Where Icebergs Go To Die

Where Icebergs Go To Die

Battle Harbour, Labrador

July 15, 2002 

Dying Iceberg

Views like this can be seen from Battle Harbour Island -- the "Iceberg Capital of the World".

Battle Harbour Island

Battle Harbour renovated buildings

Standing on a large, smooth, wave- and ice-worn rock beside a tiny cove, we watched Minke and Humpback Whales cavort only 30 to 60 feet away. Well, maybe they were not actually “cavorting” – they were in dead serious pursuit of small Caplin fish. Down in water so clear that we could see the bottom in about 3 fathoms (18 feet) of water, large schools of these small fish were darting frantically as they tried to escape the gaping mouths of the whales. Having eaten whole, smoked, 5-inch-long Caplin, I can understand why the whales savor them – except that the head is sorta crunchy. Some of the smaller Minke Whales came very close and swerved at the last minute to attack schools trying to hide close to the rocks. They banked like an airplane, showing their pink undersides above the water line. The water gurgled as they passed and left a curved wake on the water surface. The Minke made few sounds during this feeding, but the much larger Humpbacks sometimes made a noise something like a bellowing bull when they surfaced and blew. At a very close range, we could sometimes look down into the blowhole that seemed large enough to place a man’s fist into each one of the two-sided apertures. The Minkes surfaced, blew and rolled forward into a dive quickly. They exposed their cat-claw-shaped dorsal fin, whereas the Humpbacks made a much larger spout and exposed their back and blunter dorsal fin for longer periods of time.

Stinky Minke Whale

Whale and Iceberg

Humpbacks usually resurfaced and blew again two or three times before finally diving for a long time. On this last dive, they often raised their entire tail out of the water as if to wave goodbye. One of the Humpback Whales swam on its side with one of its long, white flippers held high out of the water. It slapped the surface of the water with this flipper several times before diving back into the depths. Some of the folks watching these behaviors claimed that they could smell the bad breath of the Minke Whales when they blew, and others were so close that they were sprayed with water from the spouts. It was a fantastic, all natural show!

We were spending the night in the historical, informal capital of Labrador – a place called Battle Harbour. It is a small island that occupies the most eastern part of Labrador and is an old fishing village founded by the English in the 1770s. Of the places we have visited in the Canadian Province of Newfoundland and Labrador, Battle Harbour ranks on the top for us. It can be reached from Mary’s Harbour after a scenic, one-hour boat ride past several other islands, icebergs, whales and marine birds. Mary’s Harbour has been relatively isolated and could be reached only by boat until last year when a new, gravel road was built from Red Bay.

Win and Pat on boat to Battle Harbour

There are several features of this island that make it very attractive. First, it is nearly free of Blackflies. On the surface, this may sound ludicrous – but in fact, biting Blackflies are a very serious problem in Labrador. When driving on the road to Mary’s Harbour, we sometimes stopped to look for birds. We soon found that, in spite of covering ourselves in Deet insect repellent, the hoards of Blackflies were such an irritant that we began to watch for birds only through the rolled up windows of the car. Blackflies are one reason that the population of all of Labrador is only about 30,000 people – less than live in College Station, Texas. Most folks live along the shore or on islands where the Blackflies are less threatening. The response of the Newfoundland tourist industry to Blackfly complaints is that “Blackflies are a sign of clean air.”

About ten years ago, when the Canadian Government imposed a moratorium on the Codfish fishing industry of Canada, folks who had lived their lives in Battle Harbour, left to make a living elsewhere. The over-200 year history of the Island appeared to be near an end. Many of the great old buildings, that were needed to maintain a large fishing industry on this island, began to fall into disrepair. But a concerned group of Canadians determined that the history of Battle Harbour should not be lost, formed the Battle Harbour Historic Trust in 1990 to restore, develop and promote Battle Harbour. Almost twenty of the old buildings have been renovated and restored with careful attention to detail so as to maintain the historic integrity of the structures. 

Battle Harbour was the largest settlement on the Labrador coast and served as the unofficial capital of Labrador for many years -- starting in the 1700s.

When Pat and I first read about this place, we were not so sure that we would find it of major interest. After all, we had seen lots of old fishing ports during our travels through Newfoundland. However, to actually walk the waterfront along the tickle (waterway) and harbor of this place was a special treat. The displays at the various buildings, that explain the importance and history of the various structures, were well-written and informative. It was certainly a challenge to understand the colloquialisms spoken by our guide.

Learning about the Cod and Salmon fisheries was very interesting, but the town and harbor are also steeped in some interesting history. Battle Harbour also served Robert E. Peary and Frederick Cook in their exploration of the North Pole in 1909. Peary wired the details of this expedition from the Marconi wireless station in Battle Harbour to the world through the New York Times. Cook, upon returning from his expedition, announced the news of his successes to the world at Battle Harbour. These announcements garnered the attention of the world press and captivated the attention of people worldwide. The rivalry and controversy that attended these explorers are of continuing interest today.

Pat with Titanic Pose

But one of the most interesting aspects of this place is the claim that it is “the iceberg capital of the world.” We find no reason to question this claim. In fact, when we climbed to the top of the hill behind the town and harbor, where Marconi’s towers can be found, we scoped out 25 large icebergs floating around in the Labrador Sea to the north, east and south. The air was very clear of fog or clouds so we could see the ocean disappear over the curvature of the earth in the North Atlantic. These icebergs calve from glaciers in Greenland, catch the Labrador ocean current south and drift at about 1 to 2 miles per hour along the Labrador coast. Along the way, they run aground and break up or melt as they reach warmer climates during the summer months. They flow around Newfoundland’s Northern Peninsula to the east and west in two “Iceberg Alleys.”

