Roberto's Nigasoota

Roberto's Nigasoota

January 14, 2001

Roberto Garcia was a wetback.  We were both about 10 years old when I first met him – sometime about 1946. His father, Juan, worked for my father on the Reising-Sterling Ranch west of Edinburg, Texas.  For the next few years, Roberto was probably my closest companion.  I felt comfortable in his company, maybe because we shared similar personalities and interests.  Neither of us exhibited a particular fondness for school and much preferred to be hunting than imprisoned in some classroom.  Roberto exuded a calm, friendly and fairly confident demeanor.  I feel certain that I learned more from Roberto than he learned from me.  Likely, he picked up some words in English from me, but I don’t remember any great problem with communication.  I knew some Spanish (mostly cuss words) and Roberto knew some English and what we could not communicate with hand signs must not have been all that important.

Roberto was also a hunter.  I likely learned more hunting skills from Roberto than I did the rest of my life.  He taught me by example.  He explained that in Mexico, hunting was a very important source of food.  Often, the only meat on the table came from hunting.  He had a very keen eye, had a fairly clear understanding of animal behavior and was a great shot.  His weapon used, and about the only one he could afford, was what was commonly called a “nigger shooter”-- pronounced something like “nigasoota.”  "Resortera" was the name most frequently used in Mexico.

Roberto’s nigasoota was a work of art.  He invested greatly in the selection of materials and craftsmanship.  Maybe the most important component was the selection of rubber.  Not just any kind of rubber was suitable.  The old inner tube must be made of red rubber that had the appropriate elastic properties.  It must not be too old, or cracks would appear in the rubber causing it to weaken rapidly when used.  In about 1946, there was a shortage of real red rubber because WWII interfered with rubber production in Southeast Asia.  That awful, black, synthetic rubber was plentiful, but it lacked the elastic punch needed for a quality nigasoota.  I really don’t remember the source of the red rubber inner tubes that we used, but likely Roberto searched mightily among the local tire companies in Edinburg for a prize specimen.  Of course, Roberto’s family was poor – though fairly rich compared to his friends who remained back in Mexico – so quality scissors were in short supply.  To cut the rubber bands for a quality nigasoota required a sharp pair of scissors.  Any small nick along the edges of the rubber bands, or if the bandwidth was not maintained within certain limits, a weakness resulted that was certain to be the place the band would break.  There were few greater frustrations than to have a nigasoota fail during a critical phase of the hunt.  A good hunter required a quality weapon and Roberto knew how to make them.  Anyway, Roberto could use a sharp knife to cut the bands, but a sharp pair of scissors was better.  The best scissors in the neighborhood could be found in my mother’s sewing basket.  However, they did not remain the best for long, because cutting rubber was not conducive to maintaining a sharp edge on the scissors.  “Winfield, have you been using my scissors again?” Mom would complain.  

“Well, maybe a little,” I might reply.  My mom did not believe in punishment so a new pair of scissors would appear in her basket and the process repeated.  After all, what was more important, a quality nigasoota or a sharp pair of scissors for cutting cloth?  

Roberto was also amazingly skilled at cutting the rubber band sized strips of rubber needed for wrapping the two large rubber strips to the wooden stalk.  He could cut and wrap these strips so that they were comparable in esthetic appearance to the precision needlework of my Aunt Augusta.

Next came the leather rock holder.  The soft, malleable leather from a tongue of leather boots was best.  There always seemed to be a shortage of such leather, but we managed.  When my older brother, Bruce came home from the Army and asked who had cut the tongues out of his favorite pair of boots, I could not admit to the crime.  I think maybe he blamed my younger brother, Scott.  I had experienced his wrath as a younger boy and found lying much easier than whippings.  God and Jesus would just have to understand.  

