexico and utimately got back to Spain. He claimed he’d heard Indians talk of
“golden cities” (which was probably his misinterpretation of some Indian phrase, like
“gold in hillsides”). When that story was heard by Coronado, then commander of a
Spanish exploring expedition based in Mexico, he and his men ventured north and
ultimately came to the Apache’s sacred mountain which they told Coronado contained
much gold. He and his men became frustrated by the rugged and nearly inaccessible
terrain, and could not persuade the Apaches to help them explore the interior. The
Apaches resented Coronado’s men’s efforts to gain access to their holy ground, and the
Spanish crew began being decimated by mysterious disappearances, some being later
found with no heads. So Coronado decided to quit the project, and it was he who named
the crags the Superstition Mountains in view of the Indians’ religious beliefs and his
men’s disappearances. (He then continued north, by the way, and was the first to discover
the Grand Canyon.)
The first white man to discover gold in the Superstitions was a Mexican named Don
Miguel Peralta who’d heard of Coronado’s experience, and ventured to Superstition to
prospect. Being alone he must have escaped notice by the Apaches. He returned then to
Mexico and assembled hundreds of peons and equipment for a large scale operation. It is
known that during about three years he shipped millions of pesos worth of high grade
gold concentrate by burro trains back to Mexico. But the Apaches became more and more
enraged at Peralta’s defiling of their holy temple and made plans to slaughter his miners.
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It happened that Peralta heard it, and decided to evacuate while he was ahead. He and his
men concealed the mine and surrounding evidence of their mining as best they could, so
it wouldn’t be discovered in case they might some day return and again have private
access to it. They then loaded as much rich concentrate as they could in saddle bags on
the burros, and started exiting early one morning.
But the Apaches had anticipated them and prepared an ambush, in which Peralta
and all of his men were killed. (The area, where many skeletons were later found,
eventually was named “Massacre Ground” by the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers.) The
dozens of burros scattered, many being later killed by the Apaches for food. But
survivors probably wandered the mountains for weeks, before dying of thirst and hunger,
and during that time their heavy packs finally dropped off. Many of these gold ore laden
saddle bags were found in later years, offering good evidence of a gold mine having been
worked somewhere in the Superstition vicinity. The last known finder, incidentally, was a
man who appeared in Phoenix in 1914 with some scraps of a decomposed saddlebag and
$18,000 worth of gold concentrate.
In succeeding years many prospectors risked Apache wrath by trying to find the
Peralta mine, but none were successful, and many didn’t make it out alive.It is not
known, and is rather doubtful, that Peralta ever made a map of his mine. But in
succeeding years, as stories and legends about the mine became told world wide, many
“authentic” maps appeared and were sold by con artists to suckers who ventured into the
forbidding Superstition environment, many of whom were found dead and many who
permanently disappeared.
Jacob Walz, a German who became locally known as the Dutchman, appeared in the
area about 1863 as a worker in a nearby active mine, called the Vulture. After he was
fired for “high-grading” (stealing rich concentrate) he settled in what is now Apache
Junction.There he met a pretty young Apache maiden named Ken-tee, who began living
with him in a hogan at Mesa, about 13 miles from Superstition Mountain.. The two began
disappearing for a week or two at a time, and returning with burros laden with gold ore.
It seemed obvious to those who knew about it that the Dutchman had found the lost mine!
It also seemed obvious to the Apaches that Ken-tee had told Walz where the mine was,
and they finally raided the Mesa community, during which they captured and carried off
Ken-tee. Mesa residents rallied and pursued the Indians, killing some, so to make their
escape the Apaches released Ken-tee. But they first cut off her tongue, and she bled to
death in Walz’s arms.
Walz subsequently became an introverted hermit, avoiding the numerous people who
tried to befriend him and perhaps learn of the mine’s location. He made infrequent trips
with a burro into the mountains, returning with enough gold ore to satisfy his modest
financial needs. Many town residents would watch for his trips to his mine, but no one
ever could trace him. He finally died in Phoenix, being cared for by a warm hearted black
lady named Julia. It is believed that shortly before his death he told Julia of the mine’s
74
location, since afterward she and a high school lad made a few trips into the mountains,
but to no avail.
In subsequent years many prospectors, professional and amateur, have ventured into
the wilderness of the Superstitions. None have found the mine, and the remote canyons
and peaks have been the sites of many deadly accidents and mysterious murders. To my
knowledge no murderer has ever been caught, and who they are and why they kill is
usually an unsolvable puzzle. One theory is that some murderers might be Apache
descendants who still resent the white man’s intrusion into their sacred domain. This
supposition is based in part on the fact that several of the bodies found are without heads,
and vice versa.
I had read that several years before Walz died there was a minor earthquake in the
Superstitions, with rock slides being visible from Apache Junction. It seemed possible to
me that the earthquake might have effectively covered any trace of the rather small mine
entrance and mining procedure’s rock debris. So I acquired some government stereo
aerial photos of the area and began studying. I did find some evidence of an apparently
recent geological fault in the vicinity of a prominent peak called Weaver’s Needle,
which had reputedly served Peralta as a landmark for locating his lode. So I decided one
summer to broach the idea of a visit there to Carol and the kids.
“How would you and the kids like to go with me on a visit to the Lost Dutchman?” I
thought I’d mentioned my interest in that mine to Carol, but if I had she apparently had
not listened very well: “How you going to visit him if he’s lost?” After I’d given some
explanation she added, “Oh, --this sounds like another of your goose chases, but if you’d
agree to go on afterward to visit the Schmidts, my Wisconsin friends who have retired
and moved to Tucson, I guess I would.” I of course agreed.
So we geared up for the goose chase with minimal interest from Carol and a lot of
excitement from J.M. and Kappy. In retrospect the bad part of that project was deciding
to do it in early July,--which I picked for being before an August foreign trip I thought I
might have to make, and being of course during the kids’ summer vacation. After a twoday drive we arrived in Apache Junction about 8:00 p.m. and acquired rooms at the one
of the three motels that looked in the best shape. After supper we sacked out soon after
our day’s long drive.
We were up early next morning and off after breakfast to Superstition Mountain!
Using a county road map and my aerial photos I found a trail about a mile west of the
mountain façade that looked like it headed into or near a narrow canyon in the steep
cliffs. It was a rough row to hoe, more suitable for Jeep travel, and progress was slow.
Finally, as we topped a long rise, we were surprised to see in the near distance a small
shack which, being built of rock materials, was well camouflaged in the desert terrain.
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The trail led to and past the run-down cabin, and as we neared it we could see an old
codger in ragged clothing who looked about as weather beaten as the cabin, sitting on a
bench in a small partially shaded porch. I stopped in front of him and got out.
“Howdy.” He nodded but didn’t reply. “Does this trail go up a ways toward Weaver’s
Needle?” I asked. He shrugged; no answer. “Well,” I said, “can we drive the car much
further on it?” He then uttered his only words, “Go look.”, and waved his hand in the
trail’s direction in a gesture of dismissal. So I returned him a brief farewell wave, got in
the car, and we continued up the trail.
After about a quarter mile in which the trail worsened it finally deteriorated into a
foot path. “Time for our exercise,” I said, “All out.” Carol said, “I think I’d rather stay
here in the car. And guard it.” I replied, “No, you’ll cook in the car, and it doesn’t need
guarding. Come a ways with us and we’ll try and find a spot with a little shade.” So we
all began a hot as hell hike up the rocky path which finally ended near a shallow dry gully
that must have occasionally had a little rain water come down it since there were a few
small bushes on the banks. They offered a little shade, so Carol decided to wait there for
us, and Kappy thought she’d better stay with her mother since Carol wasn’t looking too
healthy in the high heat (which we learned later had a day’s high of 110 degrees!).I had
lugged a one-quart thermos from the car to leave with Carol, and Kappy had brought a
scout’s canteen, so I thought they’d be OK while J.M. and I headed into the mountain’s
wilderness for two or three hours. We each had a full army canteen on our belts, enough
for our morning’s hike, I thought, to where I could locate the geological fault I had seen
on the aerial photos.
The heat rapidly became nearly unbearable as we progressed in the no-shade and nobreeze canyon confines, and as we finally climbed the rocks at the canyon’s head to exit
to higher ground after nearly an hour we were thoroughly sweat soaked. But I was quite
thrilled to have found , in the stream bed’s rock debris, a quartz sample in which on close
inspection could be seen a few minute specks of gold! We had decided to defer using
any of our precious canteen water until we were clear out of the canyon. And when we
finally were, we anticipated with great pleasure the relief that cool water would bring
to our parched lips and dry throats. I took a big swig and---“Aaaagh!!” was my hoarse
yell as I spit out a mouthful of—hot water! “Jeez-us!”
Jerry M., a bit slower than me in uncorking his canteen, was alerted by my shocked
reaction, and cautiously sipped his. “Wow! Oh golly! I didn’t think the heat would soak
through the canteen covers that bad. What’ll we do?” As I emptied my canteen to lighten
its load of now-useless contents, I said, “Guess we don’t have much choice. We’ll do
well to get back to the girls and still be able to talk. Let’s get going.”
The return to Carol’s and Kappy’s spot was much quicker than our hike up the
canyon; not only was it downhill but the incentive of getting some drinking water added
to our speed. But when we got there we found that the heat had given them unusually
76
high thirsts. They had drunk Kappy’s canteen of water first, and nearly all of the quart
thermos supply afterward. They were apologetic when they heard of our status, but explained quite reasonably that they assumed my and J.M.’s canteens would have been
sufficient for our needs. Our response to that was fortunately limited by our dry throats.
We hurried back to the car and headed for our motel (noting enroute that the talkative fellow at the cabin I’d had the long conversation with was no longer on the porch.)
At our two-room cabin we graciously gave Carol first chance at the shower, while the rest
of us drew straws to determine the following sequence of bathers. But as we did so Carol
emerged from the bathroom. “Good heavens! Something’s wrong,--both faucets give
only hot water!” I went in to check, and Carol was unfortunately right. I phoned the motel
desk clerk, and was appalled to be told, with their apology, that cool water would not be
available until nine or ten o’clock that night. The explanation was that there was no
central city water service available for the motels, and each of them (and presumably
other places of business) had to have their own wells. The wells were pumped more or
less continuously but had to be stored on big tanks atop the motel’s office building, where
during really hot days the water temperature stayed pretty warm. (Like our canteens!)
At least we did get a good supply of cold drinking water from the cooler in the motel
office. We were all so dehydrated that we drank quarts of that delicious nectar. And, we
later confided to each other, none of us had to urinate until late the following morning!
We did continue to Tucson for a stay with the Schmidts, who were gracious hosts
and especially glad, of course, to see Carol again. My Lost Dutchman experience was a
technical disaster, but fun to later talk about., and elicited a lot of laughs from our hosts.
Our trip home to Houston was routine and uneventful, and it was nice to again be in an
environment that had both hot and cold water!
The next summer, incidentally, Schmidts sent us a clipping from the Phoenix newspaper about how another prospector named Jay Clapp (who doubtless thought he had
acquired the authentic Lost Dutchman mine map) disappeared in Superstition Mountain
some months after our visit, and his headless body had just been found. (!)
****
The foreign trip I had expected in August, 1964, didn’t materialize, and my only
travel that fall was another conference in New york about the status of current and
proposed geophysical projects. My office activities were the usual routine. A change in
our family life routine had occurred the previous year when our first born child began
college, and we had shipped him off to Tulane. He had selected that university after due
consideration of the scholastic benefits and opportunities available at several educational
institutions (which we had surmised may have included an assessment of entertainment
facilities), and it sounded like a good choice to Carol and me.
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J.M. was home for the summer but Kappy wasn’t since she had been selected to be a
“foreign exchange” student. This was a program of swapping students with those from
foreign countries during the summer to promote some inter-cultural experience and
communication between young people who might someday help improve international
relations between countries. The chosen students had no choice as to what country they’d
be sent. Kappy's assignment was Finland, which sounded like an interesting one to us.
The foreign exchange students were expected to make some effort to learn a bit of the
language of their assigned country, and in Kappy’s case that was quite a challenge. I
could find no Finnish speech instruction books at the library or any book store, but we
finally got one of sorts from the Finland consul in Houston (who was actually a Texan
who happened to have such a book because he too was trying to learn a little Finnish. I
suspected Finland wanted a Texan since that would save them a lot of travel and housing
rental expense that shipping a Finlander would otherwise incur.)
Kappy tried hard and learned a little Finnish, but with difficulty. Many Finnish words
are of outstanding length, and have no even remote relations to English,--as do Spanish,
French, etc. She learned more by the necessity of getting established and acquainted with
her Finnish family, since most of those family members knew very little more English
than Kappy did Finnish. But it was a great and much enjoyed summer for her, and she
continued correspondence for many years with the Finnish girl she spent most time with.
****
The major summer experience in 1964 for Carol and I, one that has influenced our
family’s lives for all subsequent years, was the purchase of a lot in a scenic section of the
valley of a lovely Colorado mountain stream called East River. Our family had been
camping fairly regularly each summer in that general area, and Carol had commented
occasionally during our tenting tours that “Wouldn’t it be nice to own a cabin in this
area?” I agreed, and we mentioned this to Carl Turney, a horse wrangler who had met us
one summer at our camp site, and taken us on some exciting horse-back tours through the
mountains. Carl directed us to a cabin where in the summer resided an elderly widow
named Carol Spring who, with her recently deceased husband, owned an old mining
claim of 40 acres in an aspen grove a half mile south of the old ghost mining town of
Gothic (which had been subsequently converted into a summer session school called the
Rocky Mountain Biological Laboratry).
So we contacted Carol Spring during our 1964 summer camping visit. She was a
sprightly little lady who wasn’t very enthused about selling any of her property. But after
a couple days acquaintance we were able to convince her of our altruistic love of nature
and wildlife, and that we wouldn’t shoot the deer or maintain a mowed lawn at our
proposed cabin site. She finally agreed to sell us nearly an acre for $4000. near her cabin.
She and I walked and staked out an irregular tract where our cabin at 9500 feet would
have a fine view of the surrounding 12,500 and 13,000 ft. mountains. I subsequently had
the tract surveyed and a deed recorded in the county seat of Gunnison. (More in a later
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chapter about the cabin construction the following year, and our lives in it in subsequent
years.)
****
One morning that fall at the office Will Rust came in, sat down in front of my desk,
and after some brief conversational comments said, “Have you enjoyed your visits to
New York?” I responded that I found them interesting, but wouldn’t want to have to do
them very regularly.
“Well,” he said, “maybe you’d like to just stay there.” That had a rather ominous
sound to my way of thinking. “Ah, --I, uh, --I don’t think that would be a top priority
choice of mine.”
Will cleared his throat. “I was hoping it would be. The New York office likes you and
wants you to come and be on their staff.” I didn’t know quite what to say. Finally, “How
long do I have to think about that?” Will said, “They’re sure you’ll be glad to do it since
it’s a nice promotion. And if you should decide to stay here you’ll no longer be foreign
geophysics chief. Merrill was so sure you’d jump at the job that he’s already picked a
replacement for you. Let’s see,--this is Wednesday; I think we should advise New York
no later than Friday morning.” I said, “OK, I’ll tell you tomorrow.”
Hell! I’d been in the New York office on business visits enough times to know I’d
hate working there on a permanent basis the rest of my company career. Kappy was in
Finland then, and I sure didn’t want to move just before her senior year in high school.
Jerry M. was in his first year at Tulane, and it would have been a long commute for him.
And we’d just bought the Colorado lot, planning on having a summer cabin home there
which wouldn’t have been very handy to New York residents. I was unhappy that Merrill
Haas (then head of all Humble’s Exploration department) had not talked to me first. If he
had he might not have been so quick to replace me. Then it occurred to me that maybe
my replacement, whoever it was, was a better friend of his than me, whom he wanted to
promote without having to demote me. The more I thought about it the more I could
visualize prior planning by Haas: he contacts some Jersey official: “Say, I know you’ve
been looking for some more good exploration staff personnel, and we’ve got a fellow
here with a lot of potential who’d sure like to join you Yorkers. We’ll miss him, but---.”
My primary objection to such a move, of course, was simply that Carol and I had
gotten tired of moving, and I was sure she’d feel the same. I knew I’d get either fired or
demoted if I wouldn’t accept the transfer, but I thought that with my background and
experience getting a job with another oil company would be a feasible option. So, late in
the same day that Will had talked to me in the morning, I want down to his office
“Will.” I said, “I’m sorry to have to decline the move to New York. Tell Merrill I’m
sorry to disappoint him,--if he is disappointed. But I’ll cash in my chips here, if that’s
what he wants.”
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“I’m very sorry to hear this,” replied Will, “but no,--no need to ‘cash in your chips’
as you put it. I’ll pass the word to Haas, and I’m sure he’ll have some alternative in mind
for you.”
Carol was a bit irked when I got home and told her the news without having consulted
her, but as I’d expected she was heartily in favor of not going to New York, and agreed
100% with my decision, as did Jerry M. and Kappy when they later heard of what had
happened. Kappy, on hearing that I was no longer involved in foreign geophysics said,
“Daddy, that’s good! That means you can be home more in the summer and we can go on
more camping trips!”
****
Chapter VII: Houston (1964-1975)
I decided not to try to get another job elsewhere. I considered myself “demoted”, but
it didn’t reduce my salary, and I reasoned that keeping credit for my years of service with
Carter and Humble would someday pay off in retirement perquisites. So for the next year
I was reclassified as “Headquarters Staff Geologist” for Humble (or for “Exxon” as
Humble was renamed a short time later). My duties were various: exploration budget
coordinator, economics and exploration planning studies, etc. All very dull uninspiring
work. Then, in mid-1965 I heard that some interesting studies using aerial photos were
being initiated at Esso Production Research Company (a “sibling” of Exxon, also located
in Houston, in which all of Exxon’s research studies in petroleum exploration and
production are conducted). So I requested and received a transfer to EPR and acquired
the title of “Senior Research Geologist”, with one of my specialities being my expertise
in aerial photo interpretation.
My initial work was rather localized, pertaining to Houston and Harris county and
vicinity. There was (and still is) some land subsidence in the area, which creates lots of
problems in some vicinities (since all Gulf Coast terrain is very flat to start with). And
Exxon’s production department was afraid the subsidence, and perhaps the numerous
geological faults, might be due in part to their extensive oil production withdrawals. So I
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proceeded to map, by ground inspection, all the surface faults and obtain records of the
surface elevation variations over the past years. My analysis was that the subsidence was
due to both slippage along faults and excessive ground water pumping in the Houston
and Baytown vicinities. This analysis was of course goood news to Exxon.
From that rather inconsequential study I then graduated into a program of giving
lectures on techniques of fault mapping from photos, and their geological interpretation
as an aid in exploration for oil, at Exxon’s Structural Geology schools, and in numerous
district and division offices where I was invited. Then, satellite photos became available
with worldwide coverage! These were taken by a U.S. satellite orbiting the earth about
260 miles above it, and were made available to the public by a federal government
agency. Those photos, first only available in black and white and later in color, each
covered wide expanses of territory and made it possible for an expert (as I became) to
detect and map major geologic features not recognizable at ground level, which could be
used as guides to untested and potentially oil productive provinces.
My satellite studies became in great demand by Exxon’s foreign affiliates worldwide,
and especially so where I could make rough assessments of possible oil reserves in some
areas where the size and nature of geologic structures and rock sequences could be
compared to those of known producing areas. In addition to the value of knowing such
reserves estimates in foreign countries where Exxon might be able to secure leases and
drilling rights, they were also very interested in knowing the possibilities of future oil
development in countries which would be competitive with Exxon in world petroleum
marketing. Russia and China were examples of these, and the New York office very soon
directed EPR to have me concentrate on major studies of their potential. Both countries
have gigantic expanses of geologically unexplored territory, and working those two
countries became one of my primary projects for nearly two years.