When we landed on Battle Island, we were greeted by Mike Earle, the Resource Curator, who served as our very generous guide for the day. Mike proved to be a very charismatic, energetic and informative guide. As we looked out across the icebergs, he explained that the biggest iceberg in recorded history recently broke off of Greenland. It was about 22 miles wide and 52 miles long – about the size of Rhode Island. It has since broken up again so that the largest pieces are now a mere five miles long. It has been estimated that when this iceberg fell into the ocean, the level of all oceans in the world rose about one millimeter.

Mike Earle

A Battle Harbour brochure had informed us that some old cottages had been part of the renovation process and that visitors could stay overnight in these habitations. We found the Isaac Smith home of considerable interest because it is reputed to be the oldest wooden home in Labrador – and we could spend the night there for only $100 Canadian – about $65 US. The house is lit by old lamps and heated by a wood-burning, kitchen stove. A bunkhouse and inn also provide rooms for overnight guests, so we did not make reservations. Luckily, all of these facilities were available for the night when we arrived. When Mike showed us the Smith house – we were smitten.

Isaac Smith's Kitchen

He showed us the kitchen window that was still unpainted after new panes had been installed this spring. Seems that a hungry, 700-pound Polar Bear broke the window with its paw during the winter when looking for food on the island. Because of a warm winter, the ice in the Labrador Sea broke up earlier so that the Polar Bear was having little success capturing seals. Although Battle Harbour is uninhabited during winter, a couple of seal hunters happened by and tried to land at the dock. The Polar Bear would not let them land so, in their words, they “fired some rounds into the air to scare it.” Mike claimed that it is illegal to kill Polar Bears in Canada. But a short time later, he found the bear a short distance away in the cemetery. It was dead and the cause of death was bullets. When the game warden asked Mike who shot the bear, Mike would not tell them. “If you rat on your friends, you may get a bullet in the back of your head,” he said.

Other than the fact that the Smith Home is occasionally visited by Polar Bears, it is a truly charming, small, two-story structure that will sleep six, and is decorated according to the tastes of the old days. We were treated to a dinner at the inn featuring locally caught, crowberry-smoked salmon that was absolutely delicious. A fire was glowing in the kitchen stove when we took occupancy in the evening. We wander around the house, admiring the handiwork, lit the lamps, took a shower and went to bed. Temperatures reached about F 50 during the night, but warm blankets kept us snug so that it was not necessary to stoke the fire all night. In the morning, I popped out of bed and built a fire that soon had the little house reasonably warm.

Battle Harbour Inn

As I hiked the tundra-covered hills in the early morning sunlight, I watched the parade of icebergs and noticed the distance they had moved since last night. Way up north on the horizon, two new, giant icebergs – that were not visibly last evening – were rounding a point. An American Pipit, somewhat alarmed that I was maybe too near its nest, moved so close that I could identify the insect in its beak as a Crane Fly. Savannah Sparrows showed off their yellow faces. The sun warmed my body and the scenery warmed my spirits.

When the boat arrived in the morning, it brought a group of Dutch Air Force pilots who are training at the old American Air Base in Goose Bay, Labrador. They spent the day on the rocks on the southern and northern ends of the island, taking photos of the whales.

In the evening, while strolling along the waterfront, I chatted with a fellow who identified himself as Victor Belben. He asked if we were interested in taking a boat trip around the harbor. He explained that he was a large-equipment operator from L’Anse-au-Loop and that his wife, Doreen, owned another old family home here in Battle Harbour, where Doreen had lived as a child. She explained that she is the great-great-granddaughter of Isaac Smith, who built the cottage where we were staying. Victor and Doreen visit the old home a few times each summer. We hopped in his boat and took a spin of the harbor and another neighboring harbor as the sun was setting. My offer to at least pay for gasoline was refused. Later, we visited their charming old home, chatted easily and probably overstayed our visit. Victor explained that he had been a fisherman and still owns a 40-foot boat. He said that when fishing for the scallop, the 1000-pound metal bar that scrapes the scallops off the ocean floor also destroys almost everything in its path – much like a bulldozer on land. Asked if he is better off now than when he was fishing, he replied, “Yes.”

The next morning, Victor asked if we were interested in taking a boat tour out to visit an iceberg. Pat was hesitant, but I was excited at the prospect. His small, open boat bobbed like a cork in the swells of the North Atlantic. The morning sun glistened bright white off the about 100-yard-long iceberg. The deep blue color of the densely-packed glacial ice was most obvious in a couple of layers and the ice immediately below the waterline was a bright green. We collected some pieces of glacial ice that had broken from the larger iceberg and then circled the berg – carefully keeping a safe distance from it.  Icebergs can be very dangerous when they crack and roll over. About 9/10 of the iceberg is underwater so that when they roll, they create considerable turbulence. We heard the loud cracks of the icebergs out in the sea several times from Battle Harbour. We were told that when a very large iceberg cracks, the sound can be so loud it will shake your teeth. Victor returned around the entire island, where we observed a group of about 25 Harp Seals.

The world is a better place with Victor Belben in it.

Iceberg

Many fishermen supplement their fishing income by hunting seals in the winter. Mike had previously explained that these seals eat lots of fish and compete with the fishermen. According to Mike, the seals eat much more fish than fishermen take, and the seals are very abundant. One might conclude that seals are vermin, much in need of eradication. He chided Bridget Bardot and others who spray-paint the fur of young seals to make them worthless to hunters. But, the image of hunters shooting and clubbing those cute, round-eyed, baby seals is very repulsive to folks who live in cities and eat only meat from animals killed by someone else. According to Victor, a seal pup is called a “white coat” and then matures into a “raggedy jacket” and then into a “beater.” Hunters are legally allowed to hunt raggedy jackets and beaters. Seal skins are currently bringing about $95 each. One hunter brought in 1800 seals and made a tidy sum of $171,000. No wonder that some locals are building large, two-car garage homes on the waterfront. Historically, seals were hunted for their oil, which was burned in lamps in Europe. A mature seal may yield 6 gallons of oil.