Roberto was also consistent when cutting the leather rock holder.   Cut the two holes too close to the edge and they would break.  Make the holder too large and it would be noisy when shot so that birds would hear it and fly before the missile reached them.  Make it too small and it would not hold as many rock sizes.  The shape was also critical. Not square or pointed, but oblong with equilateral sides.  Best done by first cutting a rectangular piece, then bending it in the middle so that the two sides and the end were cut simultaneously.  The symmetry of Roberto’s rock holders were near perfection.  They were strong, durable and aerodynamic, but supple enough so that the rock inside could be felt, held and released with precision.  The rough side of the leather formed the inside of the holder, which held the rock, and the slick side was held by the fingers.  When launching the rock, it was best to aim carefully and gradually release the grip on the holder, so that the rock was launched as smoothly as possible.  This ensured the greatest accuracy.  But snap shooting was most common.

The stock was selected with great care.  Usually, mesquite was chosen because the limbs in a fork often formed a more perfect V-shape than other types of wood available to us.  This gave the nigasoota a near perfect balance.  Considerable attention was given to stripping the bark and whittling the two arms and the handle to precise lengths.  Too long and the handle would be unwieldy; too short and it would not fit the hand.  The main problem with mesquite was that when it dried, it tended to split.  

Size and shape of ammunition was critical.  Almost all rocks curve when shot and, unlike a baseball, the direction of the curve is unpredictable.  A rock with a flat side or projections will curve excessively when shot and almost never hit the target.  Rocks which approached the shape of a marble were the most accurate.  In the sandy country west of Edinburg, there were few rocks from natural sources.  The primary source of rocks was from gravel roads.  However, some of the best rocks were obtained from those used to mix with cement for building concrete structures.  Often these rocks were obtained from old river beds, where the rocks had been bounced down rocky creek beds during floods so that the rough edges had been worn off.  Of course, the best ammunition was marbles or ball bearings, but who could afford those?  We spend hours on our hands and knees selecting only the best rocks.  If we were lucky, we left for a hunt with a plentiful supply of free ammunition.  The pockets in our Levis would bulge with ammunition so that some days the outside of my upper leg would become sore from the weight of all those rocks scraping on tender, very white, skin.  (Skin color was most apparent when we swam naked in the canals.  We never talked about swimming naked, it was just the way swimming was done.  No girls were ever invited – at least at that age.  I was a little shocked one day when my Dad caught us swimming in the big canal.  With little hesitation, he also shed his clothes and joined us.  It was neat!)  Anyway, the Garcia boys had this beautiful, brown skin and mine was almost snow white and covered with freckles.  “Aye, que pecoso” (how freckled) they would say in jest.  “Bolillo” was another term applied to us gringos because our skin was as white as the white bolillo bread they ate.  My nose was always red and peeling and Roberto could go most of the day without a hat and not burn.  Life was just not fair!

For me, hunting was mostly just for fun.  However, it sometimes provided a little meat for my dogs (Thunderhead, Lady and Little Lady).  But when hunting with Roberto, the doves, quail, rabbits, grackles, redwings and meadowlarks we killed often found their way into Mrs. Garcia’s stews.  My mouth still waters when I think of her stews.  The combination of wild game, potatoes, tomatoes, chiles, garlic, salt, and pepper scooped up with fresh, rolled up flour tortillas was one of my childhood joys. Cooking over the raised fireplace in the kitchen in the small, three-room brick home that the Ranch provided to its workers, added the tantalizing aroma of mesquite smoke.  The attention of Roberto’s pretty, dark-eyed sister, Rebecca did not detract from the experience. There were incentives to be proficient with our weapons.  

Hunters

To bring home the most meat, it was wise to think like a hawk or coyote.  Take easy prey!  A whitewing dove on the nest made an easy target.  Low-flying whitewings in large flocks could sometimes be shot out of the air.  Mourning doves in large groups feeding around the silage troughs during winter were susceptible to a large bouncing rock.  A bobwhite quail flushed into an ebony tree could be approached more closely than one on the ground.  A sound made to simulate a baby red-winged blackbird in distress would bring the adults within easy range.  Wildlife conservation was not a high priority.