After I’d been doing that for a year or so, and feeding interim assessment reports to
New York, I one day received a phone call from Max Sons, a petroleum production
expert in that office who’d been one of the staff reviewing my work on those communist
countries.
“Jerry,” he began, “ your work has been good and getting a lot of attention in our
office. For some reason the CIA is interested in communist oil reserves, and have asked
us if we had done any studies that we wouldn’t mind letting them use.”
“That’s interesting.” I replied, “I suppose you’ve mentioned my work to them?”
“ Yes. Oh yes! And they want to interview you! Would you be willing?”
I was quite startled. “Well,--uh,- I guess so. But why don’t you just let them see my
reports?” Max said, “They want to ask you how you do it. Can you meet me at their
Washington office day after tomorrow?”
“Golly. I suppose so. But you’ll first have to clear this with my supervisor. I can’t just
take off on a visit to the CIA, for cripes sake, without getting authority.”
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Max said OK, he’d do that, and for me to be in the CIA office at 10 o’clock two days
after tomorrow. I was of course quite excited by the prospect of lecturing the CIA on my
assessment techniques, and begn selecting appropriate satellite photos and my reports for
that purpose. The following day I asked my supervisor if he’d had word from Sons about
my requested visit, and he said no. I asked if I should go anyway, and he said no, that for
me to transmit my assessment data to anyone, even the CIA, required authorization from
someone in New York at a higher official level than Sons. (My reports were classified as
“secret” and available only to Exxon personnel on a “need to know” basis.) The next day
my supervisor told me that he’d had no word from New York, that he therefore assumed
the proposed CIA meeting had been cancelled, and that I might as well forget about it.
I was greatly disappointed, of course, but I’d had enough contacts in the past with the
New York administrators to realize that such changes in plans or orders were not
uncommon. So the next morning I was back at my usual work when my phone rang about
9:30 a.m. Max’s voice was abrupt and he sounded exceedingly upset. “Kyle, this is Sons!
I’m in the CIA office. Why aren’t you?” I said, “No one here ever got authorization from
New York.Weren’t you going to take care of that?” His reply included quite a bit of
profanity, and he finally attributed the screwup to his supervisor who, he said, should
have gotten the necessary authority and advised EPR. He concluded his harangue with,
“Well, dammit, the deal’s off now. I’ll apologize here and maybe we can set it up another
time” But they never did.
The use of satellite photos rapidly became the “in” thing for use by Exxon in regional
exploration and assessment studies, and I was soon booked during intervals in my Russia
and China work for lectures to exploration personnel in a number of our division and
district offices, and at several of EPR’s structural geology schools.
My last, and most extensive business trip as an Exxon employee was in 1968 to once
again visit Libya, and also Australia, to demonstrate my assessmeent and satellite study
techniques that those Exxon affiliates might wish to incorporate into their exploration
work. Exxon had no objection to my proposal to make both visits on one trip, and to take
some vacation time stops enroute at areas of interest (with the travel costs of those
portions of my trip of course being my personal expenses.). So , I made plans for my first
(and only) round-the-world expedition! I acquired quite a bit of travel literature and
airline schedules data, and worked out details for what I expected to be (and was!) a
fascinating journey of about a month, including about five days each in the two business
offices I’d be visiting.
First stop was Rome. I’d made brief airline stopovers there on previous business trips,
but never had time to tour the city’s points of interest, so I spent two days there visiting
the many structures and sites of historic interest, and viewing the art and artifacts of
artists of an ancient age Most of my non-pedestrian travel was by taxis, which was a bit
hard on my nerves. I never could figure out the traffic system, and the auto population
and horn tooting was excessive. (I assumed that any vehicle with a non-working horn was
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probably considered disabled, and undrivable until fixed.) But overall my Rome visit
was pleasant and very worthwhile.
Next stop was Libya. Several of the company employees I’d last seen during my visit
six years ago were still there, including Denny Meyer, and the reunion was pleasurable.
At one of the evening dinner parties I was admiring the rings a couple of the ladies were
wearing. They were narrow gold bands, much like a wedding ring, but with the top
decorated with a row of 10 or 12 small matched gemstones,--rubies in one ring, and
amethysts in the other. I asked them where in Tripoli I could buy some for Carol and
Yvonne.
“Oh,” said one, “we both bought these in Beirut, Lebanon.They’re called “harem”
rings, and we bought them from the maker so they weren’t excessively expensive.”
“When I leave here I’m heading for Iraq,” I said, “and maybe I could schedule an
overnight stop in Beirut. Is there any way I could find that jewelry maker?”
The ladies assured me I could, and gave me his name. (I can’t remember it now, but
will just refer to him here as “Abdul”) “Very easy to do,” said one lady. “Just get a taxi;
they all know where Abdul does business.” That sounded interesting, so the next day I
had my airline schedule revised to provide an overnight stop in Beirut.
Our company had discovered oil since my last visit, and there was much interest in
the Sahara satellite photos I had brought, and my suggestions for expanded exploration
and assessment studies with their use. I had nearly four days of intermittent business
sessions, including an interesting review of the prospects that had been discovered by the
seismic crews. On the morning of the fifth day I headed east, to Lebanon.
My change in schedule had required booking on a Libyan airline, and several of the
passengers, including my seat mate, were sheik-types in white robes and headdresses
with prominent jewelry decorations, like those I’d seen at the gambling casino in Tripoli
in 1959. My seat partner paid no attention to me, and apparently spoke no English, so our
six or seven hour trip, including a fueling stop in Cairo, was devoid of conversation.
I had made a hotel reservation in Beirut, and as my cab driver was taking me there I
asked if he knew of Abdul the jewelry maker. “Ah, yezzir. All us know Abdul. You plan
go there? I be glad take you. My name Haroun .”(My phonetic spelling.) My plane to Iraq
was scheduled to leave about 1:00 p.m. the next day, and I had planned to visit Abdul
early that morning. But as I reached my hotel it was about 4:30 p.m. and I decided I
might as well go shopping after checking in. Haroun seemed glad to wait while I did so,
and by about 5:00 p.m. we were off. I had no idea how far it might be, and it began to
seem like we were going to completely tour Beirut in the devious route we seemed to be
on. But in response to my frequent inquiries, “How much further, driver?”, he always
responded, “Soon, soon.”
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We ultimately reached a remote area in an edge of town, and Haroun stopped on a
short street with ramshackle buildings on one side and a sidewalk flanked by a high wall
on the other in which there were gate-like doors at intervals, with what I assumed were
street numbers on them. Haroun pointed to one. “You go in there. Follow path to house.
Abdul in house.” We were the only car on the street and only two or three people loafing
in doorways were visible. I began to feel a bit uncomfortable as I began considering the
possibility that I’d been suckered into a situation that might result in the disappearance of
my wallet,--and maybe me. “Haroun, --how will I get back to the hotel? I haven’t seen
any taxis lately.” “No problem. I wait you here. Go see Abdul.”
With considerable trepidation I entered the door in the wall, proceeded down a short
path to a rock-walled building, and knocked on the heavy looking unpainted wood door.
After a moment it creaked open to reveal a large bearded and ominous looking fellow
who might have resembled one of the legendary Ali Baba’s forty thieves. He said nothing
and when I said, “Is this Abdul’s office?”, he simply gestured for me to follow him. I did
so, down a dark hallway at the end of which he opened a door and motioned me into a
room which apparently was Abdul’s office. A swarthy man in shirt and trousers seated at
a desk proved to be Abdul, and he was in intense conversation (in Arabic) with a tall
white-robed Arabian standing in front of the desk. Abdul briefly looked at me, and waved
me to one of the office chairs, saying only “Wait”, as he resumed his discussion.
After about ten minutes Abdul finally opened a desk drawer, pulled out a handful of
what appeared to be gold coins, counted them, and handed a number to the Arabian who
put them in a small bag and left. Abdul then turned to me and politely and in fair English
asked what he could do for me. I explained that I was considering buying some harem
rings. He rang a desk bell, a young man appeared, and Abdul gave him some instruction
in Arabic. The man left and, after Abdul conversed with me a few minutes, reappeared
with a tray covered with rings. Abdul said, “Look at these please and make a choice if
any you like. I must leave for a moment but I be back soon.”
So there I was, alone in the office with a tray load of at least two dozen valuable gemstone rings of a wide variety. I was at first rather amazed to be trusted with such an
expensive assortment, but on reflection realized I would have very little chance to purloin
any, had I been so inclined, and depart with the loss undetected. Abdul returned in about
ten minutes. “Find any you like?” I had and pointed them out. “Yes, I’ll take these. How
much?” He told me the price, which as far as I could tell was reasonable, and I started to
pick them up “No,” said Abdul. “these are display only. We make you perfect copies.
Where I send them?” “Oh, gosh!” I sighed. “I’m leaving tomorrow. Can’t I buy these?”
“No.” he replied, “but we make copies quick. You pay now. We deliver.” I couldn’t
believe he was expecting me to hand over money for rings I might never get. “But I’m
due out tomorrow noon.” I stood up to leave. Abdul waved me back into my seat, asked
where I was staying, and said he’d have his jeweler work tonight, and the rings would be
delivered at the hotel no later than 11:00 a.m. That didn’t sound possible, but I really
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wanted the rings and didn’t have any option but to agree . So I paid him, left, and found
Haroun dutifully waiting for me. He returned me in good time to the hotel, I tipped him
well, and wondered through dinner at the hotel if I’d been a remarkably foolish sucker.
At about 10:30 the next morning, the desk clerk told me a package had been left for
me, from Abdul;--the rings had arrived! And, I should add, were much appreciated by the
ultimate recipients, especially when I told them the story of their purchase.
After my stopover in Lebanon, I had scheduled a few days each in Iraq and Iran. One
of Carol’s numerous civic projects during our early Houston days was being a prominent
member of a women’s organization that arranged home visits and entertainment activities
for wives of couples from foreign countries who were in the U.S. on some government or
educational training programs. We frequently hosted such couples, and two of those with
whom we most socialized were from Iraq and Iran. The name of the husband from Iraq
was Rashid Al-Rifai, who had been in Houston for studies in government related affairs
at U.H., and the Iran man, Kamal Khonsari, was a medical intern at one of the hospitals.
Both couples, when they had finished their training and were heading home, insisted that
if we ever came to their countries we would be their welcome guests. So prior to starting
on this trip I had contacted both and was reassured of their pleasure in my impending
visit,--although they expressed disappointment that Carol would not be with me, since
she had been their primary Houston hostess.
The flight to Bagdad was a short hop, where I was greeted at the airport by Rashid’s
wife Sadia (since I had arrived on a workday for Rashid). Their house was rather small
by U.S. standards, but I was given the one extra bedroom,--which I was embarrassed to
later find was the room of Sadia’s father who had been assigned a cot in a rather crowded
store room. He didn’t speak English, but to all appearance had no objection to the move,
and in fact, according to Sadia, was rather proud to have an American using his room. I
was well hosted and entertained by the Al-Rifais, who served me some delicious dinners
of Iraqian delicacies (of which I can’t remember any of the names or ingredients). The
following day Rashid took a holiday and gave me an impressive tour of Bagdad, with
special attention to the many old Arabian residential settlements with architectural styles
of ancient vintage that made me feel like we were driving through movie sets.
After two days in Bagdad I headed out on a 400-mile flight to Tehran, Iran. As we
were were approaching the airport my English seat mate began fumbling in his brief
case, looking a bit disturbed. Finally he found what he apparently was searching for. “Ah,
here it is!”, he exclaimed, “I thought for a bit I’d lost it.” When he saw I was interested he
added, “My visa. Really need one here, you know.” No, I didn’t know. I hadn’t needed
one for Iraq (back then!), since I knew either Rashid or Sadia would meet and vouch for
me. I said to my seat partner, “I didn’t think one was needed here, since there will be
someone meeting me and my passport will be sufficient identification.”
“You may have some problems,” he replied. “My visa always had a rigid inspection
on my previous trips, even though I was always met by someone from our company.”
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Good grief! I could visualize being not allowed to disembark and being returned to
the plane, bound for ---where? After the plane landed and we arrived at the exit gate, I
remained in my seat while the rest of the passengers filed out, wondering what in hell I
should do. But when the plane was empty except for me I could hear someone outside
with a megaphone yelling “Meester Kee-lay, Meester Kee-lay!” It suddenly dawned on
me that it was the mispronunciation of Kyle! I hurriedly left, expecting one or both of the
Khonsaris, but neither were there. But there was an attractive young lady and handsome
young man standing near the exit gate waving at someone,--at me, as it turned out. They
motioned for me to come through the gate (and the gatekeeper official smiled at me and
also beckoned me through), then introduced themselves as the employees of Kamal
Khonsari’s mother, who was in an official position in the Iranian government (which
neither Kamal nor his wife Houri had ever mentioned when they were in Houston, nor in
their subsequent letters to me)
When I explained the reason for my tardiness in leaving the plane, they assured.me
that no visa would be necessary in my case, since I was listed as the official guest of
Madame Khonsari. And I could easily believe that when they escorted me to their
government vehicle,--a sleek chauffeur-driven black limousine with a small Iranian flag
on each front fender. (I should mention here that my visit occurred when Iran was still
ruled as a kingdom by the Shah,-- his royal highness Mohammed Riza Pahlevi, who was
a staunch friend of the U.S. and gladly welcomed American visitors.)
My greeters (whose names I no longer remember) explained that Kamal and Houri
had been suddenly required to visit a close family friend in another city who was very ill,
and had been delegated to pay their respects and get-well wishes in behalf of Kamal’s
mother, who couldn’t do so (nor meet me) because of some urgent government business.
But arrangements had been made for me to stay at a fine downtown hotel (with expenses
paid!) during my scheduled visit, and that my two greeters would take turns in entertaining me with Tehran tours and activities.
We boarded the limousine and headed for the hotel, into the city and down the central
streets and avenues. Traffic was heavy and in lieu of stop and go signs there were whitegloved and uniformed policemen at most main intersections. And I sure felt like a royal
visitor when, as we approached, those traffic cops recognized the limousine (the fender
flags were a clue, of course), and stopped all other traffiic to permit us easy passage
through the intersections. Quite an experience!
The hotel was one of the city’s prime hostelries, and I have never before or since been
in a hotel room of such comfort and convenience. It was a good indication of the official
hospitality I was to receive the next two days. I was disappointed to never have the
opportunity to meet Madame Khonsari, but my greeters transmitted her apologies and
performed in splendid fashion as my host and hostess. I was thoroughly toured through
Tehran at intervals, and I was shown through many impressive government buildings, of
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which the most classic example was the palace where the Shah hosted representatives of
other countrys’ governments. The art displays, furniture, beautiful panelled walls, and
magnificent huge-area Persian carpets were breathtaking examples of the Shah’s lifestyle
and wealth that finally inspired his overthrow by revolting Moslem leaders. I have often
since wondered whether those subsequent governments have preserved any examples of
such elegance, or destroyed them as being heretical to their rigid religious beliefs.
My remaining business stop was to be in Sydney, Australia, but I had scheduled a
couple more vacation stops in Bangkok, Thailand, and Singapore, Malaysia. The flight
route from Tehran to Bangkok was a long one and required an early morning departure.
After crossing some scenic mountain terrain in Afghanistan and Pakistan the plane made
a stopover in Delhi, India, in late afternoon for refueling and some passenger dropoffs
and pickups. The weather was fortunately clear so that about an hour out of Delhi as we
flew along the southern border of Nepal we had a magnificent view of the world’s
highest mountain,--Mt. Everest, which towers 29,028 feet into the sky near Nepal’s north
border with Tibet. That was a thrilling experience, and I regretted not having a camera
with me.
We continued across India, crossing the Bay of Bengal and Rangoon, Burma, finally
arriving in Bangkok about midnight, ending the most interesting and exciting airline trips
I have ever experienced. Bangkok, the largest city and capital of Thailand, is barely
above the sea level of the Gulf of Siam, about 15 miles to the south. As a result the city
has many canals used extensively by boat traffic, and a major river flows through it on
which many people live on houseboats. It’s a railway and industrial center so the central
downtown portion is occupied by modern offices and stores, and adjoining sections have
many primitive dwelling areas flanked by exotic tropical vegetation. One of the many
tourist attractions I saw (but didn’t try) was elephant riding. Boarding locations were
inside the city, but the rides would include trips into the nearby jungle terrain. Bangkok is
an interesting and exotic city, and I would like to visit it again.
Singapore is located on the south end of an island at the southern tip of the Malay
Peninsula, and is one of the major seaports and commercial centers of the world, serving
ships sailing from Indian Ocean ports to Asian areas and Australia. The central city area
has numerous modern office buildings in which companies from many foreign countries
conduct business operations in the Asian areas. The island, 26 miles long and 14 miles
wide, has a population of about two million, of which nearly half are Chinese, the balance
being Malays and some Indians. I was impressed with the cleanliness and orderliness that
was so apparent in many sections of the downtown city. When I commented on this to
one of the hotel clerks he told me the mayor had been elected with one of his campaign
promises being to clean up the city, and that he was accomplishing this by radically high
fines for even such a minor trash discard in the street as an empty cigarette package.
The hotel in which I was able to get reservations for a couple nights was on the
edge of the business section, and catered primarily to foreign office workers, including a
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few Americans. One nearby street that intrigued me had about two blocks of nothing but
sidewalk food vendors, with most of them having one specialty,--many of which were
exotic concoctions of ingredients I couldn’t identify, but which tasted delicious. Several
of my meals were on that street. I joined the numerous epicureans who strolled up and
down it, buying small portions from various sellers and eating them there, then passing
on to another vendor whose produce looked good and sampling that one. It was much like
a cafeteria but instead of first collecting a plate full, the eating was done as one strolled
by. Under those arrangements, my street meals usually had about six or eight items on
my menu, and I enjoyed them more than I did the hotel restaurant meals.
Next stop was Sydney, Australia, and I was graciously welcomed by the exploration
personnel with whom I spent a day and a half discussing satellite studies and my assessment techniques, and another day and a half being toured by them about that attractive
city. I was interested to hear that Sydney had been founded in 1788 as a penal colony,
and is now the oldest and largest city in Australia. The city is on the southeastern coast of
Australia. It adjoins a large 22-square-mile harbor that has more than 180 miles of
shoreline, and is extensively used by the largest ships in the world. An impressive sight is
the great Harbor Bridge which connects the city’s downtown business section with
suburbs on the harbor’s north shore. The bridge, which dominates the skyline from
anywhere in the city, is a huge single arch l650 feet in length and tall enough to allow
large ships to pass underneath it.
Sydney is the capital of the state of New South Wales, and the Governor’s House is
another impressive sight. It’s a huge stone structure resembling old European castles with
many towers and adjoining wings, all crested with fortress-like battlements and protective
ramparts. Another large building under construction during my visit was an elegant opera
house, of an ultra-modern and exotic design completely in contrast to the castle of the
governor. And another enjoyable feature of Sydney was exposure to Australian speech
accent and idioms, so pleasantly different to what I’d been hearing so far on the trip.
My remaining journey and time was 100% vacation. From Sydney I took a long eight
or ten hour flight, across the Tasman sea, about 1600 miles to Auckland, New Zealand,
located near the extreme north end of the North Island.There are many things to do and
see in New Zealand in both North and South Islands, but my remaining vacation time did
not also permit a visit to the South Island, noted for spectacular mountain terrain called
very appropriately the “Southern Alps”. I’ve always wanted to return and complete my
New Zealand experience in that half of the country.
So, to make the most of my time I rented an auto for a 2 ½ day tour of North Island.