One factor that made our trip to Battle Island so great, was the fact that the weather was very good. We enjoyed relatively smooth seas on the boat ride to and from the harbor. We added the Black Guillemot to our life list of birds on the trip. The sun shone brightly and the air was very clear during most of our stay. We will remember the excitement of watching whales very close to shore, big and beautiful icebergs, staying in a historical fishing home and observing the very interesting and historical island fishery. But, maybe the vision I will most remember is the sight of the Dutch Air Force boys standing on rocks so close to the water that they were in some danger of being washed off by a large wave, thrusting their fists in the air with excitement when a whale surfaced and blew 10 or 20 feet from their feet. Or maybe the sight of Mike’s little dog, Lucky running down to the water’s edge when a whale surfaced – barking and growling as if he were going to attack, kill and eat a whale. These whales could probably swallow the dog in one gulp without even chewing.

One of our major disappointments on this trip to Battle Harbour was the fact that the batteries on my camera died on the second day and we had no replacements. We had not made plans to stay overnight on the island, so I thought my batteries would hold up for the trip. Anyway, when I tried to photograph the whales up close on the second day, the batteries died. I was nearly desperate to capture this action on film so I ran to the park offices and begged for some batteries. I would easily have paid double or triple the going rate, but nobody had any. At the time, we decided that taking the boat ride back to Mary’s Harbour just to buy batteries was out of the question. One of the native Inuit girl workers even checked all the drawers in her room but to no avail. Consequently, we got no photos of our boat ride with Victor Belben, the whales or other scenic photos. However, the photos that I got before the batteries died are now my prized possessions.

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Winds and Whales in Newfoundland

Winds and Whales of Newfoundland

June 27, 2002

Leaving the Cheeseman Provincial Park near the ferry landing in SW Newfoundland, we observed a sign that read: “RVs and Trailers take precautions, high winds next 20 km.” On the ferry from northern Nova Scotia the day before, the weather had been nearly perfect – sunny, light breeze and smooth seas. The weather was still mild the next morning, so we visited the Port aux Basques visitor’s center and watched a movie about things to do in Newfoundland. It seemed unlikely that the weather could change so quickly, but when we emerged from the movie, the wind had picked up and a mist fell against the windshield. As we traveled past the warning sign, the wind increased noticeably. We considered returning to the campground to wait for better driving conditions but decided to take a chance that the winds would not be dangerous. A few miles further, I was forced to slow the motorhome as it began to rock in the strong side-wind. The highway passed along the shores of the Gulf of St. Lawrence below the Long Range Mountains. Large patches of snow dotted areas near the 1500-foot top, where it had accumulated during the winter.



Then, the awning over the door began to rattle. Strong gusts caused the motorhome to wobble down the highway. Whitecaps on a small lake beside the road were shrouded in a cloud of mist blown from the lake’s surface. I pulled off the TCH (Trans Canada Highway) onto the shoulder to tie more straps onto the awning to keep it from blowing away. When I opened the side door of the motorhome, the wind caught the door and yanked me outside. Even standing still, the motorhome continued to sway in the wind. After attaching a couple of these straps on the awning arms, we resumed our journey. The straps helped subdue the rattling awning, but I feared the possibility that the motorhome might actually blow over. We passed a fifth wheel trailer home that had pulled onto the shoulder of the highway as a survival tactic. Luckily, a sign appeared that read: “RV Park.” We pulled into the park, turned off the engine and breathed a sigh of relief. The experience had been more adventure than we wanted and was not the best introduction to this remote and beautiful land.

After hooking up the motorhome to electricity and water, we took a drive in our car to explore the countryside. The winds were still strong enough to blow the Honda around a little, but we felt safe. Our “Bird-Finding Guide to Canada” suggested a hike up into the Long Range Mountains – an extension of the Appalachian Mountains of the Eastern USA – where we might find Connecticut Warblers. We hiked up the side to an overview of the Codroy River Valley through a stunted forest. I wondered if the forest was stunted by the high winds that continued to blow.

Back in the car, we continued explorations of the coastal area and happened upon the scenic port of Codroy. A sign at the port entry announced that a Beluga Whale has been seen in the port. In the history of Port Codroy, there is no recorded evidence of a visit by a Beluga Whale before this one. I scanned the harbor, saw no whale and decided that our chances of seeing a single whale were minimal. A middle-aged fisherman walked up to us and asked if we had seen the whale. “Just keep watching,” he said. “He is seldom gone for long. He associates with humans – their sounds and activities. The local kids play games with him like throwing sticks in the water and he will return them.” He helped us look for the whale for a few minutes, but to no avail. “Often, he follows the fishing boats in and out of the harbor, so he will likely return with the next boat.”

I asked the fisherman what he was catching, so he explained that he was catching mainly crabs. He asked about our vacation and I told him about the winds we had experienced. “Winds in that area have been known to blow over railroad cars,” he said. “They have been clocked at nearly 100 miles per hour. The railroad company once stationed a man on the top of Long Mountain to warn about these high winds. It is not unusual for freight trucks to blow over in these conditions.” I considered the possibility that I was hearing some kind of Newfoundland tall tale till I read the same story in a tourist pamphlet. My skepticism subsided. Certainly, the winds we faced in the motorhome maybe approached only half these extreme speeds, but I was very impressed and overjoyed that we had avoided the really high winds.