But our nigasootas were not used exclusively for hunting.  We spent many hours engaged in shooting contests.  The favorite was to see who could break the most bottles tossed into the air. The thunk sound of a rock hitting a tin can and seeing it change it downward trajectory was also very satisfying.  But going to war with nigasootas was the greatest challenge.  Chinaberries were used as ammunition because they would not kill or usually maim a human.  But they really hurt!  We divided into gangs: the Ageila negras (Black eagles) and the Calaveras (those who lead a wild life).  When on the attack, the opponent could be intimidated if the aggressor yelled “ageila negra” at the top of his voice.  But to claim that this was a harmless adventure would be wrong.  Two of my brothers suffered life-long eye injuries to these little green berries of Chinese origin.  I shot lots of gringos and Mexicans with a nigasoota, but never once shot a single black person.  So why in the heck were they called nigger shooters?  I’ve been shot so often that maybe they  should be called “gringo shooters.”

Weighing Cotton

I have very fond memories of growing up with Roberto and his younger brother, Ruben.  (My mom called them the Black clouds for some unknown reason).  But, as luck would have it, our lives changed and became much more serious.  My dad thought I should become more useful, so every summer I worked with Leocadio, Bejamar, Benito, Charlie Reyes and others carrying irrigation pipes, rounding up crossbred cattle, shoveling silage or weighing cotton for $20 a week.  Rebecca turned 16 or so and to my great disappointment married one of the Reyes boys.  They had a great wedding under the mesquite, ebony and huisache trees at the ranch.  The blood pudding and cow brains were a little hard to take but they were served with white lace tablecloths.  The air was filled with accordion music and there was dancing on the packed earth. 

Wild Winfield

 

I graduated to BB guns and then 22 rifles for hunting.  School became somewhat more important.  The Reising Construction Company went bankrupt, which required that the Reising-Sterling Ranch be sold to pay off debts.  Roberto and his family moved to Washington to pick cherries.  

Now, after a life of near workaholic behavior, I have retired.  Maybe it is time to craft another of Roberto’s nigasootas and find some more Mexican friends.

 

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Peripateticis

Peripateticis

 

June 20, 1998

Peripateticis is an enjoyable disease -- an affliction that seems to take over the body and mind, leaving the patient with a diminished sense of individual responsibility for their actions.  When the human body is once contaminated, the victim’s mind becomes so confused that it begins to believe it is actually enjoying the sensation of being afflicted.  One of the major symptoms of peripateticis can be observed in the behavior of Australian Aborigines.  They may leave the responsibilities of their job and take off on a “walk-about.”  Even though they understand the need to work and to earn a living, they cannot seem to help themselves – they are compelled by some inner force to go for a walk in the Australian bush.  After a few days or weeks in the bush, they return to their jobs for a while before taking off again – much to the consternation of their employers.  They seem more interested in the irrational act of moving about than in the reasonable act of fulfilling the responsibilities of a job and earning income to support their families.

Interestingly, peripateticis is not known to reduce the longevity of afflicted humans.  As a matter of fact, some of the afflicted seem so happy that their life-span may even be longer than average.  No pathogen has yet been identified as the causal agent for the condition.  There is no known association with any auto-immunological dysfunctions or diseases such as cancer.  It is simply some perturbation of the mind that causes the patient to move about more than the average person.  The increased movement can take many forms.  It may take the form of an ambulatory locomotion such as walking or running.  It may also result in increased movement by a machine such as riding a bicycle, driving an automobile or excessive travels in a motorhome.  Long hikes on trails in forests and mountains, along the beach, and in parks is another common feature of the afflicted.  Persons with a particularly severe case of peripateticis have been known to even sell their homes and property to help finance their irrational behavior.

One of the symptoms exhibited by afflicted individuals is a sort of irrational “high” somewhat akin to a person on hallucinogenic drugs.  Sometimes on their walks or rides, they become euphoric and are known to sing, whistle or hum for no good reason.  

There is no known cure for this affliction.  Modern medicine has little interest in finding a cure because the afflicted have become so deluded that they actually believe that they are happy and healthy.  Consequently, they can see no reason to pay some medical professional to diagnose their malady.  These poor, deluded, souls actually do not wish to be cured! 