New Zealand, like Great Britain, is a drive-on-the-left country, which took some getting
used to. Also, to complicate things, the auto rental man apologized for not having any
U.S.-make cars available so I got a British brand in which the controls are all reversed:
steering wheel on the right; gear shift on steering wheel column is on the left; and turn
signal on the right. And I had to get used to all these system reversals in a remarkably
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awkward sitation. The rental agency was on a street which was one of another five that
all entered and revolved around a large circular intersection center. My intended route
involved leaving the car rental street, proceeding about halfway around the center intersection and exiting on one of the other streets. What a workout that was! Until I got used
to it I did a lot of “shifting” with the turn signal , and vice versa. I had to circle the intersection twice before I could get out on the street I needed, amid much honking and hand
waving by many other drivers.
But I soon got used to it, and my tour was a delight. The countryside is beautiful, with
an abundance of green pasture land for an abundance of sheep.(Farmers raise livestock on
9/10’s of their land.) Streams were fast, clear, and looked like good fishing locations.
Unusual scenery included occasional forests of giant 12-foot high tree-like ferns; a region
of thermal activity like Wyoming’s Yellowstone, with geysers, boiling mud pools, and
hot springs; and a view of millions of tiny glowworms in some caves at Waitomo whose
light shining on rock formations in the dark created a fascinating fairyland effect.
The original North Island natives were the Maoris,-- Polynesians related to other
Pacific natives like Hawaiians, Samoans, etc. They are currently about 6% of the total
country’s population; the remaining 94% are mostly descendants of settlers from England
and European countries. Maoris are famous for skill in wood carving, and much of their
work appears in churches, meeting houses, homes, and public buildings. On one overnight stop in a town with a Maori community I lucked into attending a dancing and music
performance by them in a Maori meeting house, which was unusual and enjoyable.
After my return to Auckland I headed east the following day on another long airline
trip across the Pacific to Tahiti, (known as the Paradise of the Pacific), about 2800 miles
as the crow flies (if any crow could fly that far). It’s one of 14 of the Society Islands (an
odd name which no one there could explain to me), and its scenery is stunningly exotic.
The interior is rugged and mountainous, with numerous waterfalls and rushing mountain
streams surrounded by beautiful beaches, and the whole island is completely surrounded
by a coral reef. After some back-and-forth switching by English and French explorers,
France finally gained permanent control in 1842, and French is now spoken by many of
the inhabitants. One of the most notable residents for some years was the famous French
artist, Paul Gauguin.
We landed in Papeete, Tahiti’s capital. At another tourist’s recommendation I was
able to obtain a motel room adjoining a lovely beach a short distance outside the city. It
was a very unusual experience for me. I was given the option of staying in the main
building with the usual motel facilities, or in one of the separate huts favored by hippy
type offbeat young travelers. They were cheaper than rooms in the main building (for
some obvious reasons, as it turned out), but I made that choice for the experience, not the
cost. These were well-ventilated thatch-roofed shacks of native-type construction. Mine,
reached by an extensive footpath through a pretty garden of tropical flowers and bushes,
had for illumination only one lightbulb hanging from the ceiling, a crude wooden chair
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and table, and a rack for hanging clothes,--- and, of course, no television, radio, or air
conditioning. That night, after several toddies in the motel bar and a late, late supper, I
had no problem falling asleep on what felt like a straw-stuffed mattress. But when I
awakened for some reason around midnight, I wondered what small objects I was feeling
that kept dropping occasionally on the sheet I was sleeping under. I finally got up, turned
on the light, and was stunned to find they were some kind of bugs,--looked much like
cockroaches only bigger. Apparently they resided in the thatched ceiling, and were out
for late night strolls. I had no option but to pull the sheet nearly over my head and try to
get back to sleep,--which I did, more or less, but I was an early riser in the morning!
I had a half-day stroll in Papeete the next day and a half-day boat trip to, and stroll
around, Moorea,--another nearby exotic but less populated island. The following morning
early I began the most taxing and tiresome part of my journey: an all-day and most-of-the
night flight back to Mexico City, arriving somewhere around 2 or 3 a.m. I had to change
airlines there for the remaining trip leg to Houston which left later that morning, and
when Carol finally picked me up at the Houston airport I was a groggy “basket case”
which took me a couple days to recover from. But I had made it around the world and
had conversational material for several weeks afterward!
****
As noted earlier, a small part of that circum-globe excursion involved business visits,
and it turned out to be the last of my company-sponsored tours as an employee. But Carol
and I had a fine trip to Europe in 1974. Francis Stewart had been transferred to Bergen,
Norway, to check the progress of recent oil discoveries and exploration activities in
portions of the North Sea adjoining southern Norway. Stew and Gloria (our former ICCFOOIE participants) invited Carol and me to come visit them, and we allocated some
vacation time to do so. So one day off we flew to Bergen, via a plane change in London.
The Stewarts were, as usual, highly hospitable hosts, and assigned us a bedroom in
their rental home in the suburbs..In the next few days they of course conducted us on
tours of Bergen, which is the chief seaport on Norway's rugged coastline of the Norwegian Sea portion of the Atlantic Ocean. It is Norway's second largest city, with a population in the metropolitan area of well over 200,000. Much of the downtown area fronts on
part of the harbor area, and the numerous outdoor floral and vegetable markets there are
colorful attractions for sidewalk strollers.
One of the special tourist attractions is a chairlift ride to the top of a high hill on the
edge of town. It provides a scenic sight of Bergen, the harbor and nearby ocean, and is a
very popular site for photographers. One attractive feature of Bergen (and of most urban
sites anywhere in Norway) is the fact that a large percentage of Norwegians of our age
group and younger (especially younger!) speak English to some degree. I suppose that
ability to speak Norwegian is quite limited among non-Norwegians.
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An outstanding highlight of our visit was a cruise up the Norwegian coast, suggested
and recommended by Stew and Gloria, who accompanied us. They secured nice cabin
facilities for the four of us on a small steamer which served the dual purpose of hauling
travelers and freight loads along the coast for the small towns where land transportation
is largely lacking. We embarked at Bergen on what became about a week's fascinating
excursion. Throughout the trip the ship traveled within sight of the rocky scenic shore,
and made numerous stops near docks of the towns for unloading and loading both freight
and passengers.
The weather cooled off noticeably as we progressed north, and we crossed the Arctic
Circle roughly 500 crow-fly miles from Bergen. The boat's last port stop before rounding
the North Cape (Norway's northernmost point in the Barents Sea portion of the Arctic
Ocean) was Hammerfest, where the famous Norwegian explorer Nansen left on an Arctic
expedition in 1893 in his famous but unsuccessful effort to reach the North Pole.
We finally rounded the North Cape in frigid temperatures and made our last port stop
in Kirkenes, a small outpost village about 50 airline miles from the common boundary
corner of Norway, Finland, and Russia. However, a closer Norway-Russia boundary was
only about 10 miles east of town, and one of the trip's events of interest was a bus tour to
the Russian border. It was a very unimpressive wire-fenced border at the end of the bus
trail, with a small guard's booth on the Russian side. The booth was not occupied as we
arrived in mid-morning, and several of our fellow tourists took advantage of this to go up
to the fence and stick a leg through so they could claim later to friends that they had "set
foot" in Russia (!). While we were there a Russian guard finally arrived on a bicycle,
looking slightly embarrassed as several of us pointed at our wrist watches. But he and we
all laughed, and it was a mutually enjoyable confrontation.
Kirkenes had a landing strip to accommodate a small airline service, and we all used
it after our return to town that same day. The Stewarts needed to return promptly to
Bergen for Stew to resume work, and Carol and I took another flight south to Oslo, the
charming capital of Norway. Oslo is the leading seaport of Norway, at the head of the
great Oslo Fiord on the southeasern coast. The city's town hall sits at the inner end of the
large harbor, which is always full of Norwegian fishing boats docked at the wharves, and
many steamships and cargo vessels are usually anchored offshore.
We enjoyed exploriing Oslo for a couple of days. It's a city replete with museums,
parks, historical buildings and good restaurants. I wish I had a picture to include here of
the most attractive and interesting park we saw,--a large one on a low hillside with lovely
florally decorated walkways to the top on which is the most unusual sculpture I have ever
seen. It's a very tall statue (about two stories high, as I recall) consisting of a column of
exquisitely rock-carved human figures; men, women and children, all intertwined and
embracing or supporting each other. I don't know what it was designed to depict or honor,
other than perhaps a tribute to humanity in general, or maybe specifically Norwegians.
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Carol had an interesting incentive for visiting Oslo, since her ancestry included some
Norwegian blood. Her mother Lu's father was Norwegian: Christian E. Skamser, who
was born in a town in the prominent Gudbrandsdalen Valley of southcentral Norway. His
parents were Erick Skamser and wife Brit (whose maiden Norwegian name was Skjak,
spelled and pronounced in English Shaak, which became Shaker in the U.S.). Christian
was 14 years old when he was brought to the U.S. by his parents (plus nine additional
siblings), and ultimately married another Norwegian named Anna Burnson.
Carol wondered if there was any way she could inquire, before we left the U.S., as to
whether it would be possible to identify and locate any distant relatives of the Skamser
families who might still be living in Norway. Her only clue would be that Christian was
once a young resident of one of the towns in Gudbrandsdalen territory and that she also
knew his parents' names. So one day she phoned the Norwegian Consulate office here in
Houston. They were cooperative, suggesting that someone in the Houston Norwegian
Seamans' Church might be willing to contact an official in a Gudbrandsdalen church since
Norwegian churches are noted for their practice of maintaining detailed famiy records of
their congregations. So she phoned the NSC's minister, explained her family tree interest,
and was told that he would phone some Norwegian churches and see if they could help.
About a week later Carol was surprised and delighted to receive a letter from a church
in Norway, written by the minister in flowing script,--but in Norwegian! So she visited
the local NSC minister who kindly translated it for her. It said that the only Skamser
descendants or relatives he could locate were in Oslo. (And, incidentally, it mentioned
that Erick's wife's parents once owned property that became the present town of Skjak.)
He supplied the name (which I can't remember) and address of the Oslo family related
to the Skamsers, so in Oslo Carol studied the city's phone directory and finally found her
relatives' name. She phoned them, found that they spoke English quite fluently, and was
delighted to be asked to come visit them.
This we of course did, and we spent most of a day visiting and dining with the young
family which included two teen age children and the wife's elderly mother (who was the
only non-English-speaking member). They were very hospitable and very interested in
Carol's possible relation to them (which was never exactly figured out, except that they
and Carol were obviously in some category of distant cousins). The wife showed us a
commercial postcard with a scene of an attractive green valley in which was pictured a
neat farmhouse and barn, and explained that that farm was on the outskirts of Skjak and
was still occupied by the her great-aunt and great-uncle who would be delighted to have
us pay them a day's visit That sounded like a good idea to us, and we told the wife we'd
try to do so. Then the wife said, "They don't speak much English, but I know they'll make
you welcome." My enthusiasm cooled a bit, but I told her,"Well, uh, I guess we could
work around that. I've got a Norwegian phrase book with me."
We could have conveniently terminated our trip with a flight home from Oslo, but the
Stewarts had strongly recommended the scenic experience of a train trip back to Bergen.
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We did so and it was a very fascinating journey across mountainous terrain scenically
decorated with lots of lakes and waterfalls, and frequent train stops at small picture-book
Norwegian villages.
In Bergen, after Carol and I had discussed the matter, we decided to visit Skjak Since
our map showed no direct route there by bus or train or auto, we visited a travel agent the
next mid-morning. The lady who welcomed and seated us was polite and friendly, and
asked,"Where did you want to go and when did you want to leave?"
I replied, "We want to visit my wife's relatives in Skjak, stay overnight and come back
the next day. And we'd like to leave this afternoon if possible, since we're booked to fly
to London in three days on our way home to the U.S." "Oh my," the agent sighed. "I’m
not sure that's possible. Skjak looks on the map like it's a short trip from here, but you'd
have to make several transfers en route. Let me see what schedule I could work out."
The agent became very busy with maps and travel schedule documents. Finally she
said, "First you'd have to take a bus to the town of Vangsnes, on the Sognefjord. No bus
leaves here for there until 3 p.m. and doesn't get there until nearly 6 p.m. since it makes
several stops in villages en route. At Vangsnes you must cross the fjord, and the ferry
makes trips only in mid-morning and mid-afternoon. So you'd have to stay at the small
hotel in Vangsnes overnight, wait for the morning ferry next day, and get the l0 a.m. bus
north. It takes a main road into Gudbrandsdalen Valley, but just before getting there
there's a turnoff road to Skjak where you'd have to wait for another bus for the last 15
kilometers into Skjak. It's not an easy place to get to from here! Your return trip would be
another day and a half, and if you stayed there overnight the total trip would be about 4
days."
Deciding not to visit Skjak was obviously an easy decision, but Carol had looked
forward to doing so and was quite disappointed. "Look," I said, "think what a day's
conversation would have been like with us only knowing the Norwegian words for
"hello" and "goodbye". She smiled and nodded.
So, after a couple more days with the Stewarts, and a farewell dinner at a fine
restaurant at which we hosted them as a small gesture of appreciation for their commendable hospitality, we bade them and Norway goodbye and went home. It was one of our
best vacations.
****
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CHAPTER VIII: Kyle Kids' Careers
Jerry M. Kyle
J.M.finished high school in Houston in 1964 and began his college career at Tulane
that fall. He did well scholastically and enjoyed his residence activities in New Orleans.
He became quite familiar with the French Quarter and other areas of interest frequented
by college students, and liked riding on the street cars which are a major travel facility in
that city. During his two years there he completed a pre-medical curriculum and Honors
courses, and made the Dean's List of top-level students.
He then decided that the University of Texas at Austin might have some courses more
pertinent to his career plans. He graduated from there in 1968 with a BA in mathematics
and minors in physics and chemistry. He was then ready for the stimulating experience of
beginning a career in commercial institutions which would pay him for his work (instead
of his parents paying for his work at educational institutions).
He settled in an apartment in Houston, and with his pre-med and computer training
was fortunate in quickly gaining employment at the famous M.D.Anderson Cancer
Hospital in their Department of Biomathematiccs. During this period as a well-employed
and eligible bachelor he had plenty of dating opportunities in Houston, and made good
use of his qualifications. His income was quite adequate for the usual social activities,
and one winter he was able to persuade one of his young lady friends to accompany him
on a skiing trip to the Swiss Alps. J.M. later claimed they even did some skiing there.
But eventually his primary interest was in a lovely miss named Marie Crane. Her
origin was North Carolina where for a time she was employed as an airline stewardess.
She and a friend had moved to Houston to seek other work, and she secured a position
with the School of Public Health in Houston's Medical center as administrative assistant
to the business manager. Her business location was across the street from Jerry's location,
and that facilitated their first meeting.
The Jerry-and-Marie dating became frequent, a mutual attraction developed, and the
day (or night) came when J.M., as the standard expression goes, popped the question! (I
have never grasped the logic behind that phrase; why would a question about getting
married ever be popped?) Marie accepted, and a short time later, on the 20th of October,
1973, at 3:00 p.m. the marriage was ceremoniously performed in a lovely elaborate
wedding in Houston's elegant Memorial Drive Presbyterian Church. It was attended by
many, including Marie's mother and sister from North Carolina, as was the subsequent
reception and. dinner party at which I was of course inspired to give several toasts, such
as:
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"Marriage without love is like a glove
Without a mate to match;
Love without marriage is like a carriage
Without a horse attached."
My poetic artistry was better exemplified, however, by this one which was themed to
the groom's then-current interest in sailing:
"I propose a toast to those foremost
In our hearts and thoughts this evening;
May their love be true and regrets be few
For the single life they're leaving.
They're on their mark, all set to embark
On the sea of matrimony;
That this sea is rough and tough enough
We all know is no baloney!
But in spite of this we wish them bliss
And a boat that needs no bailing;
May the voyage be merry for Marie and Jerry,
With many long years of good sailing!"
An early post-marriage project was the purchase of a home. With some shopping help
from Carol and I, they finally bought a used house in an older residential area populated
by similar modest bungalows, for about $25,000 as I recall. It required some cleaning and
redecoration, which the new bride and groom did with vim and vigor, and it proved to be
an attractive and comfortable domicile for a number of years.
Jerry's job was work and an environment that he enjoyed a lot, but he had opportunity
to get a job with California Computer Products Company which he thought might expand
his knowledge and experience in the rapidly growing use of computers in industry. That
job involved managing sales and post-sales technical support for the company's software
in a seven-state region. That, of course, was his first experience in business travel, and he
appreciated having trip expenses paid by his employer instead of his parents (as did his
parents!).
After a few years both the job and travel requirements became a bit tedious, and he
was pleased to be offered and accept a job back in M.D. Anderson in 1975, in their
Department of Radiotherapy. It was a job which appealed to his creative interests. One of
his particularly useful efforts was to design and develop a Radiotherapy Patient Information System. Another of his achievements was to resurrect, redesign and rewrite a breast
cancer treatment technique, the results of which were published in some medical journals,
showing that radiation treatment was often a viable alternative to radical surgery.
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An event of great importance occurred in1977, the reason for joyous celebration
by all the Kyles-- the birth of a baby girl! Jerry M. had informed us of the impending
event shortly after Marie had reported her pregnancy to him, and he was thrilled and
excited. In a joking comment to me (well, half-joking, maybe) he exclaimed, "Dad, I'm
too young to be a father!" I considered telling him, but didn't, that when he was born I
was three years younger than he'd be when his baby would arrive.
Carol and I were at a big party given by Dr. Stephen Thomas and wife Eileen, who
were special friends of ours, the evening of December 23. J.M. and Marie had been
invited, but didn't show up when expected, There must have been a total of 2 or 3 dozen
other guests, all singing Christmas carols (mostly off-key as the result of too many
toddies) with great exuberance as the phone rang. Eileen answered and told Carol it was
for her, from son Jerry. We weren't expecting the baby's birth for a week or two yet, and
before she answered the phone she turned pale and gasped, "Omigod! Somebody's had an
accident! No other reason to call me here this time of night,--oh, no!" But as she
answered the phone and her facial expression turned from apprehension to excited joy I
correctly expected the nature of the message. And when she laid down the phone and
made an enthusiastic public announcement to the guests that Marie was in labor and J.M.
had taken her to the hospital, they responded with cheers and many spontaneous and
beverage-enhanced toasts to Marie, Jerry M., and the about-to-be born family member.
She was born about 5 or 6 a.m. the following morning, on Christmas Eve Day, which
is not an ideal birthday date from the standpoint of day-apart celebrations of birthdays
and Christmases. But she and her parents have coped with that problem satisfactorily for
many years now. She was named Kelley Michelle, with my favorite euphonic pronunciation being Kelley Michelley. She was a cute kid, adored by parents and grandparents as
she grew into adulthood with a pretty face and figure. After fine scholastic records in
high school she began college at Southwest Texas State at San Marcos. She enjoyed her
stay and scholastic environment there, but decided to progress to the University of
Houston where she graduated in January 2001 with a Bachelor's degree and a 3.8 GPA in
psychology. She continues there for two more years studying for a Master's degree in
social work. During the summer of 2001 she was fortunate in getting a job in Harris
County's Mental Health & Mental Retardation Association, where she obtained valuable
experience as a case worker for families with juvenile offenders and problem children.
Jerry enjoyed his work at M.D.Anderson, but the addition of a family member made
him give thought about whether other employment might offer more soon-to-be-needed
financial assets. So another job change for J.M. occcurred in 1979. He had heard that
Exon Production Research (where I had worked) was in great need of additonal help to
assist in computer processing of a large volume of seismograph data being obtained by
increasing activity in that type of oil exploration, both domestically and worldwide. For
immediate help they wanted to use computer experts available on a consultant basis, and
rumor had it that the rate of consultant pay was extremely generous, in excess of that of
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regular employees (which is logical and equitable, since consultant work is usually not on
a steady basis). Another advantage for J.M. was that consultants could take days off more
or less when they wished, and his annual vacation could be scheduled as to dates and
length of time more or less whenever he chose. His only job complaint was that his lack
of knowledge about seismic prospecting meant that he never understood the technical
significance of the tremendous volume of numerical data he was computer-juggling.