Spying a fishing boat that was approaching the harbor, we walked out toward the end of the dock for a better view. On the way, we met a couple of college-age girls who explained that they had been hired to watch over the whale and to document his activities. One carried a video camera to photograph whale activities. “We would prefer that folks do not feed the whale so that he will not become dependent on humans for food,” one said.

“Does that make you whale policewomen?” I asked

“I guess that describes us reasonably well,” one replied. They explained that today was their first day on the job and they had been attracted by seeing an article about the whale in a Canadian national newspaper.

As the boat entered the harbor, we got our first glimpse of the whale in the clear waters of the St. Lawrence Bay. He was following very closely behind the boat -- so close that he appeared in danger of being struck by the blades of the boat’s propeller. As the boat slowed, the little whale circled the harbor as if he was happy to be home. Scars from some encounter with boat propeller blades were clearly visible on his back. Then he headed for a green fishing boat that was loading ice into the hold. A crew member banged on the outside of the boat with his ice shovel and the whale surfaced almost instantly. Someone threw a couple of fish remains into the water and I wondered if they were intended as food for the whale, but they were ignored by the animated animal. By now there was a group of maybe 15 people standing on the dock and observing the whale. He seemed to intentionally perform for the group of us by circling and diving in the water near our feet.

Then we began to piece together a more complete story of the interesting animal. He was first noticed in the St. Paul’s River off the Gulf of St. Lawrence in Quebec – about 350 miles north of Port Codroy. In April of 2001, three young Belugas became attached to humans. They would even allow humans to touch them. The three became so well-known in the area that they were even named – Casper, Shadow, and Phantom. They had somehow become separated from the rest of the pod of whales that constituted their family and wandered 14 miles upriver where they became stranded. Poor Shadow and Phantom died, but human rescue efforts were successful in capturing Casper and returning him to the Gulf of St. Lawrence. In mid-April of 2002, Casper showed up far south in Codroy Harbor, where local kids renamed him Echo.

Now if it could be proved that the high winds of southwest Newfoundland somehow blew this little whale down the west coast of Newfoundland to Codroy Harbor, the two threads of this yarn could be tied together. Unfortunately, we know of no evidence that the wind blows whales or that whales blow wind. But, it was certainly fun watching this whale and we are happy that the winds did not blow us into the Gulf of St. Lawrence.

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Bear Attack -- A True Story

 

 Bear Attack -- A True Story

August 15, 1998 Bear Attack – A True Story 

It was a black bear, about the size of an average woman. I watched as it landed on top of a girl that we had just met a short time before. She had been hitchhiking along the road to Moraine Lake when we broke the rule: never pick up a hitchhiker. But she was a clean-cut, college girl and young folks hitchhike a lot in Canada -- especially in and near their National Parks. It actually made me feel good to give her a ride. She was a little late to her job in the Moraine Lodge Gift Shop and was very grateful for the ride. She chatted easily with us about her recent graduation from college in Ontario and about her job prospects. She would be looking for a teaching job in the fall. I asked if she would accept a job in a small Indian school in the Northwest Territories if it were offered. “Well, not really,” came her reply. “I would prefer to teach somewhere in Ontario.”

As she chatted, she had no way of knowing that she would soon be attacked by a bear. While watching the attack, defense tactics against bear attack flitted though my mind. The first rule is: do not run! The bear will think that you are prey and will be more likely to chase you. You cannot outrun a bear because some can run up to 40 miles per hour. But how do you run with a bear on your back anyway? To defend against black bears, it is sometimes recommended that you climb as high in a tree as possible and kick down at the bear as it climbs up after you. He may claw your legs a bit, but a few kicks in the snout may reduce his aggressive behavior. However, it is sorta hard to climb a tree if the bear is already on your back. If the bear attacking you is a grizzly, stand as tall as you can and talk softly. Do not look directly into his eyes. If it is clear that he is going to swat you, fall to the ground, form your body into a ball and place your hands over the back of your neck. The grizzly may bat you around, but at least he won’t eat you. At some point he will tire of the game and go look for some kind of meat that does not smell so bad. Some slightly mangled folks have been known to survive such an attack. A black bear may actually eat you! But back to the poor young teacher! If she had only been wearing a bell or making some noise, the bear might have heard her coming and left her alone. 

Bears usually prefer to avoid human contact. If they know you are coming, they will usually get out of your way. They are most dangerous along a noisy river where they cannot hear you coming -- especially if you happen upon them unannounced so that they are surprised. Alaskan wildlife experts suggest wearing bells when hiking so that a bear knows of your presence. You can buy assorted sizes of these bear repelling bells at the gift shop in Glacier National Park in Montana. However, in Banff National Park the question is asked, “How do you separate black bear scat (dung) from grizzly bear scat?” Maybe in jest the wildlife experts answer, “The grizzly bear scat has bells in it!” Running from a bear brings to mind the story about the two hikers who saw a large bear who had picked up their scent. Immediately, one of the hikers dropped his back pack and put on his running shoes. The other hiker said, "What are you doing that for? You know we can't outrun that bear." The other one replied, "I don't have to outrun the bear. I only have to outrun you." 

Grizzly bears are accustomed to dominating other species of animals -- they have no serious predators. They are top predators in the food chain and do not wish to be relegated to a position of second best. Therefore, if you invade his territory or he sees you as a competitor in his favorite berry patch, he may try to run you off or run you over. However, bears are less likely to attack if you are not alone -- like maybe you should invite the offensive and defensive linemen of the Green Bay Packers to hike with you. But once the bear has begun his attack, what do you do? Well, one guy who was attacked last week in Banff National Park got scratched and chewed up a little before he could retrieve a canister of fuel from his backpack. He whacked the bear on the nose a couple of times with this canister and the bear decided to leave him alone. He was found by a passing hiker and is now recovering in the hospital. But I digress. 