Another symptom of this “disease” is that the afflicted tend to make up medical terms and symptoms.  Sometimes they even write short stories to describe their real or imagined afflictions.  

Obviously, this is a very serious malady that affects millions of men, women, and children throughout the world.  As a consequence of this “disease,” folks are out having fun when they really should be working.  Thus, one purpose of this story is to expose the dangers of this dreaded “disease” so that the medical profession can begin to focus on a cure. Please help us find a cure for this affliction by sending your comments and your ATM Card and PIN numbers to: The Peripateticis Foundation, winsterling@earthlink.net.  Help make our civilization more productive!  Help us live up to our Puritan heritage and work ethic.  We promise to put the funds from this foundation to good use as we continue to travel about in searches of a cure.  

We have heard serious rumors that a cure for this “disease” may be found by drinking the water of a particular spring found in the rain forests along the coast of northwest Oregon or Washington state.  Even as you read this message, we will be conducting a tireless search of the Oregon Dunes National Recreation Area for such a spring.  If the cure is not found there, then we will continue our diligent search in Idaho, Montana, and the Rockies of Canada.  Many thanks, in advance, for your interest and your contributions to this worthwhile cause.

 

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Oregon and Tillamook

Oregon and Tillamook

 

June 28, 1998

Tillamook, Oregon claims the title of the “Milk Capital of Oregon.”  As we drove into town in the afternoon, we watched Holstein cows waddle down the path toward the milking barn, their udders so full of milk that walking was a struggle.  Cheese factories are chief attractions in the area.  Yesterday they celebrated the kickoff of the Tillamook Rodeo with a very long parade.  In a town of 4,000 citizens, it is possible to put on an extended parade by including practically everybody in town in the parade.  As spectators arranged their lawn chairs in their favorite, sunny, spots along the main street, young men in sandals played catch with a football – narrowly missing spectators as they lunged to catch a pass -- too close to the side of the street.  There was already a line in front of the hot dog stand.  A heavy-set man gobbled a large hot dog, covered with mustard at 10:30 on Saturday morning.  Then the long-awaited event began.  You know:  4-H kids with their dogs; Boy Scouts in uniform; the small, rag-tag, city band; a farmer leading a massive, red bull down the street; out of step dance-school kids; a shiny, tandem-trailer, milk tank truck; the 160 pound rodeo queen (she may have been chosen based on her ability to eat more cheese at one sitting than any of the other contestants); a Coast Guard truck, pulling a life-saving boat; a bunch of old Shiners playing like kids and driving little cars in circles; folks showing off their shiny, classic ‘55 Chevy; a fire engine; lots of folks on horses; etc.  The parade lasted at least 1 ½ hours and we watched the whole thing, mostly from a spot in front of a local restaurant that specializes in pancakes.  It was a pretty hokey show, but also very interesting.  Maybe you can get a feel for the character of a community by watching its parades.  Pat could not believe that I stayed for the whole thing.  

The town of Tillamook is located in a scenic, green, valley surrounded by 3,000-foot mountains.  The mountainsides are a patchwork of different ages of forest.  Recent cuttings leave brown scars with lots of stumps.  Sitka spruce, western hemlock, and western red cedar here are sliced up into lumber to build homes in Texas, Tokyo and elsewhere.  The Tillamook, Trask, and Wilson rivers run near town and flow into the wide, shallow, Tillamook Bay.  This bay is protected from the pounding surf by a large spit of land where one developer, in the early 1900's, decided to build a resort, complete with a large hotel.  Winter storms and huge waves wiped out the resort.  Now there are no buildings on the spit.