After a few years Exxon offered him a job as a company employee, based on recommendations by Exxon employees he'd been working with who were impressed with his
job performance. He turned down the offer, preferring the consulting arrangement. But
in 1986 the oil business suffered a general relapse; many companies trimmed payrolls,
and Exxon cancelled J.M.'s consultant's contract. So, back to a job search.
The search soon got him another job the same year, this time in an industry he was
always interested in and familiar with,--the stock market! His new employer was named
Telescan, Inc., a company whose primary function was supplying computerized data and
information on stocks and mutual funds for subscribers to their service. Jerry's function
was the design and development of commercially useful online interactive data search
programs, which interfaced with Telescan's software and its database of over 10,000
stocks and mutual funds. He developed products which were commercially lucrative and
contributed to a quadrupling of the company's overall revenues in four years. And a not
inconsiderable informal company benefit to J.M. was his convenient access to data on
stocks in which he was interested, which was a substantial aid in managing his personal
investment portfolio.
But by 1992 some friction with Telescan management had arisen, based on their
failing to honor an agreement about royalty payments to J.M. for some innovations he'd
previously developed and incorporated in Telescan's technical systems. He left the
company and later that year acquired employment again in the computerized geophysical
data business, based on his experience and reputation for such work with Exxon. The
company was Western Geophysical Co., a Houston-headquartered international organization with worldwide seismograph land crew and marine fleet operations. This was
another six-year job of hard work and good pay, but in 1998 the company began a
reorganization of technical operations which eliminated Jerry's services and position.
It had been over nine years since he quit M.D.Anderson, and he doubted that any job
opportunity would be offered him there again. But he had enjoyed the medically-oriented
work he had done there, and decided to give it a try. To his amazement and great joy he
was immediately re-hired! The salary they offered was more than he had asked for, and
another advantage was to credit him with the time he was previously employed there,
which enhanced his benefits and alloted vacation time. He was assigned his own office
on the top (l8th) floor of the building in which he worked, and that building location had
the much appreciated benefit of being within ten minutes travel to and from his home
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(which, in the horrendous traffic congestion of Houston's commuting and business travel
routes, is an asset of great value and pleasure!).
The new job,where he now works as of this writing, is in the Cancer Genetics
section, where data is being compiled on whether a genetic link exists for certain cancer
types. J.M.'s current function is to reorganize and standardize about two decades of data
existing in this field of research, to make it more accessible and useful in continuing
research projects.
By the time Kelley was about to become a teenager, Marie decided she could renew
her pursuit of a scholastic degree which had been interrupted for 24 years. She enrolled in
the University of Houston, and to everyone's pride and joy graduated in 1991, when she
was 44 years old, with Summa Cum Laude honors in elementary education. She readily
obtained a teaching job in the Houston public school system, and has steadily taught 3rd
and 4th grade students ever since, with excellent ratings from her supervisors.
Jerry M. is a man of many talents, for which I've admired and envied him since I have
to acknowledge he didn't inherit them from me. One prime hobby of his is woodworking
in which his efforts range from the standard house and furniture repairs and alterations to
exotic products such as artistic picture frames, decorative jewelry boxes, etc. One year he
concentrated on creating stained glass window decorations which now add class and
beauty to his home and mine In another year his specialty was building miniature flowing
waterfalls encased in scenic environments, which made fascinating decorations for club
room shelves and table tops. He is a top-class photographer with both video and still
cameras, and his talent for photos of Colorado wildflowers and nature scenes is displayed
in the numerous large framed montages he has created for house decorations, which are
admirable works of art.
He would have made a good building conractor or architect. One of his memorable
and enjoyable projects was designing and supervising the construction of the large and
elaborate house they now live in. That was such a satisfying experience he decided to buy
the small old house next door, tear it down, and create another house similar to the one he
built for himself as a business venture. Due to some unforseen circumstances, such as a
six week's delay in mid-construction due to the street in front being torn up for repair and
re-paving, a flooded half-done house due to water pipe malfunctions, and other delays for
a number of reasons, the project was not as profitable as he'd expected, though it did sell
soon for a substantial sum, and adds class to the neighborhood.
I suppose, and hope, one of his next fun projects will be the design and printing of this
Vol. II, as he did with Vol. I.
****
Kathleen L. Kyle
98
Kappy completed Junior High School in Tulsa, just in time to begin High School in
Houston after our move there in the spring of 1961. She attended Memorial Senior High
where she attained a fine scholastic record and a star berth on the school's womens' tennis
team, and graduated with honors in 1965. Her subsequent college career was at Vanderbilt from 1965 to 1969, where she majored in biological and physical sciences and dated
a fellow student named Craig Cooper.
She returned to Houston after graduation, and secured a job teaching physical science
at Memorial Senior High,--a psychologically satisfying experience since that was where
she had gone to high school. After a year's teaching there, during which she had kept in
close contact with Craig, he and she decided to tackle life together. They were married on
July 11, l970, in an artistically elaborate church wedding conducted by our Unitarian
Church minister, Rev. Frank Schulman. It was attended by many relatives and friends, as
was the post-wedding reception which inspired me to compose and recite another of my
poetic epics at the big dinner that evening. I was smart enough, after some of my previous
poetry recitations, to defer it this time until after several champagne servings:
The Reception Line
The reception line stands, everyone in their places,
Their hands are outstretched, with smiles on their faces;
Expressions all indicate joy and elation,
But what are they thinking in this situation?
The bride's father feels like he's had it and lost it;
Both his wrist and his checking account are exhausted.
The bride's mother thinks, "Well he didn't abduct her,-But how can she manage without me to instruct her?!
The groom's father frets about sonny's bank balance,
But hopes he acquires Dad's lovemaking talents.
The groom's mother's lips have a slightly pursed look
As she thinks "Well, she's pretty, but I'll bet she can't cook!"
The minister's manner shows professional pride
As he thinks "There's a knot that'll really stay tied!"
The triumphant expression of the bride, it is clear,
Is that of the huntress who's bagged her first dear.
The groom, on the other hand, feels rather grim,
'Cause he realizes now that the yoke is on him.
And the guest at the wedding, who's glad he ain't in it,
Thinks, "Barnum was right,--there's one born every minute!"
99
****
Kappy and Craig immediately moved to Indianapolis where Craig began his training
to become a dentist. Kappy was the main financial support , acquiring a job at Westlane
Junior High teaching science. Almost exactly a year after their marriage a bouncing baby
son was born on July 13, 1971. Named Douglas Michael Cooper, he was a fun kid, and a
wonderful added attraction for Carol and I during our frequent visits to their nice home in
suburban Indianapolis.
Unfortunately that marrige did not remain permanent They divorced in May, 1977.
But after they both became reconciled to the separation they remained friends and shared
the raising of Doug into his adulthood as a fine young man.
Kappy acquired a good position teaching at Park Tudor School, a fancy private and
expensive establishment, where she taught 7th and 8th grade science plus high school
human anatomy and physiology for the ensuing 12 years. She soon became acquainted
with Hal Sharpe,who was superintendent of schools in Zionsville, a delightful community
adjoining Indianapolis. He too was recently divorced, and had charge of his two fine
children, Susan Kaye (b. 5/16/67) and Edward Oliver (b. 7/30/65). Hal's and Kappy's
association and many mutual interests finally resulted in their marriage on June 4, 1978,
and Kappy acquired two step-children for whom she became a capable and affectionate
friend and mother.
Her motherly duties increased when she gave birth to a baby boy they named Kyle
Zachary Sharpe on August 23, 1981. Subsequently always called Zach, he, like his ten
year older half-brother Doug, became a joy and delight for everyone, and has always
been the friendliest-to-everyone fellow I have ever known. Doug was a fine older brother
for Zach. He enjoyed the opportunity to help care for him, and as they both matured
through boyhood they enjoyed each other's company and activities. Zach also had the
attention and friendship of his older stepbrother Eddie and stepsister Susie, who often
served as baby tenders during Kappy's temporary absence from home. Cousin Kelley,
who was four years old when Zach arrived, became a close friend of the boys. She
especially admired Doug as he grew taller and handsomer, and greatly enjoyed the
occasions when her family and Kappy's could be together.
It was a fine marriage, but with a tragic end when Hal suddenly died on Jan. 4, 1990,
from a massive stroke. He was liked and admired by all who knew him in Zionsville, and
the massive crowd of people attending his funeral was a fitting tribute. (It was the only
time at a funeral I have ever seen the conducting minister momentarily choke up and shed
a tear during the service.) Kappy was much in love with Hal, a personable fellow with
whom she shared many tastes and talents, and she of course was devastated by her
sudden widowhood. I spent a month living with her afterward, trying to help her cope
100
with her grief, and taking care of the many financial and estate settlement matters that
always ensue after the death of a prominent family member.
That summer Carol and I persuaded her to visit us in Houston and attend the 25th
reunion of her Memorial Senior High class, which we'd heard would be held at a large
ranch-type estate near the southwest end of the city. She was not entirely enthused about
going to the reunion, but we loaned her one of our cars and convinced her that renewing a
few friendships might be a beneficial change for her now-lonely life in Indianapolis. And
it was; she returned that night the happiest we'd seen her since Hal's death. She'd met
many schoolmates, and was pleased to have renewed acquaintance with a fellow she'd
barely known in school,--a handsome man named Jay Lee Cannon, recently divorced.
Lee (as he preferred to be called) was then living in Pleasanton, California, and his
attending the reunion was only incidental to the reason for his visit in Houston, which
was mainly to settle estate matters pertaining to his parents who had recently died.
They subsequently had a date or two while they were both in Houston, then began
exchanging correspondence after each had returned to their California and Indianapolis
domiciles. Over the course of the next year they each made several airline trips to and fro,
and I finally told Kappy it would be cheaper for them to get married, so they did. (That's
my story, anyway, but I'm sure it was entirely their idea!) So they were matrimonially
united on August 10th, 1991, at the Congregational Church in Crested Butte, Colorado.
The subsequent reception was at our Colorado cabin a few miles north of C.B., which
was well attended and much fun The log-encircled front porch was the site for an
enthusiastic dancing party, well recorded by several photographers. One was Jerry Mike
who took some fine video views. One of them was of 10-year-old Zach, sitting on the
top log on the porch front clapping so enthusiastically that he fell backward off the log
about six feet onto the ground, arms and legs waving frantically. Thanks to Jerry Mike
that event subseqently appeared briefly three times on ABC's TV program "America's
Funniest Home Videos".
After the honeymoon Kappy made arrangements to sell her and Hal's attractive home
in Zionsville, and moved with Zach to Pleasanton into Lee's comfortable home located at
2439 via de los Milagros ("street of the Miracles"). Like Hal, Lee also had two children,
Monica Elizabeth (b. 4/2/70) and Timothy David (b. 7/12/74). So Kappy acquired two
more fine stepchildren, expanding her role as mother which the kids and she were
delighted to have her do. And Zach acquired another nice stepsister and stepbrother, with
whom he established a good rapport. He was especially glad to acquire a fine friendship
with Tim, since Doug was now in college at Vanderbilt.
Lee was then working for a computer products company called Acer, headquartered in
Taipei, the capital city of Taiwan. He and some friends subsequently decided to organize
a company of their own, with an office in Danville, Lee being designated vice president.
They named their company PictureWorks. Their primary business was producing and
selling specialized computer software of use to companies in designing and preparing
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picture advertisements in newspapers and other publications. Some of their principal
customers were Japanese, and Lee's work became increasingly devoted to coordination
with those corporations' headquarters managements in Japan. This required considerable
trans-Pacific airline travel, with a trip by Lee being required sometimes as often as every
three weeks, over a period of about two years. Lee probably set a record of some sort for
frequent Pacific crossings, which I'm sure became quite onerous. But one advantageous
spin-off result was that Lee probably also experienced more enthusiasm and sincerity in
his homecoming welcomes than most husbands have ever enjoyed. A second benefit was
the substantial amount of free airline mileage credits he accumulated, which he and his
family have used extensively in vacation and holiday travel.
He and his business partners finally took an opportunity to sell their company. Lee of
course looked forward to a more relaxed life of less travel. But it developed that part of
the new company's purchase deal was that Lee would continue trips to Japan and Asia
with the objective of consolidating PictureWorks' business connections there for the
benefit of the new company. So it was about another year of more Pacific crossings. One
of these was to also scout out the possibility of business deals in China and Australia, in
addition to the regular Japanese contacts. That was the last major trip. Lee took Kappy
along, and they combined the business portion with some vacation side trips for a total
tour time of two months. While Lee was making business connections in Australia Kappy
was "doing" New Zealand, and they both enjoyed a visit to Thailand where some of the
exotic entertainment included elephant rides in the jungle. Lee finally took temporary
retirement in 2001, and as of this writing he has not yet decided on his next business
venture but is thoroughly enjoying his long luxurious loaf.
Although Kappy's only working career was teaching science for 14 years, she pursued
a variety of interests: playing guitar and piano, making woodcuts and greeting cards,
taking and developing photographs in her darkroom, playing on tennis teams, mountain
biking, hiking and exploring. She loves music, for which she gives her mother and Hal
the credit; Hal's banjo and her guitar music often filled the rafters of the Zionsville home.
After Hal's death, Kappy continued her music hobby with other musicians in the San
Francisco area, and she now sings and plays with a bluegrass band called the Roadkill
Ramblers. She enjoys the piano, and was the piano accompanist for an Oakland choir. A
favorite of her community activities is teaching fifth graders in an after school program
at a nearby elementary school. Her strongest passion, other than being with friends and
family, is a love for the mountains and a yearning to explore wilderness areas all over the
world with Lee.
****
The Kids' Kids
As previously noted (p.94), Kelley Kyle is working on a Master's degree at the
University of Houston as this is being written, and after another necessary scholastic year
hopes to get started on a career in social work. She already has experience as an "intern"
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in this field, having spent several summers with a Houston Mental Health Association as
a case worker advising and consulting families with troubled children.
Doug Cooper studied two years at Vanderbilt, then switched to Indiana University.
His favorite college pastimes were intramural sports and being active in the choirs. He
graduated #1 in his Speech and Communication school class with a B.A. (which won him
a $2,000 award!), and #2 in his Business School class with a B.S. at Indiana University in
1997, following which he was employed shortly afterward by Procter and Gamble as a
purchasing agent, with his office in Cincinnati..He was married there in June, 2002 to a
lovely young lady named Tanya (maiden name: Roose) in an elaborate weddimg at the
Crowne Plaza Hotel.
Zachary Sharpe did well in high school, scholastically and in intramural athletics.
Basketball and snowboard skiing are favorite hobbies, and he now pursues his scholastic
career in his second year at the University of Colorado at Boulder where he is doing well
in his business classes. He enjoys an active social life that includes membership in the
Pi Kappa Alpha fraternity, and at every opportnity pursues his hobbies of intramural
sports, skateboarding and snowboarding.
Ed Sharpe's college years at Indiana University included being a Sigma Nu, playing
many intramural sports, and graduating with a Business major in 1988. He is now a
Business Project Manager for Maxtor Computer Company in Boulder, CO. He is a
devoted father to his two cute children, Reid (b. 1/28/95) and Sarah (b. 5/12/97).
Sue Sharpe Conger's college years were spent at Ball State University, where she was
a Chi Omega, and obtained a degree in Merchandising and Marketing in l989. She then
worked as a regional manager for Finlay Fine Jewelry for seven years, during which she
married Greg Conger Nov. 9, 1991. Greg now owns his own company in Indianapolis
called Specified Lighting Systems of Indiana.Their three attractive children are Halle
(b.9/13/93), Drew (b. 9/21/95), and Jayde (b. 1/19/99). Sue and Greg often undertake the
admirable function of gluing the family together by graciously hosting large family
reunions on holiday occasions such as Thanksgiving and Christmas, which are greatly
enjoyed and appreciated by all those attending.
Monica Cannon graduated from San Diego University with a BA in Psychology. She
is now living in San Ramon, CA., and is earning a degree in Marriage and Family
Therapy at JFK University in Orinda, CA.
Tim Cannon's primary interest has been in aviation. He graduated from Embry Riddle
with an Aeronautics Degree, and after several years of pilot training as a student and an
instructor, acquired his commercial pilot's license. He is now a jet pilot for Skywest,
based in Salt Lake City to which he commutes back and forth from his main residence in
San Diego (where he can indulge in a favorite hobby of ocean surfing).
103
Neither he nor Monica are yet married, apparently enjoying "playing the field", which I
am sure must be an enjoyable and rewarding activity for them, since both are good
looking, sociable, and personable individuals (like I always wanted to be!).
Summary
Writing "The Kids' Kids" section about all my grandkids, step-grandkids, and stepgreatgrandkids, and keeping it only briefly factual, has been difficult. I am so proud of all
of them, and so lucky to be their relative, that the temptation to enlarge the text into
expansive complimentary discussions of their talents, achievements, good looks, and fine
family attributes, has been nearly irresistable. But this autobiography is already too long
by far, and detailed descriptions of family members in a generation twice-removed from
mine would be excessive.
So I will limit my concluding comments in this chapter to simply noting that I feel
unbelievably fortunate in having such a remarkably fine assortment of kids and kids' kids.
I wish I could claim credit for some of their fine qualities, and perhaps to some minor
degree I could, but I think my lovely wife was mostly the responsible one, as the fine
mother and grandmother she always was. She had, and I have, much to be proud and
thankful for.
****
CHAPTER IX: The Colorado Cabin
I have often wondered whether love of nature develops because of one's early
environment, or if it has to do with one's assortment of genes. Genes, of course, are the
"in" thing with scientists today, who are frequently reporting discoveries such as that
people's genes are responsible for alcohol problems or a passion for peanut butter. In my
case I suppose genes may have been involved and passed on down the line, since all my
descendants (to date, anyway) have turned out to be avid outdoors people and bona fide
tree-huggers (as the land developers scoffingly call the environmentalists).
But my boyhood environment certainly had considerable influence on my appreciation
of the great outdoors. In my home town of Downsville, Wisconsin, "out of town" was
never more that a half mile in any direction, and we kids could spend most of our
playtime in the lovely forests, rolling hills, and clear-flowing rivers that encompassed that
village. And as young teenagers we frequently took week-long camping trips to scenic
locations in neighboring counties. (In those days one could acquire a driver's license in
Wisconsin at age 14.)
My fondness for camping continued in my adult life, and Carol shared camping
experiences with me after we were married in numerous locations in western states. She
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and I and our kids frequently camped in remote areas of Colorado, and we were
especially fond of the magnificence of scenery in a rugged Elk Mountains area several
miles north of the town called Crested Butte, near the center of the west half of
Colorado.We often thought how nice it would be to have a cabin somewhere in that area.
But.--build a log cabin over 1100 miles from Houston that would be accessible only for a
few months in the summer? When we mentioned this proposal to some of our friends and
relatives, a few of them made comments suggesting (not very subtly) that the Kyles must
not have a complete set of furniture in their attics. But we didn't mind that,--we realized
that those persons' experience with nature and outdoors recreation was probably limited
to mowing the lawn and taking out the garbage.
So, as mentioned in Chapter VI (p.77), in 1964, acting on a tip provided by a horse
wrangler named Carl Turney we often rented horses from for trail rides, we were able to
purchase a lot for a cabin site in an aspen forest on an old mining claim a half mile south
of an old ghost mining town called Gothic, about seven miles north of Crested Butte.