Here was this girl, bent way over under the weight of this bear on her back. The bear’s muzzle was pressed against the back of her neck. “Was she hurt?” I wondered. “What can I do to help without risking my own life? If she is badly injured, how will I attend her wounds?” The answers came quickly. Mustering her strength, she stood upright and somehow turned her body around so that she was facing the bear. Then she grabbed the animal under its front legs, lifted it up and placed it back up on the shelf from which it had fallen. It was now back at home with the other large, stuffed animals -- in perfect position to attack its next victim.

 

 

Never Summer Ranch Reunion

Never Summer Ranch Reunion


October 12, 1998

Never Summer Ranch

In the summer of 1966, the Charles and Esther Sterling family reunion was held at the then, privately owned, Never Summer Ranch in Colorado. Pat and I returned to this “Ranch” on October 10, 1998, 32 years after the reunion. We had no idea of what to expect and even wondered if our memories were correct about the name and location. To our pleasant surprise, not only were our memories correct about the name, but we also remembered the location. After driving across Trail Ridge Road of the Rocky Mountain National Park, we descended into the Kawuneeche Valley through which flow the headwaters of the Colorado River. The Never Summer Ranch is now a featured stop of tourists passing through the park. For a mere $1.04, a “Never Summer Ranch” brochure can be purchased from park visitor centers. This brochure explains the history of the ranch and the Holzwarth family that owned it. In 1972, John Holzwarth sold this old “Dude Ranch” to the Nature Conservancy. He stipulated that the land was to be preserved as open space for everyone to enjoy. It then became property of the Federal Government who sold it to the National Park Service.

A ½-mile walk west from the parking lot by Hwy. 34 led us to a bridge over a stream, where a sign informed us that we were about to cross the Colorado River. At this point, the landscape began to appear more familiar. An antique hay rake reminded me that this area had been a hay field in 1966. A broken-down, old, log corral stood on the right side of the road. A short distance further, we climbed up through a wooded area and there it was – the same cabins and buildings where our family had stayed 32 years ago. I instantly recognized the Louise cabin that had housed my sons Jimmy (4) and Brian (2), as well as Pat and me. Romance was in the air and Ellen was born almost exactly nine months later. A wood fire in the iron stove kept us warm in cool, mountain, nighttime air. Our whole family was large enough to occupy most of these cabins except maybe for the Mama cabin, which was the historical home of the Holzwarths. But today, Pat and I walked from cabin to cabin, trying to read the faded signs. Signs on the Louise, Rose, Columbine and Twin II cabins were still legible, but it was necessary to refer to the brochure for the names of the Twin I, Mama and Tivoli cabins. Most of these were rustic, but were otherwise comfortable log cabins with indoor plumbing. Outhouses were also provided at no extra charge.


As we walked around the homestead of the old ranch, Pat and I saw fresh elk droppings in the back by the Columbine Cabin. Snow on the roof of the cabin was melting and dripping into small pools under the eves. Then we began to hear the bugling sounds of bull elk. Bark stripped from the base of the aspens indicated that maybe there are too many elk for the available winter forage. Some elk were fairly close, but hidden by the woods. Then another bull would reply from further up the sides of the Never Summer Mountains. As we wandered around the camp, reminiscing about happenings during the reunion, the elk sounds came closer and closer. Finally, we saw four elk in the small stream that flows down from the mountain and provides water to the campground. Later we watched the elk begin to stream out of the woods into the old hay meadow east of the campground. Just for kicks, we began to count – 30 does and young and a couple of spike males. The bugling of the bull elk was coming closer. We continued watching until over 100 elk were counted. A young family with their kids, all on bikes, stopped to watch. Explaining that we had observed over 100 elk, I clarified the Aggie, elk counting method: “Simply count all their legs and divide by four.” We watched a bit longer as younger bulls came too close to the mammoth patriarch bull and were chased away from his very large harem. A little disappointed that there was no bloody fight between the bulls, we returned to the car. I can only imagine how excited our mother (the family naturalist) would have been to see such a sight.

We did not remember seeing any elk during the reunion in ‘66. At one point in time, all the elk were eradicated from the area and it was necessary to reintroduce them. I actually remember very little about the wildlife during our reunion. However, memories of hiking up into the mountains with Sue Cavanaugh (age 4) and her dad and a handful of other family members, are fairly clear. Sue was a hiking dude! She often led us all up and down the trail, never complaining. Pat stayed in the campground to take care of Jimmy and Brian. We had been told of a beaver pond where we could catch brown trout. I caught one small trout before they spooked – so we did not return to the campground empty-handed. However, that one small, brown trout was not big enough to feed one human, much less the whole family.


Pat remembers how the cooking chores were divided so that we could all eat together around the evening campfire in the Heacock tradition. Each family (wife) planned one evening meal and all the women would help prepare it. When her turn came, Pat cooked a pot of beef stew on a gas stove in the cabin and fixed a fruit salad. The area in the center of the campground -- in a low place to minimize the wind -- where the large community campfire roared, still serves the same purpose. Now the fireplace is surrounded by log benches and a couple of antique horse-drawn, snow sleds – large enough to haul hay and other supplies over the deep snows of a Colorado winter. Because this ranch is now part of the Rocky Mountain National Park and considered of considerable historical importance, the Colorado Historical Society has taken on the ranch renovations as a project. The “Mama” cabin has undergone considerable maintenance of the foundation and other structures. Many of the cabins have fairly new steps. The old, aboveground, electrical lines have been removed and placed underground. A great deal of maintenance work will be required to prevent the total decay of these buildings. “Staff members” now use some of these cabins for quarters during their stay in the area.