The scenery along the coast near Tillamook is very spectacular as viewed through this flat-land, Texan’s eyes.  The “Three Capes Scenic Drive” can be started from Tillamook.  It winds over a rocky cape, down into beaches and bays, then up into the next cape.  From high on Cape Meares, common murres (look much like a small penguin) can be observed roosting in large, dense colonies on the offshore rock islands, where predacious mammals cannot reach them.  We also watched a pair of peregrine falcons, teasing each other during their playful flight.  Pigeon guillemots, pelagic cormorants, Grant’s cormorants and western seagulls are also fairly abundant.  At the Oregon State Aquarium in Newport, OR, we had previously observed guillemots, tufted puffins and murres flying underwater in chase of fish and other sea creatures that they eat.  Crows and seagulls are the chief predators of baby murres.  Parent murres dare not leave their eggs or young unattended for long or the progeny will become breakfast, dinner or lunch for the predators.  Observed no ravens here.

From a trail on the cliff of Cape Meares, the Three Arch Rocks can be seen about 1 ½ miles offshore.  Like other such offshore islands, they are protected as Wildlife Preserves to help conserve tufted puffins and other sea and shorebirds.  These islands are referred to as arches because holes have been blasted through the base of each by the pounding waves.  Also, these capes are an excellent location for viewing the occasional grey whale.  Evidently, mother whales and their young move more slowly to their Alaskan, summer, feeding areas than males and females without young.  We finally learned how to identify grey whales by the lack of a dorsal fin and the knuckled appearance of the back that can often be seen before they take their last dive into the deep.  They usually take 2 small, short dives before they take the third, longer and deeper dive.  At the ocean floor, they scoop up a mouthful of sand and strain out the food critters using their baleen, brush-teeth.  Some even stay in Oregon waters throughout the summer and are referred to as residents.  By such a definition, Pat and I can now claim residency in Oregon because we have been here about three weeks.  

Cape Lookout is centrally located between the other two and is an Oregon State Park.  A 2 ½ mile hike leads to the western tip of the cape where Tillamook Head can be seen (on a clear day) 42 miles to the north and Cape Foulweather 39 miles to the south.  Further south is the third cape named Kiwanda.

The last two days, when we visited Cape Meares and Cape Lookout, the skies were clear and we could see great distances out into the Pacific Ocean and up and down the coast.  We try to imagine what it would be like here during the violent winter storms or when a tsunami tidal wave hits the coast.  But when you are sitting on a warm beach with the sun in your face, it is hard to imagine the violence that nature can inflict on these shores.  As a matter of fact, the homes overlooking this beautiful ocean in one of the small, coastal towns such as Oceanside, have really spectacular views of the ocean, bay, beach and three arch rocks from their picture windows.  Hang gliders leap off the high cliffs in the area and land on the beach far below.  Folks on sailboards can be seen skimming across the ocean, occasionally hitting a large wave and becoming airborne.  

“Could we live here?” I asked Pat.  “Not where the hillside is too steep or the home too high on the cliff overlooking the water,” she replied.  Oh well, we would probably get bored with the view after a few years anyway.  But just in case we change our minds, we picked up a brochure for “The Capes” housing development.

 

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Bruce, Oregon to Schulenburg

  Bruce, Oregon to Schulenburg

 

We left Schulenburg feeling the need to stay and help Arleen with brother Bruce and the farm.  But, not having seen Jimmy, Shenda, Auston, Kynwyn, and Brian since Ellen’s wedding, we were compelled toward California.  After California, Oregon and adding about 5000 miles on the motorhome speedometer, we have come full circle back in Schulenburg.  It was not exactly our dream trip.  Of course, it was great visiting the kids.  Jimmy talks of being financially able to take an early retirement someday, Shenda continues to wow the scientific/teaching community, Auston loves to read books, and Kynwyn can entertain herself for hours on the Macintosh which she shares with Auston.  Brian’s roommate is buying a home which may force Brian to do the same.  As you have guessed by now, our children, their spouses, and grandchildren are all beautiful, intelligent, and rich.  But, back to the trip, it was a much harder drive than we like.  We generally like to drive a couple of hours, then stop and explore for a few days.  On this particular trip, we drove almost every day except when we were at Jimmy’s or Brian’s.  On the drive back from Oregon we drove 5 long days.