We stopped in Gunnison (28 miles south of C.B.) enroute back to Houston at the end
of that vacation, and I contacted a couple of home builder companies to inquire about
getting plans for a log cabin. None of the plans shown us were satisfactory, but they both
assured us they would mail us some to our specifications within a couple weeks, and they
would of course be delighted to perform the construction of whatever cabin design we
settled on. But one problem seemed to be that we were insisting on a "real" log cabin
(i.e.,constructed of solid logs) and their typical log construction was of half-logs, with the
convex side out and the smooth half inside, usually covered with wall board.
After two or three weeks with no information from the Gunnison builders, I called
them and was told they were unable to promise whole-log construction, which I was
adamant about wanting. So after some investigative efforts in Denver and Dallas, I finally
located a small builder in Golden, CO, called Viking Forest Products, who assured me
they could do a cabin with real logs, and asked me to send them plans. After some
thought about design I drafted a set of plans with which Carol concurred, sent them to the
Golden builder, and was promptly told by him that he'd do the job in June of the next
summer for $10,094. (Remember this was way back in 1965,many inflation cycles ago!)
And he did. John Loughran, company owner, had a supply of logs delivered to the site,
and I met him there to stake out the location. He made arrangements to camp there, and
within about six weeks he and his two adult sons had erected a fine looking solid-log
cabin, nestled at 9500 feet elevation in a scenic location fronted by the rushing clearwater East River and surrounded by 12,500 ft. mountains.
Circumstances did not permit us to move in that year, but we did so the following
summer, in July, 1966. With the welcome and able assistance of our Houston neighbor
and good friend George Altvater, who with his wife Audrey accompanied us and our
furniture-loaded U-Haul from Houston, we finally established residence at the cabin. No
running water or toilet facilities were initially available, of course, until we all and the
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kids had spent a busy month's summer vacation time laying a water line to the nearby
East River, installing plumbing and bathroom facilities, a kitchen stove, refrigerator and
water heater, building porch furniture and facilities, treating floors and the logs inside and
out for weather-proofing and appearance, and a multitude of other chores associated with
making the cabin comfortably livable.
Our only near neighbor was Carol Spring, the sprightly elderly widow who had sold
us our cabin site. She lived most of the time in Crested Butte but occasionally spent time
during summers in her nearby cabin, about a quarter block's distance from ours but
sheltered from our view by intervening aspen forest. The only other cabins in our area
were two on the road to Gothic and one a quarter mile north of us across the East River.
One of the road locations was owned by a family living in C.B.and one by a family living
in Kentucky, and both were seldom used. The one on East River was owned and more
frequently used by a couple named Bench from Denver. They were a pleasant and
sociable pair, but for us to visit their cabin required either a hike or auto drive almost to
Gothic with a double-back on the other side of the river. So the only all-summer human
readily accessible inhabitants in our East River valley were the staff and students at the
Rocky Mountain Biological Laboratory in Gothic.
But we never lacked non-human visitors. Our cabin was often visited by White-Tailed
deer, and elk and black bears could often be seen in the more remote sections of the
mountains. Occasionally a wolf could be spotted, and at night the air would usually be
full of the noise of vociferous coyotes. Marmots (relatives of woodchucks) liked to
establish living quarters under the cabin (which we disapproved of). Rabbits romped
regularly about the yard, and chipmunks and martens (="American Sable"; relative of
weasels) were popular visitors on our open front porch, especially when we were sitting
there with unpopped popcorn and peanuts to feed them. And our windows-hung bird
feeders attracted literally swarms of several varieties of humming birds, many of which
could, with patience, be coaxed to sit on our fingers as they slurped up the liquid
nourishment.
****
Gothic
Gothic had an interesting but brief history as the center of a silver mining boom in the
late 1880's. Following is a descriptive excerpt from a R.M.B.L. publication called
"Recollections of R.M.B.L." by John C. Johnson, Jr., a professor at that institute who is
the son of the founder, and his wife Dorothy Johnson (with both of whom Carol and I
became good friends during our many summers there):
"In May, 1879, the schooled eyes of brothers John and David Jennings located the first
rich silver lode at high Sylvanite Basin. Word of their strike quickly spread. Hundreds of
eager prospectors poured in. A good toll road was soon built up from Crested Butte.
Many log and frame residences, two hotels, two large general stores, several saloons, a
bakery, a town hall, and other structures sprang up at Gothic like magic. By summer's
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end "Gothic City" was legally incorporated. Newpapers billed the bustling town as "the
gateway to the mines".Thus another Colorado "boom town" was born, quickly becoming
so well known that in 1880 Ulysses S.Grant paid it a personal visit.
"Yet by the summer of 1881 the town began to fade. Restless pospectors and their
attendant merchants started to move on to new bonanzas because the ores of the Gothic
area had not proven rich enough and the winters were too severe. Although the town
government held on for a few more years, the 1893 silver panic finished any hope of
survival."
Dr. John C. Johnson, Sr., who was Professor of Biology and dean at Western State
College in Gunnison (1919-1928), had visions of a high-altitude biological field station
in the Rockies. He had the foresight and ambition to secure property in Gothic, and with
the help and support of professors from other universities established the R.M.B.L. in
1928. It has since successfully grown and expanded, and every summers conducts various
courses in biology and botany for dozens of graduate students from numerous colleges
and universities throughout the U.S.
****
The Kyle cabin (which we named "Valley Hi") has been occupied every summer for
37 years by family members and friends (and for a couple days one winter by Jerry M.).
A Jeep was needed to visit the many miles of remote mountain trails, so in Feb.1967 I
bought a slightly used one in Houston, painted a big red heart on one side, and presented
it to Carol as a Valentine Day gift. It was very functional for our many sight-seeing and
exploratory tours in areas completely inaccessible by regular vehicles. Unlike more
modern Jeeps and SUVs it had two rear seats facing each other and parallel to the car
length, so with the canvas top removed we could (and often did) readily carry 6 adult
passengers and two small kids.
Entertainment facilities in the East River valley and surrounding Elk Mountains were
unlimited for outdoors aficionados like us. Mountain hiking, biking, and Jeeping trails
were abundant, trout fishing was great, snow fields in the upper peaks usually lasted most
of the summer, prowling the forests for glimpses of wild animals was stimulating fun,
rafting trips on an inflatable rubber raft down the lower sections of the East River were
exciting, and hunting for and exploring old abandoned silver mines was especially
entertaining for geologists like myself.
****
Chica
But no one ever enjoyed life at the cabin more than did our canine companion Chica,
the (presumed to be) Border Collie who was an orphan of dubious ancestry obtained in
1960 by Jerry M. and Kappy from a SPCA shelter in Tulsa.After a background of early
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dog years in city environments in Tulsa and Houston, her initial experience in getting
acquainted with cabin life was an obviously joyous adventure. Without any confining
fences or leashes, the complete freedom to explore the Colorado forests and chase rabbits
was an exhilarating experience. And her first encounter with snow during one of our Jeep
trips high in the mountains was an entertaining act to behold. Her first steps into it
amazed her! Then, as she got used to it, she could not decide if the most fun was to eat it,
romp in it, or roll in it,--so she alternately did all three.
Her Colorado experiences were not all problem-free, however.On one occasion Kappy
decided to take her along on a climb to the summit of Mt. Gothic, a precipitous peak a
half mile west of the cabin, which rears into the sky over 3,000 feet above the cabin
property. The route is rough and rocky, requiring sturdy footwear, and takes nearly a day
for the round trip. Poor Chica's feet were in bad shape by the time they reached the crest,
but she did manage to leave her paw print in the record book at the top, according to
Kappy. But by the time she got back to the cabin her pawpads were so shredded that she
had to spend the next three days recuperating on her blanket inside the cabin.
Another time we made the mistake of leaving her outside when we all went into
Crested Butte for the evening. We didn't return until about 10 p.m., and when our Jeep
entered the trail off the main road into our cabin site, Chica came bounding joyously out
to greet us. Just before she reached us, ahead of us a large porcupine came waddling
down the trail, which stopped and hunkered down as our headlights illuminated it. Just as
we stopped the car Chica also galloped into view, and momentarily froze as she spotted
that unfamiliar looking animal. She doubtless presumed the bristly creature was a threat
to us and our vehicle, and attacked. Just as she opened her mouth close to porky to
deliver a challenging bark, that animal deftly switched its needle-laden tail into Chica's
mouth. We were horrified as we followed the poor whining dog back to the cabin. We
were up until about 2 a.m, as I recall, pulling dozens of needles out of poor Chica's mouth
and tongue. Jerry M. and Kappy took turns holding Chica between their knees and
keeping her jaws open with their hands while I removed needles with a pliers. I'm sure
the pain must have been excruciating since those needles have fishhook-like barbs on the
pointed ends. Needless to say, everyone was exhausted but glad when the operation was
over! And, as anyone might suppose, Chica stayed on a liquid diet for several days.
Chica's presence at the cabin had certain asset values. Before she became somewhat
hard of hearing in her old age, she was very good about reporting the approach of
strangers outside the cabin, by suitable growls or barking. But her best use occurred
during the late summer when ranchers below Crested Butte would drive their herds of
cattle into the upper East River valley, to graze in national forest land after pasture land at
their ranches had been grazed out. Once the herds have been headed up our valley the
ranchers forget about them until winter sets in, and in the meantime the herds are free to
roam about at will. They would inevitably wander into our property, destroying small
trees, bushes, and our garden plantings during their lumbering about, and constantly
defecating everywhere at a rate suggestive of cases of chronic diarrhea. I would assume
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cattle would be accustomed to the presence of dogs on their home ranches, but for some
reason they always seemed terrified of Chica's vigorous barking and chasing them. So
whenever we heard or saw several of the animals wandering into our territory, we would
open the cabin door, say "sic 'em!" to Chica, and she would happily dash out the door,
barking fiercely. The critters would promptly turn around and high-tail it away.
Chica always enjoyed car riding. She was an admirable passenger on our two-day auto
trips to and from the cabin. She would stay in her assigned portion of the back seat, and
never required any more pit stops than the other riders. In her younger days in Colorado
she enjoyed scampering behind the Jeep during our expeditions into the mountains But as
she grew older we began letting her ride with us, so that it became customary that as soon
as she'd hear the Jeep start she'd tear out and leap into her usual location on the floor in
front of the passenger seat. In later years, as age stiffened her joints, we had to lift her
into that position, but she still greatly enjoyed the rides.
Chica died in the spring of 1973 in Houston, about 14 years old, and is buried in our
backyard. Her legacy is the many happy memories of laughs and love she inspired, which
none of us will soon forget.
****
Visit to an old mine
Geologists are rather peculiar people.They like to spend much of their time wondering
about such things as how the earth was formed, and how it has been bent, squeezed and
broken into its present shape during hundreds of millions of years. This of course requires
a lot of thinking about the rocks and minerals that form the earth's outer crust. So, when
they can, they like to wander around the mountains to admire and collect rocks. And old
mines are of considerable interest to them, both from a historical interest and for an
examination of the mineralized veins within that may or may not have produced good
ore.
Our cabin's location, adjoining territory that once was the site of a silver mining boom,
is a great locale from which to search for and explore old mines, which was one of my
hobbies. One time I had found a prospector's old map of our region that showed the
general location of several old mines unknown to me. So one morning, when our guests
had planned to go fishing, I decided instead to see if I could locate a mine the map
showed to be somewhere off a trail up Copper Creek canyon.
The map was of small scale and imprecise as to detail, but after some searching I was
able to find it. All that remained of what had apparently once been a busy operation were
the crumbled remnants of a few log shacks, a machine shed, powder house, and an ore
dump. The entrance to the mine tunnel in the mountain side (what miners call an "adit")
was almost completely caved in, except for a few gaps here and there too small to crawl
through.The roofs of the buildings were all gone, crushed in by the weight of many
winters of heavy snow and ice, and nearly all the walls were collapsed.
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I spent some time browsing through the ruins, looking for ore samples and interesting
artifacts such as old bottles, crockery, or whatever. I finally became aware of some
thunderstorm clouds that began rolling in off the mountain tops, and decided it might be
advisable to head back to the cabin before the storm broke. As I scrambled down the rock
debris below the adit cave-in I noticed what appered to be the leg bone of some animal at
the base of the slope. I picked it up, continued back down the foot trail to the Jeep, and
returned to the cabin. I thought that Kappy, who was a college biology expert, might be
casually interested in the bone and perhaps be able to identify what kind of animal once
owned it. (J.M. was working that summer on his first job in the M.D.Anderson clinic.)
And she was indeed interested. After a brief inspection of the bone, during my account
of the mine discovery, she suddenly interrupted me. "Daddy!", she said excitedly, "this
isn't an animal bone,--it's a human bone!" This got the undivided attention of everyone,
including our house guests, John and Lillian Boland and 9-year-old son Mike (who were
the Kyles' former neighbors in Oklahoma City). After much examination of the bone by
all present, and comparing the measurement of it with their own legs, the consensus of
opinion was that it was indeed a human bone,--the shin bone of an adult.
"My God!" said John, "There must be a body nearby!"
"John, please don't swear in front of Mikey," sid Lillian.
"Daddy, were there any more bones around?" asked Kappy.
"I don't know", I replied, "I didn't see any more, but I was in a hurry to get out ahead
of the storm, so I wasn't really looking. Maybe we should all go up there and hunt around
tomorrow."
That suggestion met with unanimous approval, and next morning a picnic lunch was
prepared, the Jeep loaded with three Kyles and three Bolands, and we took off on a
bumpy and jolting ride up Copper Canyon. We finally parked at a point from which the
foot trail led up the mountain to the mine. The search for more bones began at the base of
the rock slide below the adit, with everyone slowly climbing up toward the few open gaps
in the entrance.
Very soon someone hit "paydirt", and the subsequent cries of "I found one too!" and
"Here's another!" made it sound like an Easter egg hunt. I eventually clambered up to the
largest gap in the adit --the dimensions of which were no larger than that of a bed pillow-- and peered into the dark hole with the aid of a flashlight. I was stunned to see, not more
than two or three feet from the entrance, a human skull lying beneath a rotted wooden
mine beam! With some effort, using a short pole for leverage to lift the beam a bit, I was
able to extract the skull intact, which generated a high degree of excitement among the
expedition members.
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Later, after the rock slide slope had been combed thoroughly and an assortment of
bones accumulated which ultimately proved to be about half of an adult skeleton, another
skull was found buried near the ruins of one of the buildings. But further search in that
area was unproductive, and the bone prospectors began loading the skeletal loot in a
duffle bag, in preparation for returning to the Jeep. Both Carol and Lillian had earlier
tired of the search, and had proceeded back down the path to the Copper Creek trail to get
the picnic lunch ready.
Shortly after they disappeared from sight we at the mine became aware of the voices
of men who were apparently climbing up the path toward the mine, and who had met the
women coming down. Only snatches of the brief conversation could be heard, but enough
to deduce that the men were forest rangers who had previously been unaware of the mine
but had spotted the parked Jeep and thought they perhaps should investigate to be sure
the passengers weren't in trouble.We also heard Carol make some comment that her
family and friend's husband were up there "looking for bones". It occurred to us that
some sticky legal problems could develop if it was revealed to the rangers that we had
discovered and were removing portions of human skeletons from a U.S. National Forest.
So I said, "We better get a move on and get outa here." John nodded and asked, "What
should we do,--cache the duffel bag somewhere?"
"No, they might spot it, and know it was our bag. Let's see." I handed the bag to Mike.
"Mikey, listen. I want you to carry these bones for us down to the Jeep, but when we pass
a couple of men coming our way, we don't want them to know we have bones in that bag,
O.K.?" Mike, who had been quite excited by the bone search, was very enthused and
proud to have this assignment, and nodded vigorously. We all started down the path and
shortly, as expected, met the two rangers coming up. After brief polite greetings on both
sides, one ranger conversationally said, "One of the ladies said you folks been collecting
bones?"
I had anticipated this sort of question and had the foresight to retain in my hand a
small unidentifiable bone, with which I gestured casually and replied, "Oh, yeah, we saw
some deer bones back up there, but nothing of much interest." The ranger made no reply
to this, but as they stepped aside to let us pass it was obvious that they were very
interested in the bag Mike was carrying with some effort. As Mike was passing the
rangers and noticed their curiosity about his load, he suddenly blurted out, "I ain't got no
bones in this bag! I ain't got no bones in this bag!" As he strode down the hill past the
rangers I, John and Kappy choked up with a mixture of embarrassment and suppressed
laughter, and followed Mike down the path with never a glance back at the rangers (who
probably also had a case of the chuckles).
Back at the cabin the bones were laid out on the floor, totalling two skulls and about
half a body skeleton. Following much long and enthusiastic discussion and speculation, it
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was concluded in view of the location of the first skull and the scattered distribution of
the bones below it, that they were the remains of some miner or prospector who had been
inspecting the property long after the mine had closed, and had been trapped and killed
by the falling timber beam near the entrance.
"I bet it happened during a landslide," said Kappy. "That would explain that big mass
of rock covering the entrance."
"How awful!", exclaimed Carol, visualizing the scenario in which the prospector,
inside the mine, hears the landslide rumble, rushes in panic toward the entrance, and
doesn't quite make it as the cascade of rocks and soil crushes the timber beams framing
the entrance and pins him underneath.
"But why were the bones so scattered?", asked Lillian. "Only a few were with the
skull." I said, "My guess is that those remaining gaps in the adit, where the skull was
located, were probably initially larger, and that wolves or coyotes found the body and
made a meal of him, scattering the limbs and bones down the landslide slope. But I'm
more puzzled by the other skull,--what happened to him? He obviously wasn't trapped in
the mine."
No one had an explanation for the second skull. It was jokingly decided, since it was
the smaller of the two, that it had belonged to the prospector's wife who died of shock
after the landslide took her husband's life. Or maybe the landslide was part of a huge
snowslide which trapped and smothered her while she was waiting near one of the
buildings for her husband to return.
"I think we ought to name them," said Carol."Any suggestions?" Kappy briefly closed
her eyes and looked thoughtful. "How about --ah, hmm--, Herman and--ah, let's see-Mamie!?"
"Suits me," I said. The rest nodded their approval, and the deceased were thus
informally christened. Carol was initially quite insistent that the discovery be reported to
someone in the county courthouse or police station. But I demurred, pointing out that the
weathered and yellowed condition of the bones indicated they had been where they were
found for thirty or forty years at least, and couldn't possibly have been still listed as
missing, nor could be identified. "Besides," I added, "I imagine that my reporting them
would entail a morass of legal hoopla and reports, none of which would be of any
substantial value to anyone. I say let sleeping dogs lie."
"That aphorism about dogs isn't too appropriate," said John, but I agree with you on
principle. Keep 'em here and keep it quiet."
So the bones and skulls remained at the cabin for several years, with Herman being
occasionally decorated with sunglasses, caps, or a pipe on party occasions. Ultimately
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Herman was given to Kappy when she became a science teacher in Indianapolis, and
Mamie was finally given to Mike after he became a teenager. Their final resting places
are probably not ideal, but Herman and Mamie would doubtless consider them preferable
to their exposed environment at the mine.
****
Lost and found
An interesting but disturbing event occurred in our area one summer when Carol and I
were alone at the cabin. Our knowledge of it began early one July morning. Carol was
busy in the bedroom and I was making the morning coffee. I was about to call her and
take her breakfast order when I heard a vehicle coming into the cabin driveway. Another
fisherman, I thought; fishermen often drove into the cabin property and asked permission
to walk through to the East River just below the cabin, since that route was an easy
access. I finished starting the coffee to perk and headed for the front door but before I got
there someone was already rapping on it. I was surprised to see a man in a brown military
type jacket with a star badge on it.
"Morning, sir." The man lifted a couple fingers to the brim of his western hat in an
informal salute. "I'm deputy sheriff Johnson from Crested Butte. Sorry to be disturbing
you so early."
"Oh, uh, that's OK --we're up and about. What, -ah-, what can I do for you?" I backed
into the cabin and motioned the deputy to come in, but he shook his head.