We cannot remember who all was in attendance at the reunion. We believe that the families of Bruce, Dorothy, Fanny, and maybe Scott and Ruth stayed overnight with us in Spur, Texas (east of Lubbock) where we were living at the time. Spur was a good overnight stop-off because it was on the way for folks coming from more eastern areas of the USA. Bruce had a large Ford van -- big enough for his family and our parents. It was an exciting time. We had folks sleeping in every room, on every bed, and spread out on the floor in sleeping bags. We talked excitedly about the route we would take and things we would do in the mountains of Colorado. It took a while for everyone to go to sleep so we could rest in preparation for the trip the next day.

One painful and vivid memory is that of my sister, Fanny, who explained her marital problems to some the adults gathered beside the beaver pond. They eventually lead to her divorce from Gene Leggett. It was a very sad time and we were all shocked. We also remember hiking in the mountains and finding wild strawberries. Pat collected a few and carried them back to the campground for Mama. Memories of driving the Trail Ridge Road through the National Park are also fairly vivid. It was our first introduction to alpine tundra and concepts such as a “tree line.” Snow could still be found there even though it was midsummer. We thought that the snow drifts must be glaciers.

Steven Leggett remembers:

“I'm afraid I don't have many memories of '66. My Aggie calculator reveals that I was only 5.

I do remember that I had a hard time adjusting to my poor depth perception in Colorado. I had to be continually reminded not to walk off the mountain.  Through the eyes of a five year old, I remember a big highlight being some kind of wheel barrow. Seems like an awful long way to travel for this kind of entertainment. However, the naturalist must have kicked in too because I remember thinking how awesome the forest was and how cool the cabins were.  I couldn't believe that pine cones were everywhere and were free for the taking. I must have helped pick up several grocery bags full before I
realized how plentiful they were.

I guess this was the first trip of many that our family was only a foursome.  I really have to give Mom a lot of credit for standing up to the task.”

Scott Sterling remembers:

Joan, Terri and I had just completed 7 months of education in Hartford Conn. As I remember it Peggy had reservations in Colorado at the time that my classes had terminated. Joan, Terri and I headed for Colorado in our 1964 Valiant with all of our possessions. I remember that the Valiant could not navigate the mountains. Fourteen wheelers kept coming on my bumper and honking all the way up the mountain on my tail. There was no place for me to go except to stick to the highway.

We stayed with Peggy while we were there. I decided to go fishing for trout and I asked the Lady where we were staying where I could fish. She told me about some small lakes within walking distance so I set out to do some fishing. On the way I ran across an Elk doe that had attempted to jump a fence. Her front leg had gone between the top two wires of the barb wire fence and she had flipped over, entrapping her in the fence. When I came upon her she was dead. I proceeded on toward the fishing area when a doe elk jumped up about ten feet in front of me and nearly scared me to death. I ended up with about four trout which I had caught with worms and grasshoppers which I had caught in the area. They were the first trout I had ever caught or seen.

I remember taking a hike with Bruce by the canal which the Chinese had dug in the previous century. I also remember the singing by the fire at night with the girls leading the way. I also remember the divison of labor involved with the evening meal. The gals did the cooking and the men showed their appreciation with a huge appetite.

I have a picture of Mom and Dad by the wood heater in their cabin. It is still one of my favorite pictures of them.

John Sterling remembers:

“I did not attend the reunion at Never Summer Ranch. If I had been told the name of the place, maybe I would have come, even though I was supporting myself with the occasional poker games we had in college. Did I ever tell you about my escapades while I was roughnecking summers and at nights during the regular semesters? I have a few stories which might be of interest, even to an old Marine. A really cool French Padre who taught me French was sure I was on drugs until he found out I was working the morning tour (pronounced tower) on the McAllen Ranch (morning tour is the shift from 11 P.M. to 7 A.M. I'd race home, shower, then go to morning classes.) We became pretty good buddies after that because he had done the same to get through his university.

I really wish I had gone.”

Jimmy Sterling remembers:

“I remember waking from a nap in a cabin and running out the front door in a panic looking for my parents. One of my aunts (you know, those interchangeable adults who are somehow related to my parents) told me that my parents were sitting next to a pond down some trail. So I took off on this journey, and after a long trek (~50 yards?) through wolf/bear-infested forest,
I finally found them.

We have a photo of me and Lee with a rope! You know, a rope is just about the coolest thing that 2 kids can have.”

Karen Donsbach remembers tasting a bitter berry from a bush. She told the other kids that it was food. Then someone explained that the berries were poisonous. Karen did not sleep well that night -- wondering how much longer she had to live.

Interestingly, my father was 66 years old at the time of this reunion. Since I was only 30 years old, he seemed like a very old man. Now, I am 62 and realize that he was not so old after all.