"No sir, thank you. I just wanted to ask you,--did you have an overnight visitor here
by any chance?"
"Nope,--nobody here but my wife and I. Why? Can I pour you a cup of coffee?" The
deputy paused; I thought he might accept. But he shook his head, said "No thanks.", then
added, "Well, there's a feller missing. Some relative of Willard Ruggera, --nephew or
cousin, or some such. A young man named Olstad, lives in Denver I think, had come to
spend the weekend with the Ruggeras. He asked to borrow their Bronco so he could come
up the valley here and do some fishing. Left town about four o'clock yesterday, and never
came back. Willard asked me to come up here and look for him, and I found Ruggera's
Bronco parked on the road just a few hundred yards south of the entrance into your place.
The only other cabin in use right now near here is the Sedmak's, and they ain't seen him.
Thought maybe he took sick, or had car trouble or something, and mighta come down to
your place for help. Do you happen to remember seein' a young feller around these parts
yesterday?"
"Gosh, no, sure didn't. But we could easily have missed him. Did you look in his car?"
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"Yeh, but it's locked. I looked in, but there wasn't much there. No fishing gear that I
could see, so I figure he must have started fishing somewhere."
"That's very plausible". I nodded and added, "From where you say his Bronco is
parked, there's a trail down into the canyon to the river that's pretty steep with tricky
footing, but it's a quick way down. Trail reaches the river just above those high falls." I
stepped out the door and pointed north. "That old ghost town of Gothic has people there
now that operate a summer school for college biology students. Have you checked with
them?"
"Well, no." He rubbed his chin reflectively. "I know about that Gothic setup, of
course. But I figured if Olstad had had car trouble or took sick or anything he woulda
stopped first at your place or Sedmak's before walkin' all the way up to Gothic.But I
guess I'd better go up there and check 'em out anyway."
"Glad to talk to you. Let me know if you find out anything." He left, and Carol and I
proceeded with our breakfast. Just as we were finishing Johnson returned and as I opened
the door and before I could speak he shook his head. "Nobody there seen him. One of the
professors said they'd organize a search party with some students this afternoon after
classes, if Olstad ain't showed up by then. Guess I'd bettter get back to C.B. and get some
help from there to comb the river. Maybe he's sittin' down there somewhere with a busted
leg."
"Yeah, well,--maybe we'll take a look too." I returned to the breakfast table, where
Carol was still sitting and had heard all of our discussion. "What do you think we should
do?", she asked.
I was momentariy lost in thought. Suddenly I tapped the table with my fist."I wonder-Judas! I know what could have happened to him. If he got to the river just above those
high falls, and tried to wade-fish there where the current's so swift and the bottom so full
of slippery rocks,--my God, he could have gone over the falls!"
"Oh no!" Carol clapped her hand to her mouth as her eyes widened in horror. "If he
did," I continued, "and landed in shallow water or on rocks he'll be either unconscious or
dead. That fall's forty or fifty feet high." I jumped up and headed for the bathroom. "Get a
couple blankets, Carol. I'll get some first aid equipment, and we'll take the Jeep around on
the other side of the river near where we can climb down into the canyon below the falls.
We can't get down there from this side. Hurry!"
Ten minutes later we drove over the bridge enroute to Gothic, then swung around onto
a trail which paralleled the river on the side opposite the cabin. After a half mile south on
the trail, I headed the Jeep off on to a rocky and brush-strewn hillside for about another
hundred yards before we stopped and got out. We could hear the muffled roar of the
waterfall's cascading torrent as we clambered ahead through the dense aspen thicket at
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the edge of the canyon, burdened by blankets, canteens, first aid supplies, and a thermos
of coffee. When we reached the edge of the canyon we were about a half block's distance
from the falls, and the panoramic view of the falls at the head of the canyon lay before us,
impressive as ever. The torrent of water, wide as a paved street, was still near its earlier
seasonal peak, with the river being fed by a record volume of melting snow from the
mountain crests. We stood a moment, admiring the scenic display.
"Can't see much below the falls from here", said Carol, "Guess we'll have to climb
down, won't we?" I pointed to a nearby slope of rock rubble."That's probably as easy a
way as there is, if we take it slow. Carrying this luggeage will make it a bit tricky. Come
on--and watch your step."
With some effort we made it to the canyon bottom, and moved cautiously along the
rocky shore upstream toward the falls. Spray wafted over us as we inched to within
several yards of it where we could easily scan both banks and the churning pool of water
beneath the waterfall.
"Nobody been here lately", I said, laying down my load. "No,--nobody and no body",
replied Carol with a smile. "No way a person could survive a straight drop like that,
unless he happened to land just right in a deep part of that pool. But if something had
happened to him above the falls and he fell and stayed there, wouldn't we see some of his
equipment or fishing gear down here below?"
"Sure would think so. I guess it's pretty obvious he stayed above the falls. We'd better
go look there.-- maybe he broke a leg getting down to the river and can't get out."
As we gathered up our equipment and prepared to leave, we both heard and paused to
listen to what sounded like a distant yell from above the canyon level, almost inaudible
and muffled by the roar of the falls. I said, "Sounds like it might be him or someone
who's found him in the valley above the falls. Let's go!"
We clambered back up the canyon bank, returned in the Jeep to the main road, and
proceeded south until we reached the parked Ruggera's Bronco. We left our equipment in
the Jeep, since the trail down to the river was precarious enough without carrying
loads.We climbed down, eventually reaching river level about fifty yards upsteam from
where the rushing water disappeared over the edge of the falls. To our surprise no one
was there, and our search revealed no more than we'd found below the falls, with the
exception of a candy bar wrapper. That was inconclusive evidence; it could have been
left by Olstad or any other fisherman in a recent period. So we laboriously climbed back
to the Jeep and returned to the cabin, winded and tired from our strenuous exertions.
After we'd rested awhile and had a welcome cup of coffee, I decided I'd better go to
C.B. and report that we'd eliminated a couple of possibilities as to Olstad's location. But
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enroute south I encountered a procession of six or eight vehicles heading north, with
deputy Johnson in the lead. He stopped the cavalcade when he recognized me in my Jeep,
and asked if there was any late word on the missing man. I told him no, and gave him a
resume of Carol's and my search that morning. "At least those are two localities you can
be spared a lot of effort in searching", I concluded. He agreed and thanked me.
Crested Butte in the 1970's always had a substantial summer population of young men
and women visitors from out of town (and out of state) with no visible means of support.
Some claimed to be artists or musicians, and a few actually worked infrequently on
construction jobs or in restaurants to earn enough to support themselves and friends in
communal quarters. During the day boredom was endemic for most in this group, and
many spent the time occupying the benches and outdoor café tables scattered along the
main street. So Johnson had no trouble recruiting a collection of volunteer searchers.
So I reversed course and returned to the cabin, encountering another group of
searchers from the RMBL school assembling by the parked Bronco. I stayed long enough
to hear Johson take charge and give instructions to the volunteers. to begin searching the
river upstream from the falls, divided into small groups assigned to specific areas. Carol
and I spent the rest of the day in and near the cabin, and saw no more of the searchers
except for a few that passed through our property on their way down to the river area
below. Their response to my inquiries as they passed through, was always "No clues yet."
At about 6 p.m. Johnson stopped in to report, as we were having before-dinner beers
on the front porch and admiring the golden glow of the fading sunset. Before I could ask
him for news he shook his head. "Nope, we've combed the river and canyon banks pretty
well, and haven't found hide nor hair. Guess tomorrow I'll recruit some more help from
the cadre of forest fighter volunteers that live in C.B., and we'll start combing the forest
slopes on the other side of the river. I don't know why he'd be there, but he dang sure ain't
in the river valley anywhere between the falls and Gothic. And we even had a few guys
work the canyon valley for a half mile or so below the falls, on the theory he mighta gone
over the falls and his body got washed down the river a ways."
"Hard to believe he could disappear so well, even if he tried", said Carol. "Yeh." The
deputy rubbed his chin. "Even if he tried. Do you suppose --do you suppose, maybe he
did try?"
That thought momentarily silenced everyone. Finally I said, "How about a beer?"
"Don't mind", said Johnson. So I procured him one and we all drank in silence.
Next day, when I drove into C.B. for mail and some groceries, I found that the case of
the missing fisherman was known to most, and several stopped to ask me for late news of
the search. Tony Mihelich, proprietor of Tony's Hardware where I stopped to gas up the
Jeep, was a salty and wiry septuagenarian who had spent most of his life in C.B. and
vicinity. "Found the fisherman yet?", he asked. I shook my head, and he said, "Dang
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shame. They've lost fishermen ever once in awhile in this country, but always found most
of 'em. Usually a case of 'em slippin' on rocks, breakin' a leg or two, and not bein' able to
get back to the road until they're found. Willard's pretty shook up about it."
He punched the cash register and made change for a man buying a newspaper. "His
wife was in here earlier, and told me Bill --that's his name, Bill Olstad--is a medical
school student in Denver, and that he's engaged to be married in a month or so."
Searches continued for several days, some into implausible and illogical areas like
Copper Creek (above Gothic), and even around the base of Mt. Gothic. Mt. Gothic?! I
said to the leader of that search group, "Copper Creek I can maybe understand, but Mt.
Gothic? Why in hell would you expect a fisherman to be climbing a mountain? Fish are
pretty scarce on those rocky slopes, aren't they?" After his tiring mountain slope climbing
his temper was understandably a bit short, and he replied, "Look, mister,--if you have a
better idea lemme know. We've covered every inch of the river valley with no clues.
Maybe he decided at the last minute to go look for some fancy rock specimens, instead'a
fish. Who knows?" He turned abruptly, went to his truck and poured himself some coffee.
Over the next few days Olstad's disappearance was developing into a first class
mystery, and the subject of much conversation and speculation among residents of C.B.
and Gothic. But as the days accumulated into weeks the searches ceased and the initially
intense interest in Olstad's disppearance waned. In some discussions the theory grew in
popularity that he had purposely staged his disapperance for some reason and had headed
off to parts unknown. As Botsie Spritzer,--a C.B. old-timer, accordion player, expert
fisherman, and habitual drink-moocher--, was theorizing one evening in a barroom locale,
"Tell ya what I think, captain. We've heard he was engaged to a gal in Denver, right?
Mebbe he decided he wanted out, but heard the gal was pregnant so he felt he couldn't up
and tell her he wasn't gonna marry her. So he thought the easiest way out was to get lost,
make it look like he was dead somewhere, and head over the hill." No rebuttals were
forthcoming, a few heads nodded sagely, and the discussion turned to fishing.
We closed the cabin and returned to Houston in September. Shortly after our arrival
we received a letter from the Stewarts, longtime friends who lived in Ouray, CO, whom
we had visited that summer and told about the mystery. Enclosed was a note which said,
"Thought you'd want to know this." Attached to the note was a clipping from the Denver
Post which said:
LOST FISHERMAN FOUND
Crested Butte
The body of William Olstad, missing since his disappearance July 29 while fishing in the East River canyon south of Gothic, was discovered yesterday by another
fisherman. Henry Herberg, of Gunnison, spotted the body immersed in a pool of
water at the base of a high falls in the East River about a mile south of Gothic. He
notified the sheriff's office in Crested Butte, and they made arrangements for the
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recovery of Olstad, and transfer to a funeral home in Gunnison. Relatives have
been notified.
Deputy Sheriff Johnson, who supervised the recovery and inspected the
site, said it appeared that Olstad, when fishing above the falls, had slipped and
gone over the falls onto a ledge about fifteen feet below the crest of the falls,
which caused his death. The ledge, now visible through the diminished flow of
water which occurs late in the summer season, probably could not be seen through
the high water volume cascading over the falls in July. The body presumably
finally became dislodged and fell into the pool below the falls, but the timing of
that event could not be determined since the body was well preserved in the
extremely cold water.
"Oh God!" I exclaimed after reading the article to Carol. For several moments we just
stared at each other without speaking. "How awful!", she finally said. "Just think, that
first day we went into that canyon he was lying dead behind the falls on that ledge, and
we couldn’t see him through the water."
I was silent for a moment. "Dead?", I said, finally. Carol frowned. "What --what do
you mean?" I rubbed my brow."Don't you remember --I do--, that just as we were leaving
we thought we maybe heard a faint yell from somewhere up above the falls? And we
thought maybe a searcher had found him in the upper canyon? But when we got up there
no one was there. Remember?"
Carol's eyes widened and she clasped her fingers to her mouth. "Oh no! Oh no! You
think what we heard was --was Olstad?" I nodded grimly. "I'm sure of it. A fifteen foot
fall onto a ledge might have stunned him and maybe broke a few bones, but I don't think
could have killed him. Godamighty! Wonder how many days he lay there hoping for help
and probably realizing he wouldn't ever be rescued."
"And finally died there?" Carol asked. I said, "I doubt it. Probably finally jumped." I
folded theclipping and put it in my shirt pocket. Carol said, "Do you think we ought to
write somebody and tell them what we think happened?"
"No. Wouldn't do any good, and just cause the family more grief. I think it best that
we just keep it quiet."
And so we did.
****
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Cabin's Career
As of this writing we've had and enjoyed Valley Hi for 37 years, which is much, much
longer than cabins survived during days of the silver mining boom when they were soon
decimated by vigorous winter weather and massive loads of snow and ice on rooftops.
Our cabin remains in as good condition generally, and in many respects much better,
than when it was first built. This is a credit to all the Kyle family inhabitants who over
the many years have spent time, money and energy in routine maintenance and repair
work. In addition to the cabin itself, the property now also has three additional small
buildings: an outhouse (for emergencies), a tool shed and shop, and a Jeep house (for
winter and rainy weather storage). The cabin is of course electrically wired to serve the
kitchen stove and refrigerator, water heater, lighting facilities, and heaters for the
bedrooms or bathroom when the central wood stove needs help on unusually cold
mornings. And in recent years a telephone has been installed..
Sleeping arrangements could accommodate nine adults if really necessary (and all are
good friends!). The upstairs has one double bed and two twins, plus two adult-size cots.
Downstairs the main bedroom has a double, and there is a cot under the stairs in the
living room. I don't recall that we ever had as many as nine adults at one time, but there
were a few occasions when I think we had six plus a couple of youngsters.
I am so thankful and lucky that all the Kyles and their families have been outdoors and
nature lovers, and have sincerely enjoyed their many vacations in the cabin and moutain
environments. It has been a fine place to entertain our relatives and friends, all of whom I
think have mentally given their experience there a five-star rating.
Creating the cabin was the second smartest thing I ever did. (Marrying Carol was the
first. And having Jerry Mike and Kappy as kids isn't in the "smart" category; that rates
top in the "lucky" category.) Valley Hi has been a fine source of pleasure and adventure
for all my family members, and I hope it will continue to be for all our descendants
****
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CHAPTER X: Retirement (1976 - now)
By 1976 it became apparent that the geologists in Exxon's foreign country operations,
whom I had visited and lectured on the new procedures for using satellite photos for
exploration and assessment studies, were now practicing those techniques themselves and
my foreign trips would be about through. My work continued in this field in domestic
operations and research, but it became routine and somewhat boring, and I could foresee
no probabilities of interesting changes in research subjects, or in promotions in Exxon
Production Research Co. Also, I had gotten the impression from geologist friends in other
oil companies that there might likely be opportunities for using my abilities in part-time
consulting work for small companies or individuals in the oil business who weren't as yet
experienced or staffed for aerial photo and satellite work, or other phases of geological
exploration for oil deposits. The idea of working for various employers in wide ranges of
exploration projects sounded very interesting. And I was sure my long experience and
professional titles would be useful in promoting business relationships with potential
customers. My business letterhead indicated my status as "Certified Petroleum Geologist"
(authorized by the American Association of Petroleum Geologists) and "Certified
Professional Geological Scientist" (authorized by the American Institute of Professional
Scientists).
So, early in 1976 I told my supervisors and associates I was considering taking early
retirement. Regular retirement age is 65, but early retirement for special circumstances
was rarely done before age 60. I was then 59, so some discussion and negotiation with
EPRCo exploration department management was required. To my surprise I found that
my expertise was still considered essential in Exxon's satellite research and exploration
operations, and I was urged to defer retirement for another year or two.
I agreed to reconsider, and did for a week or two, but finally decided to call it quits.
After several meetings with EPRCo's exploration research manager, I agreed to a
proposal (informal and undocumented) whereby I could retire at 59 provided I would
give EPRCo first call on my consulting services for a period not to exceed three years. It
was not to be full time employment. My reimbursement would be on an hourly basis for
time worked, and would not invalidate or in any way reduce the monthly retirement
annuity payment I would be entitled to at age 59.
So, on April Fool's Day, 1976, I ended 37 years of employment (including 3 years of
military service for which I got employee time credit) with subsidiary companies of what
originally was called Standard Oil of New Jersey. That retirement day was a Thursday,
which was appropriate since I had begun work for Carter on a Thursday. Thursdays have
always been a good day of the week for me. I married Carol on a Thursday, received my
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B-24 pilot's diploma in the Air Force on a Thursday, and qualified after the war for my
first commercial pilot's license on a Thursday. We bought our best and most-lived-in
house (12214 Broken Arrow, Houston) on a Thursday. And on a Thursday I was---(oh,
well, never mind. That's enough!)
After about two months, during which time I enjoyed my extended vacation and
assembled some drafting tables and equipment appropriate to doing geological work at
home, I was solicited to do some work at EPRCo. The initial assignment was to order and
organize some satellite photos and maps for doing additional work in China. This was to
supplement my earlier China survey, and concentrate on locating potential geological
structures which might be good prospects for wildcat drilling in an extremely remote and
unexplored area in far western China. This part of China lies north of Tibet. It is mostly a
vast desert called the Taklimakan, within which the target area was a region called the
Tarim Basin. It was an interesting and challenging assignment, which I worked on most
of the rest of 1976, on days of my choice where I spent from 4 to 6 hours at EPRCo,
supplemented by map work and geological research at home. I was able to locate several
large anticlinal structures that looked like magnificent oil prospects, on which I then
recommended drilling in my wrapup report. That was endorsed by the EPRCo geological
staff, but in final analysis by Exxon the area was considered too remote for development,
so no attempt was made to approach the Chinese government with any leasing proposal
negotiations.(It is my understanding that a partnership of two or three other major oil
companies have now done so, and may initiate some wildcat drilling shortly, as I write
this.)
****
In the summer of 1977 I was given another short assignment which was a welcome
change. I was directed to confer with Exxon’s London office exploration personnel for
two or three days, and lecture on my satellite interpretation and assessment techniques. It
seemed like a good chance to also take some vacation time, and Carol of course was
happy to join me. At that time Francis Stewart was working there, and we were glad to
again visit Stew and Gloria. Stew had previously heard my presentations so, since my
business time would occupy me quite fully for a few days, he suggested that he and
Gloria host Carol on an auto trip and visit to Lands End,--the most western point in
England. They did, and Carol had a good time.
When they returned Stew went back to work, and after we’d spent a couple days
touring London’s many attractions and points of interest, Carol and I decided to take a
train tour of England and Scotland, which had been enthusiastically recommended to us
by someone in the London office It turned out to be a fascinating journey of about 10
days, during which we visited many sites of historic and cultural interest. We, as
recommended, bought a type of season ticket for the trains, which permitted us to get on
and off at any stopping points we chose, at which we’d often stay overnight and resume
traveling the next day. The trains we rode were unbelievably numerous, frequent, and
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always on schedule. It was a great and very convenient way to travel,--different in all
respects from train transportation in the U.S.
We selected a route which headed northwest out of London, and we made several
stops at points of interest (Oxford; Shakespeare’s Stratford on Avon, etc.) until we
reached Liverpool. Here we decided a brief excursion into Wales would be fun, so we got
a train connection into Wales along its north border which is bounded by the Irish Sea.