Family members in attendance:

Charles Sterling
Esther Sterling
Bruce Sterling
Beebe Sterling
Michael Bruce Sterling
Amy Sterling
Joyce Sterling
Lee Sterling
Dorothy Cavanaugh
Gene Cavanaugh
Charles Cavanaugh
Karen Cavanaugh
Sue Cavanaugh
Rebecca Cavanaugh
Peggy Miller
Sonny Miller
Diana Miller
Sterling Miller
Fanny (Leggett) Ross
John Leggett
Steven Leggett
Mark Leggett
Winfield Sterling
Pat Sterling
Jimmy Sterling
Brian Sterling
Scott Sterling
Joan Sterling
Terri Sterling
Ruth Sterling

Winfield

Table of Contents:  https://www.blogger.com/blog/post/edit/6813612681836200616/7126962018240362108?hl=en

Bad Day in Mexico

Bad Day in Mexico

March 19, 2002

Mexican Police

I woke feeling some sense of dread. We were on our way from Palenque to San Miguel de Allende and had stayed a couple of nights at Cholula. From Cholula to San Miguel de Allende, the most expedient route would take us on the northeast loop around Mexico City – much closer to the City than I really wished to travel. We have heard horror stories about folks caught in Mexico City traffic, robbed and worse.

It is a well-known fact that Mexico City has a very serious smog problem. To help resolve this problem, the city fathers have instituted somewhat draconian measures to reduce the air pollution. Automobiles are allowed to drive only six days per week. This law is enforced based on the last number on the license plate. For example, if the last number is a seven or eight, you are not allowed to drive on Tuesday. As you might guess, our license plate ended in an eight and it was Tuesday.

In the RV park in Cholula, I chatted with other RVers who thought that the Mexico City law does not apply on the bypass. We decided that it would take hours longer on hilly and narrow roads to take another, much longer route around Mexico City. We would take a chance on the bypass. Our experience has suggested that most of the horror stories we had heard about Mexico have been greatly exaggerated. We had heard many stories of cops inventing traffic violations to foist on unsuspecting tourists, but most all the cops we had met were friendly, courteous and helpful.

The trip from Puebla to Mexico City was easy on the broad, smooth cuota (toll) road. The views of Popocatepetl and the snow-capped Ixtaccihuatl volcanos in the morning sun were excellent, once we climbed up out of the haze of the Puebla area. But as we exited the toll road for the bypass, a cop standing in the middle of the three-lane road, blew his whistle and motioned us over to the side of the road. Three cops came to the door, smiled and said, “Buenos dias.” I replied with the same, but something told me that I was not being pulled over for a friendly chat.

Two cops stayed outside while the youngest came inside and sat down. “You are driving illegally because your license plate ends in an eight," he explained. Unsure that I had understood, he invited me outside and pointed to my license plate and the number 8. I understood.

“But,” I protested, “we are not in Mexico City and the law does not apply here.” He quickly dug out a Mexico City law book where he pointed out that the law did apply here.

“We are in the Los Reyes barrio and this law includes Los Reyes. You must pay the multa (fine) or your motorhome will be confiscated.”

By now, I was fairly well resigned to the fact that I had actually broken the law, so I asked the amount of the multa. He opened the book to another page and showed me that the fine was a fraction of your daily salary for 52 days.

“But I have no salary,” I protested, “I am retired.”

“Then the fraction of your salary will be the minimum -- 120 pesos per day,” he said. A quick calculation showed that I owed 6,240 pesos or about $600.

I laughed a loud, but nervous, laugh. “This is loco,” I complained.

“Si,” he admitted, “but you must pay.”

“But, I don’t carry that much money on me.”

“How much do you have?”

“About 600 pesos.”

My friendly policeman shook his head. “Not enough.”

“How much is enough?” I asked.

He pointed his index finger to the sky and placed his other index finger across the first finger to make a cross. I remembered from somewhere that this meant half, so I assumed that he meant half of the $600. At this point, I was somewhat relieved. It appeared that the fine was negotiable and the risk that they would impound my motorhome was less likely if we could come to an agreement. Then I remembered that squirreled away in the recesses of our motorhome, we had some US dollars. “Will you take US dollars?” I asked.

A smile broke out on his face and I knew the answer.

I dug out the dollars and counted out a combination of pesos and dollars worth $213. He accepted them very readily and I quickly realized that I could have bargained the fine even lower. “How do I know that policia from other barrios on the bypass won’t fine me again and again for the same offense?” I asked.

“I will write you a note of permission. Show it to the other police and they will let you go.”

“How can I believe that this is true?” I asked.

He made the sign of the cross and said something like, “On my mother’s grave and God will punish me if I lie.”

By now Pat and I were feeling very bad about the whole deal. We knew we still had a very hard drive around the bypass and we were very unsure that the permission note was of any value in other barrios on the bypass. We really hated giving up $213 bucks that could have been spent on good food, RV sites, and other necessities. The three cops smiled and shook my hand. “Well, at least they were nice about it,” I thought. But the fact that I did not receive a ticket, the fine was negotiable and there was no evidence that money had exchanged hands, made me very suspicious of the whole deal. If the law was truly on their side, why would they negotiate? Why not automatically confiscate my motorhome and release it only when I paid the whole $600?

We drove through the heavy traffic for a while and caught up with a caravan of RVers from the USA and Canada. At a critical intersection, they stopped to pull into a Pemex station – tying up the traffic for a while in the process. I thought they might help lead us through some critical intersections, but decided that maybe we could find our way just as well as they could, so we left them. By now, we were feeling a little better about our ability to navigate in the heavy traffic and with the confusing signs. After maybe an hour and half on the bypass, we turned north into the barrio of Coacalco. There, on the side of the highway was another policeman – motioning me over to the side. Our hearts sank! I whipped out the permit obtained from the previous policeman. “That is no good in our barrio,” he claimed. “You will have to pay the multa or we will confiscate your motorhome.”

Two of the cops climbed in our motorhome and instructed me to drive ahead. They carried hand-held radios and talked into them frequently. “Stop here by the curb,” one said. Now there were four policemen. One, apparently the jefe (boss), sat inside a small business building. All deals had to be approved by him. But he refused to deal with me.