Carol was wanting to spend a night on that seacoast, so at the suggestion of the train
conductor whom we consulted, we left the train at the city of Llandudno where we were
fortunate in finding overnight accomodations at a small hotel which had a remarkably
scenic view of the ocean. The next day, when we asked the hotel manager what we could
see of interest, he suggested a trip on a local train south about 30 miles to another small
town with another improbable name of Ffestiniog. (No, that's not a typo error!) It was an
old fashioned steam driven coal burning train of only 3 or 4 cars, and its hospitable
conductor, learning we were Americans, invited me to meet the locomotive’s engineer.
He too was an exceptionally friendly Welshman, who let me join him in his engineer’s
cab and demonstrated all the locomotive’s controls as he guided it down the tracks.
We arrived in Ffestiniog just before noon, and after an interesting stroll about town we
settled in a small restaurant for lunch. The menu was a remarkable surprise! It was all in
Welsh, which that country’s old timers like to preserve, and any similarity to English is
as remote as if it had been in Russian. The waiter of course spoke English, as most Welsh
do where visitors are involved, so we simply ordered a standard British lunch of “fish and
chips”. The waiter laughed when we shook our heads at the menu, told us about one in
three speak both Welsh and English, and showed us a book in Welsh he was reading.
Apparently writers in Welsh are addicted to combining a lot of meaning into one word.
He pointed out a few examples where one word would occupy half a line on the printed
page. One such long word he pointed out translated something like, “church overlooking
scenic ocean beach”.
Some brief research I subsequently did on the Welsh language well indicates the
difficulty of learning it. It’s one of a group of Celtic languages and it does not use the
English letters j, k, q, v, x, or z. The letters w and y are sometimes used as vowels. Many
Welsh words contain double l’s and d’s. The ll is pronounced something like thl, and dd
sounds like the th in this. No wonder Welsh speakers are a dying breed!
We caught the afternoon return train to Llandudno, spent another nice evening and
night in our hotel, and next day got a train back to Liverpool. From there we made train
connections which took us into Scotland where we made an overnight stop in Glasgow,
the largest and most indusrialized city in that country. The following day was a long one
heading northwest with frequent stops in towns along the western side, and frequent
views of the scenic firths (sea-connected bays) indenting the coastline. The name Kyle
frequently appears in geographic names in the far north portions of Scotland: Kyle of
Durness, Kyle of Tongue, Kylestrome, Kyleakin, etc. And my northernmost trip target
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was the town of (simply) Kyle,located a couple miles across a narrow seaway from the
Isle of Skye.
We arrived at Kyle in late afternoon, --a small community which I’d estimate had a
population of no more than 1,000. There was only one hotel, and as I checked in I rather
expected an interested greeting as I signed my name,--and maybe even a modest “family”
discount on the price. But I got neither; the alleged Scotch reputation of monetary care
and caution in transactions involving cash seemed to prevail in my assessed room fee.
The next day we took a ferry trip to the Isle of Skye and hiked about a bit. On the
return trip we noticed again a cute white dog that had been making brief visits with many
of the pasengers on the trip over to Skye. He was again roaming around the ferry, happily
greeting passengers with a vigorously wagging tail. I had assumed he belonged to a
passenger on the previous trip, and thought that owner had failed to retrieve him when the
ferry docked in Skye. So I mentioned it to one of the crewmen. “Oh,” he replied, “that
dog doesn’t belong to anyone as far as we know. He just likes to ride on the boat, and
often does that all day long, back and forth. We call him ‘Skipper’”.
“My, how interesting,” said Carol. “But where does he live? Who takes care of him
when he’s not ‘boating’?” The crewman said, “We don’t think anybody does. The dock
people at both ends of this trip know him well, feed him when he seems hungry, and let
him sleep in a supply shed at night. He’s a very friendly fellow, as you’ve noticed, and
doesn’t seem to miss having a full time owner.” Needless to say, Skipper was one of the
most interesting and friendliest traveler Carol and I encountered on our tour.
Our trip resumed heading due east from Kyle to Aberdeen, about 150 miles across the
northern highlands with numerous loading and unloading stops at interesting small towns
enroute. The highland mountains are divided by a deep arrow-straight gorge trending
northeast by southwest completely across Scotland, connecting the North Sea at the
northeast end with embayments of the Atlantic on the southwest end. This feature is very
prominent on all maps of Scotland, where it is too straight to be river-created and appears
to probably be evidence of a major horizontal fault along which a large area of Scotland’s
northern crust slid northeast, creating a prominent geographic offset on either side. (I
have never seen a geologic text verifying this, but it certainly appears plausible.)
From Aberdeen our train trip headed south, generally along the North Sea coastline,
arriving late in the day at Edinburgh (pronounced ED-in-Bur-uh, incidentally), which is
Scotland’s capital and second largest city, picturesquely located on hills south of the Firth
of Forth. It is a city with many fascinating sites and scenic sights, a major one of which is
Edinburgh Castle on top of historic Castle Rock, high above the city. The castle was once
the home of Scottish rulers and nobility, and is still occasionally visited by the Queen of
England. We toured the castle the second day of our visit there, and it happened that there
was a special celebration during which many city citizens and visiting tourists were enter-
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tained by a parade of Scottish troops in uniforms with kilted skirts, marching to shrill
music of bagpipes. Very inspiring!
Our last train tour day returned us to London, where we were met by the Stewarts
who kept us overnight and very patiently listened to our entertaining (to us, at least) trip
events until late that evening. The next day they escorted us to the airport, where our
airline excorted us back to the U.S. It was a fine trip which rated well in Kyle records.
****
I learned that there was some tax and business advantages in having my consulting
setup incorporated. So I did so, with the official name of Peminex, Inc., which was an
acronym for "Petroleum & Minerals Exploration". It was officially approved by the
Texas Secretary of State on 9/28/78 ( a Thursday, by the way). I proceeded to draft up the
required Articles of Incorporation and By-Laws, which were subsequently registered with
the Secretary of State, and my consulting business acquired a business atmosphere. I
appointed Carol, Jerry Mike, Marie and Kappy as directors and officers, and myself (of
course) as president and CEO. My first stock issue of 11,000 shares covered the initial
capital requirement, of which I assigned myself 5,000 and divided the remaining 6,000
among my staff. The company's earnings were distributed on that per-share basis, which
was pretty good pay for my staff whose main function was to sit in on the occasional
required board meetings and therefore legally approve some of my business transactions.
(But I was in a generous mood, celebrating my retirement, and mentally considered such
disbursements as healthy Christmas gifts.)
My consulting business prospered, and included much conventional geological work
in addition to the satellite/aerial photo projects, both on EPRCo's frequent jobs and
numerous intervening projects requested by a variety of small companies and
independent oilmen. When my three years of commitment to EPRCo's assignments
expired the small operators kept me as busy as I cared to be. I was amazed at how many
somehow knew of Peminex and requested my work, since I never solicited customers nor
advertised in any way. I was pleased and proud to once have as a client the distinguished
"dean" of Texas geologists, a well-to-do independent oilman, and an esteemed resident of
Houston, Michel T. Halbouty.
Peminex was only once involved in owning an interest in a wildcat drilling deal. A
personable young Chinese man, Daniel Chiang, was from a wealthy family and wanted to
get into the oil business. He organized a company he called Muskeg, and came to me on
several occasions for geological investigations. I once located and mapped for him a
prospect in southern Texas we called Canoe Bayou. He was able to interest several small
companies in leasing it, with the objective of drilling two wildcats on it, one to 14,000
feet and another to 16,000. This was a project requiring ultimate investments of several
million dollars to lease and drill a block of about 11,000 acres. Dan put up some of the
cash, and as a fee for the geological work Peminex received a 1% working interest in the
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acreage, with no obligation to share in drilling costs. The first well tested some minor gas
shows, but not enough to justify its development. I was not enthused by that result, and
before the second well had drilled very far I arranged to sell 81% of Peminex's 1% to the
drilling companies for slightly over $5,000. Not exactly a "bonanza" payment, but it
appeared a smart move after the second well reached 16,000 feet as a dry hole.
In 1985 the U.S.'s oil business began a decline, particularly in the drilling and
development end of the business. I can't remember now the theories as to why, but a
basic reason must have been an increasingly apparent oversupply of petroleum in the
world, which reduced incentives to explore for and produce more. The years 1985 and
1986 were the first two that Peminex had an income deficit. Eight of my ten years doing
consulting had been good ones, and I decided maybe the time had come to cash in the
chips and spend the rest of my life on a permanent vacation. During a phone chat with
Chiang I told him that, and to my complete surprise he said, "Why don't you sell me your
company?" I said, "What's the matter with Muskeg?" He laughed and replied, "Nothing at
all. I just thought I might be able to re-sell Peminex."
I realized that Dan, trader that he was, might well be able to re-sell the Peminex
corporate entity and net some profit, and that was a sales job I didn't have the experience
or desire to attempt. So I agreed, we settled on a modest price, and he and I signed the
title transfer contract I prepared, on April Fool's Day, 1986. (An appropriate date for one
of us, I guess, but I've never decided who.) Anyway, that was the end of my geological
working career at age 70, and the beginning of what so far has been 15 years of a DANG
fine career (Doing Absolutely Nothing: Great!)
****
Tours and Travel
By my retirement I had had the opportunity to visit, or at least set my feet in, a total of
34 countries (mostly due to business travel). I wasn't greatly enthused about doing more
as a vacation routine. But Carol enjoyed the git-up-and-go pastimes, was ready for more
whenever we could, and persuaded me take trips while we were still able. So we made a
few trips during gaps in my consulting business when I was "unavailable" for new
assignments, and a few in my post-Peminex epoch.
The first was in 1979, as I recall, when we took a tour-guided trip to Hawaii. We were
accompanied by another Exxon couple, Elloise and Bill Randall. First stop of course was
Honolulu, on Oahu. There our first tour visit was Pearl Harbor where we reviewed the
tragic history of the 12-7-41 "date which will live in infamy" as President Roosevelt
emphatically declared, when the Japanese air fleet of about 360 planes attacked and sunk
six U.S. battleships, damaged 10 other warships, killed 2,008 sailors on the sunken
Arizona , and killed or wounded about 1,600 soldiers and marines.
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The other later tour attractions were less poignant and more pleasurable, like frequent
luau banquets, hula-hula shows, scenic bus tours, and of course the obligatory tour visit
to Waikiki Beach to ogle and admire the nearly nude bathers. (Subsequent conversation
between Carol and Elloise about our sightseeing there exclusively pertained to "hunks"
and "studs", while commentary by Bill and me was limited to "buxom babes" and "fancy
fillies".Finally, by mutual agreement, we confined further discussion to scenery viewing.)
We spent about two days and nights in each of the four main islands: Oahu, Maui,
Kauai, and Hawaii (the biggest). Crow-fly distance from the northernmost (Kauai) to the
most southern (Hawaii) was about 260 miles, mostly over water. So tour arrangements
were that we flew a chartered plane between islands, and were given bus tours of points
of interest in each. This was all a theoretically very efficient system, but we found that a
problem was that we spent an undue amount of time waiting in hotels and airports to be
picked up for transportation between islands, or from each tourist attraction site to the
next. And since we were there in the height of the tourist season, we often had to wait in
our tour bus for buses ahead to clear out so we could see what they had been seeing. But
it was a good trip. The Kyles and Randalls enjoyed each other's company, and later at
home spent many party hours in retrospective conversations about what we referred to as
our"hula-hula" experiences in Hawaii.
Our most scenic trip unquestionably was our June 1981 trip to Alaska, accompanied
by J.M. and Marie. Carol and I drove to the Colorado cabin and opened it in early June,
then continued driving to Seattle. We had made reservations for ourselves and kids on a
guided tour arrangement. Carol and I were scheduled to leave Seattle by a tour bus for
Vancouver, and J.M. and Marie would fly there from Houston. At Vancouver we would
embark on a tour ship, a magnificent many-passenger cruise ship of Holland America
Cruises Co. called the Statendam, for a leisurely voyage up the west coast of Canada into
the inland waterway through that narrow strip of Alaska which lies west of Canada's
British Columbia province.
After an overnight stop in a Seattle hotel we were ready the next morning of June 26
for a scheduled bus ride 145 miles north to Vancouver, where the Statendam was due to
depart at 5:00 p.m. We expected to arrive in the early afternoon, but the bus driver
persisted in making numerous stops: small town cafes for midmorning coffee and later a
long time for lunch, many usually unneeded pit stops, and an endless array of gift shops
enroute ( I'm sure he was entitled everywhere to a commission for any sales his travelers
made). All of us passengers began getting irritated by the slow progress, and nervous as
time slipped away about making the scheduled ship departure time. But the driver kept
reassuring us that he'd made the trip often and would be at the Vancouver dock in plenty
of time.
But the bus trip ended with the driver, now also rather nervous, speeding through the
streets of Vancouver and arriving at the dock about 5:02 p.m., just as the gangplank was
being raised! The driver drove as close as possible, tooted the horn in a continuous blast,
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and with great relief we saw the gangplank being lowered for us. J.M. and Marie had
given up expecting us to join them, so we had a happy meeting with much laughter as
Carol and I gradually calmed our nerves.
The voyage up the inland waterway was delightful. Our staterooms in the ship were
excellent, as were all the services, meals and faccilities aboard. The coastline mountain
scenery was stunningly beautiful, and our stops and casual visits in the picturesque cities
of Ketchikan, Juneau and Skagway were interesting and entertaining. The only adverse
feature was that the weather was mostly cloudy, chilly, and damp from frequent showers.
Juneau was the end of our cruise on the Statendam. We then flew in a small plane to
Glacier Bay, stayed overnight in a U.S. Park Service lodge, and the next day embarked in
a small boat into the headwaters of Glacier Bay for a day's visit. That trip involved
dodging a lot of ice floes as we neared the front of the massive glacier at the bay's end.
We approached to within about 100 feet of the glacier face, which was an impressive and
chilly experience. I asked the boat's captain if any big chunks of ice had ever dropped off
when the boat was that near. "Oh", he said, rubbing his chin whiskers, "a few times.
Makes a good splash and rocks the boat pretty well, but we've never lost any passengers
overboard. Yet. When we hear loud cracking and think a big one might come loose, we
usually have time to warn the passengers to hang on to the railings, or somethin'."
Back in Juneau we visited some points of interest, including the state capitol, and after
another overnight stay embarked on a small passenger boat for about a 100-mile trip to
Skagway, at the northernmost end of the inland waterway. At Skagway our nautical
journeys ended. We boarded a narrow gauge train which would convey us 111 miles to
Whitehorse, the capital of the Yukon Territory. That railway route was really a breathtaker, completely in mountainous terrain with much of the train track established on
narrow winding ledges on the sides of precipitous peaks. The mountain sides were well
populated with many narrow and very high waterfalls which contributed snow melt to the
rushing river and beautiful lakes in the valley below.
The Yukon Territory, in the northwest corner of Canada, is a vast semi-arctic wilderness region almost entirely covered by mountains of the Cordillera Range. It has large
deposits of many minerals, and much of it is covered by valuable spruce forests which are
inhabited by varieties of almost all fur-bearing animals,--bear, caribou, moose, mountain
goats, etc.Mining is a major industry, which began after the famous Klondike Gold Rush
in 1897 and 1898. Whitehorse is a classic western town, and the biggest in the Yukon
with nearly 6,000 residents (when we were there). In addition to catering to mining
interests it has Territory offices of the Royal Canadian Air Force and the Royal Canadian
Mounted Police.
The next two days were occupied in a bus trip of 605 miles to Fairbanks, the northern
end of our tour. (It is also the north end of the Alaska Highway and the Alaska Railroad).
Our trip was on the main highway between Whitehorse and Fairbanks, which was
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sparsely traveled and had a very few small towns enroute. It traversed much wilderness
territory, in which we had numerous stops to enjoy viewing the variety of wildlife,
including moose, elk, deer, bears, mountain sheep, and a few prospectors.
Fairbanks is Alaska's second largest city (nearly 14,000 residents then), and is the
center of a great region of mining for gold and other minerals. Weather is always on the
chilly side, since it's only 130 miles south of the Arctic Circle. It's an interesting town to
hike around in (if you have warm clothes), and an interesting feature to us "southerners"
was the ability to sit on an unlighted hotel porch at nearly 11:00 p.m. and read the paper.
(Nighttime in July that far north is quite limited!) In response to our inquiry as to who the
city was named after, the first person we stopped to ask on the street was pretty sure it
was the famous actor Douglas Fairbanks, Sr. But later a more reliable source explained
that the honored individual was Charles W. Fairbanks, Vice-President of the U.S. under
Theodore Roosevelt from 1905 to 1909. He, and William McKinley who was U.S.
President from 1897 to 1901 and had his name used for the highest mountain in North
America, were undoubtedly selected since both were in office at the time of the expanded
mining boom in Alaska after the Klondike Gold Rush.
Highlight of our Fairbanks stay was a day's trip to Mount McKinley National Park,
about 120 miles southwest of Fairbanks, where we stayed overnight in very comfortable
rooms at Park lodge facilities. Next day a guide and picnic lunches were provided by the
tour personnel, and two or three tour buses left for a visit to view Mt. McKinley. This
magnificent mountain, which reaches 20,300 feet, is perpetually snow-covered in at least
its upper half, and is a photographer's dream, --when cloud-free and in sunshine, which
we were told is a rarity. But we had hopes, and nearly everyone was well equipped with a
load of camera equipment. Luck was not with us, however. As we left the Park lodges,
the clouds and a rainy drizzle moved in, and by the time we got to the location the guide
said was the best for viewing, we were grossly disappointed to be able to see only the
peak's foothills. So the guide, who was experienced in such conditions, set up an easel
board with a huge 2' by 3' photo of a sunlit mountain. "This is what you'd be seeing if
there were enough church-goers among you", he said, which elicited some not very
amused chuckles from a few of the tourists.
Incidentally, we had been told the mountain was now officially renamed "Denali", for
reasons we never heard clarified. The guide wasn't on our bus, so we discussed this on
our trip back to Fairbanks, with several people theorizing as to that name's origin. None
of the theories sounded very authentic, but the one everyone approved of was the
suggestion that maybe the word "denali" was an Indian word meaning "usually cloudcovered".
Next day we again boarded another bus for the 360 mile trip south to the busy city of
Anchorage, the metropolis of Alaska. It is located at the head of the Cook Inlet, a large
embayment of the Gulf of Alaska. It was founded in 1914 as the headquarters of the
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Alaska Railroad, and was so-named since it was the anchorage for ships bringing supplies
for the railroad construction camp from which the city grew. It is the center for trade and
services for over 2/3 of Alaska's population, is an imporant air traffic center, and has
nearby bases for the U. S. Army and Air Force Alaskan headuarters. As a port city it is of
course near sea level, but its beautiful background is the (usually) snow-covered Chugach
Mountains. We had a pleasant day and night stay at a hotel in downtown, and fnally bid
Alaska a fond farewell as we flew the last leg of our Alaska trip to Seattle on July 10.
It was a fascinating two-week's tour, although the almost constantly rainy weather (or
occasionally snowy in the high country) took some getting used to. I'm not sure if that's
normal or if our visit was in an unusually moist summer, but my advice to friends who
might be contemplating such a tour is to be sure and have clothes for a rainy and chilly
climate. Enroute to Seattle I was inspired to thus commemorate such a possibility:
Ode to Alaska
In Alaska there is constantly rain,
Don't count on the sun in Alaska,
In the mountains as well as the plain. 'Cause the rain is bound to out-last ya.
If the rain ever slows,
But say this for me,
Or it stops,--then it snows,
It's a great place to be,
And then it starts raining again!
In case anybody should ask ya!