I explained that due to the fact that I had just paid a fine, I had no more money. However, I really thought that they probably had the law on their side and that I would pay one way or the other. I suggested that I might go to a bank and obtain some cash. “How much will the multa be?”

I asked the same question to three different cops standing around and received answers ranging from $400 to $120. Now, something seemed really fishy. They had not cited the law, fidgeted a great deal and seemed in a hurry to make a deal. I decided to take another tack. If they were in a hurry, I would be very patient.

One suggested that for $120, he would travel with us through the remaining barrios to protect us from any additional fines and that he could also guide us through the tricky route. I told him that $120 was too high. Our negotiations continued on and on and it was apparent the cops were becoming a little agitated concerning the time we were taking.

Yes, we would be late arriving at our campground, but this was beginning to be fun. I felt that I was somehow gaining the upper hand. Then I remembered what might be my “trump card.” A Canadian lady had sold me a Mexican Tourist form to use if I suspected a police rip-off. So I got the form and asked the subordinate jefe (cop boss) his name. I explained that we would have to fill out this form before I could pay any fine. It required that the offense is spelled out clearly and included a place for the cop’s signature. I pulled the digital camera from my pocket and explained that I would need his photo and much other information that the form requested.

The belligerent expression that he had been using changed quickly. He huddled with the other cops and the decision came quickly. “You are free to go,” he said. Now all the policemen smiled and shook my hand and bade me farewell. Those who had, only a few minutes before, threatened me with the confiscation of my motorhome and possible jail time, were now my good friends. There could have been no stronger admission of their guilt in trying to rip me off. I thought about taking their photos anyway and submitting the form to the Mexican Tourist Conciliation Department in hopes of getting some revenge but decided not to push my luck. Also, we still had several more barrios to pass through before reaching the safety of the countryside. The cop who had first suggested guiding us through the remaining barrios for $120 reduced his fee to $30 – I refused.

By now it was very late in the afternoon and I was tired of driving and negotiating. I obtained permission from the Pemex Station manager across the street to spend the night in his parking lot. We would continue our journey through the other barrios tomorrow when we could travel legally. We walked to a local mall where we obtained some pesos from a bank, read our email and went to see the movie “Un Mente Brillante” (A Beautiful Mind). Presented in English with Spanish subtitles, it was a solid four-star movie!

But our experiences of the day had shaken our confidence. This day had clearly met our definition of a “bad day.” Even during the movie, we both worried about the safety of the motorhome and its contents. Would the bikes still be there when we returned? Folks on the street seemed to have more threatening expressions. Then I realized that we had stopped being friendly and had maybe treated them with suspicion. We forced ourselves to be more friendly and sure enough, many responded in kind.

During the evening, a storm blew through Mexico City that produced about 10% rain and 90% dust. The rain was just enough to cause the dust to stick to our vehicles. The windows to our motorhome were open to combat the heat, so gritty, street dust blew in and covered everything before we could close the windows. That night, several tired truck and bus drivers parked their noisy rigs near us. Because of the day’s events, neither Pat nor I slept well. About 4:00 A.M. somebody knocked on the doors of the trucks and buses to wake the drivers and in the process, woke us too. By 4:30, most of the vehicles were gone. Since I was not sleeping anyway, maybe we could beat some of the rush-hour traffic by leaving early. The traffic at 6:00 A.M. was already heavy and it took us about an hour to escape the metropolitan area. We passed several policemen directing traffic on busy street corners, who scarcely gave us a second look. When we reached the toll highway 57 to Queretaro, I was fairly confident that we would no longer be stopped on some trumped-up charge.

Once out of town, we stopped, took and well-needed nap and ground some tasty, medium-roasted, shade-grown, Mexican coffee sold by “My Grandfather’s Coffee Company” of Cholula. We had escaped the choking city smog, the choking traffic and the choking atmosphere of Mexico City. As the caffeine from Grandfather’s Coffee began to work, the sky turned blue, the morning sun warmed our beleaguered bodies and we began to regain our sense of adventure. Our feeling of being victims of sleazy cops began to fade. But there was also a renewed awareness that in this warm Mexican culture, there are rogues -- just as there are in any other culture.

With our bad day behind us, we could begin to remember the many good days spent in Mexico and to anticipate having many more good ones in the future. But now I have concrete evidence that bandidos still operate in Mexico -- unfortunately, some wear policemen’s uniforms.

 

The objective was to minimize air pollution

This program started "in the late 1980s in Mexico City, which was at the time suffering from extreme air pollution caused by cars driven by its 18 million residents. The city government responded with Hoy No Circula, a law designed to reduce car pollution by removing 20 percent of the cars (determined by the last digits of license plates) from the roads every day during the winter when air pollution was at its worst. Oddly, though, removing those cars from the roads did not improve air quality in Mexico City. In fact, it made it worse.

Come to find out, people’s needs do not change as a result of a simple government decree. The residents of Mexico City might well have wanted better air for their city, but they also needed to get to work and school. They reacted to the ban in ways the rule-makers neither intended nor foresaw.

Some people carpooled or took public transportation, which was the actual intent of the law. Others, however, took taxis, and the average taxi at the time gave off more pollution than the average car. Another group of people ended up undermining the law’s intent more significantly. That group bought second cars, which of course came with different license plate numbers, and drove those cars on the one day a week they were prohibited from driving their regular cars. What kind of cars did they buy? The cheapest running vehicles they could find, vehicles that belched pollution into the city at a rate far higher than the cars they were not permitted to drive."

https://fee.org/articles/the-cobra-effect-lessons-in-unintended-consequences/

Table of Contents: https://www.blogger.com/blog/post/edit/6813612681836200616/3382423676443906063?hl=en