****
Jerry M. and Marie then flew home to Houston from Seattle, but Carol and I were
scheduled to continue our journey with an automobile expedition into some of the
massive mountain terrain in the southeastern portion of British Columbia (in our car
which had been parked in Seattle during our Alaska trip). By previous arrangement I had
planned this portion of our trip, plus an additional visit in Montana, to be a "minireunion" of 4 of the 5 members of the "Last Man's Club" of Carleton College days. (For
those of you who may not have read my Volume I of Rear View, the LMC consisted of 3
of my best friends there who with me always ate at the same table in the college dining
hall, served by a 4th member who was earnng a scholarship as a student waiter who
always waited on our table. Due to our lengthy post-meal discussions we were usually the
last men out of the dining hall,--hence our LMC designation.)
First re-unioner was Robert Crassweller, who with charming wife Mollie flew in to
Seattle to meet us. (Crass had become a lawyer with a career that included working for
the State Department in Washington, for Pan American Airways, and International T. &
T. in New York.) After an impressive two day trip with lovely sunny weather providing
a delightful contast with the Alaska variety, and a constant volume enroute of "careerscatch-up-conversation" by Crass and me, which left Carol and Mollie only very limited
opportunities to chat, we arrived July 12 at Banff. There we were met by Chandler
(Swan) Swanson and lovely wife Ruth who had arrived from Florida via airlines and a
rental car. (Swan had enlisted in the navy after college, became a torpedo bomber pilot in
WWII in which he earned many honors and promotion to Captain, and continued after
the war as a career officer until his thirty years' service retirement.)
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The six of us had a great time touring Banff and Jasper National Parks, with stopovers
at Jasper and Lake Louise. On July 15 the Swansons left us, heading west to Vancouver,
and the Crasswellers and Kyles headed south into Montana, staying overnight in
Kalispell as guests of my old army buddy Con Lundgren and wife Jean. The next day we
proceeded to Anaconda for a day's and evening's visit with Reverend Jack Caton and
wife. Jack, who had been our Carleton waiter, was known to most as "Happy Jack"
because of his loud and unique guffaws so frequently heard on campus and at the
movies.(To everyone's amazement, after his graduation he became a Carleton-sponsored
missionary to China and subsequently mired down as an Episcopalian minister in
Montana.) Needless to say, he had lots of "career conversation" to contribute about his
wartime experiences in China. The only LMC-er missing from our mini-reunion was
Allan Matthews, who with wife Doris lived near Washington, D.C., and whose other
activities commitments precluded joining us. (Except for his WWII service as a naval
officer on a destroyer, his career was mostly in government foreign aid economiics.)
On July 15 we continued south, depositing the Crasswellers at the Salt Lake city
airport, from whence we drove back to our Colorado cabin at Gothic. From the cabin's
"pillar-to-post" the 25-day trip was one of our longest, and one of the most enjoyed.
****
One short week's trip in August, 1984, in desert type country was quite the antithesis
of the snow-peaked deep-green mountainous terrain we had been immersed in in Alaska
and Canada. Carol had suggested, and I agreed, that more experience in the picturesque
canyon country of Arizona and Utah would be a interesting change from a scenic view
standpoint. We decided that Doug, who had just turned 13, was ready for a bit of travel
with his maternal grandparents. Kappy had left him with us at the cabin, and for some
reason I can't recall wasn't in a position to join us on our tour. So on August 4 the three of
us embarked on what we labeled "The Kyle-Cooper-Canyon-Caravan".
First stop was the Black Canyon of the Gunnison , near Montrose, Colorado, where
we got a good exercise warmup by climbing the 400-odd stair steps down to river bottom
and back up again. Then to Ouray where we took the narrow gauge railway trip to and
from Silverton. (I don't think Doug had ever been on any train before, so that was an
exciting experience for him.)
Heading southwest the following day we crossed into Utah and Monument Valley for
a quick dose of desert environment. Then, of course, the Grand Canyon was on our list
for a day's stay, followed by a boat ride on Lake Powell in Glen canyon where we saw
the impressive Rainbow Bridge National Monument. Next stop: Bryce canyon, Utah, for
a day's hiking tour. After moseying around that general area for a couple days we swung
southeast to Moab and the Arches National Park Then, finally, back to Gothic. It was
great country,--a photographer's dream, even for amateurs like us, and the only thing we
spent more on than film was for Doug's steaks for lunch and supper everywhere we ate.
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****
Our last cruise trip, and last of any trip outside the U.S., was a Caribbean boat ride the
week of Feb. 3 - 10, 1985. It wasn't one we'd planned, but took on short notice. The
week before my Carleton buddy Swan phoned and explained a bargain deal he could
offer, and hoped we'd take. It seems he and Ruth, and another couple, had somehow
lucked into obtaining special rates as WWII veterans on the week's cruise, but the other
couple had to cancel on short notice. Swan said it would be possible for Carol and me to
be substitutes (since I was also a veteran), and if we'd agree immediately he could make
the switch in reservation names. And, the fare was only $400 for each of us!
Needless to say, the following Sunday morning we flew to Miami, joined Swansons
aboard the (French) Paquet Line's "Rhapsody", and by mid-afternoon were enroute to the
Bahamas. As we hiked around the ship I was impressed at how familiar the arrangement
of deck facilities seemed. I said to Swan, "I didn't realize that all big cruise ships are so
similar in design."
He replied "Oh, I don't think so. Why do you?" At that point we were in front of the
ship's gift shop. I pointed and said, "My instinct tells me that right around that corner, in
that adjoining corridor, you'll see a cigarette machine." He laughed. "I didn't know you
had psychic abilities!" He walked to the corridor I had pointed at, looked around the
corner, and --"Holy Smoke!", he exclaimed. "I'll be danged,-- there really is a cigarette
machine! I was almost as startled, but pleased that my point about ship designs being so
similar had been confirmed. Later that evening when we were having conversation with a
ship's officer, I observed that, "This Rhapsody was obviously designed by the same
company that has done those for Holland America Cruises Company. This ship seems to
be identical to one we were on about four years ago in Alaska, called the Statendam.."
"This is the old Statendam," he replied. "The Paquet Line bought it about a year ago."
Swan laughed hilariously. "Glad to know you're not really psychic, Jerry!"
We of course resided nights in our staterooms on the boat, but days were spent at stops
in and visits to a variety of locations: San Juan, Puerto Rico, St. Thomas and St. John in
the Virgin Islands. (No one we asked could imagine why they had been called the Virgin
Islands, and everyone said that would have been an inappropriate name today.) Those
two islands we visited were each blessed with a lot of beautiful sandy beaches, encircled
by an abundance of luxuriant tropical vegetation. Swan and I found a vacant beach near
one of the public ones, and enjoyed some skinny dipping. But the girls wouldn't join us.
One outstanding event in the trip was that for only the second time in my life I won a
prize.(The first time was in 1953 at a Carter company picnic when my name was drawn
as the winner of six (6!) cans of Carter motor oil.) On the boat entertainment was
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provided each night after dinner, and a couple nights it was a Bingo session. I'd never
played Bingo for money before, and could hardly believe (nor could the Swansons or
Carol) that on my first card I won about $380, almost the cost of my trip ticket! Swan
and Ruth had played a while before they finally talked me into trying that card, so I
offered to split it with them, but they politely declined my offer.They did seem a bit put
out, though, when I said I'd better not play any more since I was now ahead of the game.
It's interesting to reflect that those five retirement-era trips I have described are each
of substantially different physical environments. They include a 10-day train ride (British
Isles); a guided airline junket to tropical islands (Hawaii); a 25-day chilly weather tour of
some of the most magnificent mountain country in North America (Alasska & Canada); a
week's traipse in desert canyon country (Arizona & Utah), and an ocean liner cruise in the
Caribbean. Maybe the reason we finally quit new-experience trips was that we couldn't
think of any new-experience type travel to try. Whatever; Carol and I thereafter did our
traveling only on periodic trips to visit friends nd relatives in Wisconsin and Indianapolis,
and, of course, the cabin.
* ***
Confederate Air Force
My most enjoyable retirement hobby, other than travels like those mentioned above,
was my 8-year membership and participation in activities of the Confederate Air Force,
1985-1992. This organization, whose membership includes many hundreds in branches
around Texas with some in other states (including Michigan and Indiana!), has the
primary mission of acquiring, restoring, maintaining, and flying WWII aircraft in air
shows throughout the U.S., to acquaint younger generations with the American air power
in 1939-1945 that did so much to help us win WWII., and to nourish the nostalgia of the
oldtimers who saw and participated in it first hand.
The CAF history began with a small band of ex-service pilots with a love of airplanes
and flying. In 1951 one of them acqired a war surplus P-40 Warhawk, the first modern
fighter plane. In 1957 the aviator buddies pooled their resources and bought a "surplus"
P-51, reputedly the greatest fighter plane of the war. So they formed a loosely organized
club to share the fun and expense of keeping the plane fit for them to fly. One of them in
jest painted "Confederate Air Force" on that Mustang's fuselage, and the rest of the men
thought that name would be a good appellation for their club.The idea took hold, several
more aviation enthusiasts joined the group, and in September of 1961 they had the CAF
chartered as a non-profit self-supporting privately financed organization incorporated in
Texas for charitable and educational purposes.
The CAF grew rapidly as members were added, more planes were acquired and put
into flying shape, and occasional exhibits and fly-overs were done at various fairs and
public festivals.By the time I joined their flying museum (appropriately called the "Ghost
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Squadron") included 77 flyable aircraft representing 49 different aircraft types flown in
WWII, a collection which has been recognized by the U.S.Air Force and U.S Navy as a
valuable national asset. The CAF headquarters for many years was in Harlingen, Texas,
but in recent years has been moved to Midland, Texas. Both locations have/had museums
at which many of the planes are/were housed and displayed, which have been very
popular tourist attractions. Since the museums could of course not accommodate CAF's
complete fleet, many are stored between summer air shows in private airport facilities,
supervised and financed by CAF members.
Houston air shows are held in the fall at Ellington Field. They're usually a 3-day
event, at which most of the CAF fleet in on display for inspection by the attending crowd
(which often number as many as 80,000 persons). The "showtime" activities include
much acrobatic and formation flying (including frequent much-appreciated participation
by current Air Force bombers and fighters). A main attraction are the mock battles, one
of which is an impressive version of the Jap raid on Pearl Harbor with replicate Jap Zeros
dropping a lot of simulated bomb explosions in the field opposite the audience arena.
After enlisting in the CAF and acquiring my official colonel's uniform, I was assigned
to help demonstrate at Houston air shows the B-17 (named "Texas Raiders"), a 4-engine
heavy bomber. The B-17 was very similar to the B-24 I had most experience in during
WWII, so I was well qualified to guide people through the plane (for $5 fees) and lecture
them on the combat features of this old "Flying Fortress" (as they were optimistically
called during WWII). The CAF members who refurbished this fine plane had with some
research and effort mnaged to equip it with a complete assortment of WWII battle gear:
10 real 50-caliber machine guns, authentic radio equipment, unloaded 500-lb. bombs, and
one of the then-famous Norden bomb sights (which, it was said, enabled the bombardier
to drop bombs from 20,000 ft. elevation to within a half block or so of the target).
I enjoyed being the spectator's host, but was happier when it became necessary for
me to occasionally serve as pilot. The B-17 CAF pilots, at the time I joined them, were
with one or two exceptions airline pilots younger than WWII vintage, in lieu of exservice pilots who weren't qualified with commercial pilot licenses to permit their flying
B17s (or any other plane) in air shows. But I had maintained the commercial pilot's
license I acquired after WWII (in anticipation of being an airline pilot), so I was about the
only real WWII pilot they had for the B-17 at air shows. So I had numerous opportunities
to fly the B-17 to-and-from air shows in other states and locations, as well as taking turns
with the younger pilots in doing fly-overs at the air shows.
One such event I was proud and pleased to participate in was in 1988 when the CAF
was invited to show some of their planes at the first "International Air/Space America 88"
air show at Brown Field in San Diego, California. The B-17 was included, of course, and
we pilots all wanted a share in piloting it to and from San Diego. It was finally agreed
that four pilots would do it, two flying out and two back. My leg of that journey was the
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second half of the trip out, from Phoenix to S.D. It was a fun trip, zooming over the
mountains and getting a great aerial view of the ocean as we approached Brown Field.
Maintaining my commercial pilot's license for years in which I did piloting required
a physical checkup and certification of my piloting ability by some designated flight
instructor. The physical exams were usually brief and perfunctory, done by a doctor who
didn't have much time to spare (and probably wasn't paid too well for such government
work). And the flight instructor's certification was very routine, usually consisting of
whether the pilot was up to date on flying rules and regulations, and very rarely having
the pilot perform a short demonstration flight. These data were presumably filed with a
local office of the Federal Aviation Administration's Department of Transportation, and I
never received any feedback nor expected to. But in 1991,--disaster! The doctor found I
had developed a leaky heart valve (in medical terms called a "mitral valve prolapse").He
was apologetic, but told me he had no option but to recommend my disqualification for
license approval for medical reasons.
That of course meant the end of my flying (as pilot) with the CAF. I stayed with them
through one more Houston air show, where I served as usual as a tour guide through the
B-17, but then in 1992 with much regret I submitted my resignation. And I haven't
attended any more of Houston's annual air shows since I feel it would be a somewhat
unpleasant experience to have to watch others performing my previous functions.
****
Carol
Comes now the time and need to recount the tribulations and sorrows of some of the
most recent years. Many of you who have stamina enough to have read this far know that
Carol was plagued for much of her late life with Parkinson's Disease. And for any of you
who don't know about Parkinson's, I should briefly explain it. It is estimated that
somewhere between 1,000,000 and 1,250,000 people suffer from it in the U.S. It's an
incurable, long lasting, and ultimately fatal neurological malfunction resulting from the
gradual diminishing of production of an enzyme called dopamine. It is one of several
enzymes the brain produces, and its specific function is to supply a force enabling brain
cells to communicate with each other (like an electric current). When the thought process
cells in the brain decide to move a muscle they must pass the message (using dopamine)
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to cells in the brain that activate thatt muscle. If there is a shortage, or absence, of
dopamine, the muscle cannot obey the brains's instruction to it.
Thus, the person with Parkinsonism problems cannot properly control many of the
muscles in his/her body, and is plagued with shaky arms, inability to walk steadily, facial
muscles which won't work as desired, etc. This syndrome is mild in the early stages of
the disease, but steadily increases as the brain's supply of dopamine decreases. Eventually
some vital bodily function will be affected and cease working, causing death. In the past
30 years many experimental medications have been researched and tried. None have been
found to cure the dopamine deficiency (which can not be chemically created and injected
directly into the brain). The most useful one to date, which at best simply slows up the
body's deterioration, is a chemical called levodopa (which with an anti-nausea additive is
marketed as sinemet).
Carol was first diagnosed as having P.D. in 1979. For about the first 10 years it did not
unduly affect her abilities except for the nuisance of having to take a daily pill ration. We
maintained the usual social activities and, as described in previous pages, managed quite
a fair amount of traveling. Along about 1986 her doctor mentioned that she might like to
get acquainted with the Parkinson Foundation of Harris County, a non-profit organization
that distributes P.D. information, provides free group physical exercise therapy facilities,
support meetings for patients and care givers, and sponsors free monthly lectures by
P.D.doctors and medical experts (including free noon lunches prepared by PFHC wives).
So we attended a meeting or two, and I was impressed enough with that organization
that I decided to help. The officers and workers were glad to get any warm bodies that
might help with their duties, and I began spending a half day or more about 3 or 4 days a
week in the PFHC office. Initially I did clerical work, then progressed to treasurer, then
board member and one of several vice presidents. I began contributing articles for the
monthy newsletter, and finally, lo and behold, PFHC had a new newsletter editor--me!
The downside of that was that there was a dearth of contributed articles or items, which
meant that the editor was obliged to compose most of that stuff. So another facet of that
job was that I had to begin studying medical literature so I could create meaningful
material that would enlighten and appeal to readers. The work became a bit burdensome,
but I liked it and was glad of the opportunity to be of some use to PFHC and P.D.-ers.
Carol was admired by many (and especially me!) for her efforts and perseverance in
coping with the increasing ravages of P.D. Regular exercise is known to slow the onset of
physical deterioration, and in addition to the PFHC-sponsored exercise therapy sessions
which she attended faithfully, she did much at home. In addition to calisthenics she took
daily walks. Initially they were 10 or 12 blocks in length, but as time wore on so did she,
and she finally reached the point at which it was a considerable effort to get a half block
to the corner and back. At this point she was needing much attention and care from me,
so I had to give up most of my PFHC office visits and try to do the newsletter work at
home. Finally I had to begin having a hired caretaker come a half day six days a week to
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help me attend to Carol, and I eventually found it necessary to resign my editor's job at
the end of 1994.
By 1996 I began using a caretaker all day from 8:00 a.m. to 5:00 p.m., for a couple
more years. Then, when I had to begin assisting with her frequent nighttime bathroom
visits, which kept me awake more than I could handle, I had to get a fulltime 24-hour
caretaker for most of 1998. She was wheelchair bound most of that period. But one day in
April 1999 when she was seated in her recliner chair in the club room and her caretaker
left to go to the bathroom, Carol decided to get up and go into the kitchen (for some
purpose she could never later remember). She slipped on the kitchen tile floor and broke
a hip. That required an operation, of course, and a longer than usually necessary stay in
the hospital, since the therapists were unable to get her to stand unassisted. So she was
sent home where she remained bedridden most of the time, except when helped to and
from the bathroom and meals by the caretaker.
Carol finally lost her well-fought battle with Parkinson's, and reached the end of her
life's journey of 80 1/2 years on April 13, 1999. I was numbed with grief , but somehow
managed to handle the necessary post-mortem procedures. These included arranging
publication of an obituary, authorizing cremation procedures, scheduling a memorial
service at the church and making arrangements with choir members for some appropriate
music, selecting ministers and discussing with them high lights of Carol's life to be
mentioned in their funeral service, making housing arrangements for some relatives, etc.
Reverend Frank Schulman, a long time friend of ours who had been minister at
Emerson Unitarian Church until his retirement a few years earlier, was glad to sermonize
part of the service, but he thought it fitting that the regular minister, David Parke, also
participate. I agreed, and that worked out well. Jerry Mike, Kappy, and granddaughter
Kelley each gave fine talks from the pulpit, reminiscing about memorable experiences
with, and love for, Carol. It was a good service, well attended by a large number of our
friends and Exxon personnel with whom I'd worked closely. And the volume of the
subsequent "in memory of" financial contributions to the church were impressive, and set
an alltime record in the case of those to PFHC.
Carol, as she wished (and do I when my time is up), was cremated. I arranged with a
tombstone maker in Houston to prepare for me a small attractive red granite memorial
headstone, suitably inscribed, which he then shipped to Gunnison, CO. It was about 20 by
24 inches square, to lie flat on the ground with a slight slope from about 8 inches in back
to about 5 inches in front.Later that summer J.M. and Kappy and their kids, and Carol's
sister Yvonne and her husband Bill, all assembled with me at the Colorado cabin. J.M.
and Bill managed, with considerable effort and lots of grunting, to haul the 200 lb. stone
from Gunnison. Then, with a short informal, but heartfelt, ceremony we buried Carol's
ashes on the front (mountainview) side of the cabin, and installed the stone over the
grave.
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Carol had been lovingly eulogized by Jerry M. and Kappy at the church memorial
service, and Kappy and Marie gave touching tributes at an informal graveside dedication.
My brief comments ending the ceremony concluded with this quotation from Angelo
Patri (American educator, prominent for his writings in the 1920's and 1930's), slightly
altered to include Carol's name:
"In one sense there is no death. The life of Carol's on earth
will last beyond her departure. We will always feel her life
touching ours, her voice speaking to us, her spirit looking
out of other eyes, talking to us in the familiar things that she
touched, worked with, and loved. She lives on in our lives,
and in the lives of all others that knew her."
How true that's been for me.
****
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