In the back of our minds was the thought that Bruce was very unhappy at the nursing home in Schulenburg.  This concern was quickly put to rest when we received the even more devastating news that he had inoperable cancer of the pancreas.  Since he was unable to eat or hold food down, it seemed certain that he would not live very long and California was very far from Texas.   

 

But, we had another goal this summer - we intended to buy a Honda CRV in Oregon where there is no sales tax.  We began checking on the price of flights back to Texas and were amazed at the high costs of tickets, motels, car rentals, etc.  So we decided that since Bruce has been active and healthy all his life, he would probably not die easily or quickly.  Maybe we had time to drive to Oregon, buy a car and then drive back to Texas.  If we received the bad news out in the great American desert, we might miss the funeral.  But, what the heck - I despise funerals anyway.  Admitting this to Ellen on the phone, she was horrified.  “Failure to attend the funeral is not an option” she informed me.  “It is also a great chance to visit with your family,” she said.   Having been sternly rebuked, I could only manage a meek, and slightly insincere, OK.  Suddenly, I had visions of losing control of my life as my health declines in old age.  One day, Ellen will appear and say “Daddy, living at home is no longer an option, we have made arrangements for you to move to the nursing home - for your own good.  It is a very nice place ....”

We landed in Bend, OR where some friends, the Jennings, now live after retiring from A&M.  Twenty miles north-west of Bend we found an RV park complete with overnight telephone hookups and we began the search for a Honda.  We wanted a grey one to match the color of the motorhome.  But, after calling every Honda dealer in Oregon, the only car available was a green one and it could be sold at any time before we had a chance to see it.  Honda salesmen all over the state had the same story; “when we receive a shipment of CRVs they are often all sold the same day they arrive.”  The importance of having color-coordinated vehicles was quickly demoted on our list of priorities.  But, we checked the green color to see if it matched the green stripe on the motorhome anyway.  Not a perfect match, but what the heck, reverse snobbery is fashionable in some circles.  The brakes on the motorhome were given a severe testing as we crossed the Cascade Mountains and dropped several thousand feeds into the Willamette Valley.   

 

We were pleased that the green CRV was still available when we arrived in Corvallis.  We took it for a drive, fell “in love” with it, got a reasonable trade-in value for our old Suzuki, signed the papers, wrote a hot check, and left town.  We did not know that the check was hot till the next day when Pat found the error.  A quick call to Fidelity Investments and a quick electronic transfer of funds kept us out of jail.  It did not occur to me till later that they may hang both horse thieves and hot check writers in Oregon.        

Having read a review article about the CRV assured us that tow-bars and attachments were readily available.  However, because these vehicles are in great demand by motorhomers, a base-plate attachment was on back-order and would not be available for over 20 days.  Fearing that Bruce would not last 20 days, we decided to rent a U-Haul trailer for the car to be pulled by the motorhome.  But, it was Sunday and none of the U-Hauls were open so we decided that we could drive both the motorhome and the CRV separately till we could find an open U-Haul dealer.  We were facing a 2200 mile journey, starting up the Colombia River Gorge on I84, the old Oregon Trail.  Our mini-wagon train was running in the opposite direction taken by the early settlers.  Books On Tape kept us entertained as we kept rolling through The Dalles, Pendleton, and LaGrande.  Irrigated fields of potatoes and alfalfa in Western Oregon produce very large, fat insects that leave yellow globs of insect fat on our windshields.  Remembering the trite old expression that “they won’t have the guts to do that again” I realize that we have been murdering these poor defenseless bugs by the thousands without a hint of conscience.   Maybe, if we slowed down, we would kill fewer of them.  Then, using a rationale similar to that probably used by Hitler and Genghis Kahn, I reasoned that as long as I was killing a few, what is the difference if I kill a few more. The speedometer remained at 65 mph.  

In the rearview mirror, I watched Pat and the Honda to make sure they were not left at a red light or filling station.  Pat is an excellent driver and kept the CRV tucked in behind the RV at a safe distance but close enough so that when I forgot to flick off the turn signal, she could flash her lights to signal any error of my ways.  The drive through Utah, Colorado and New Mexico was fairly uneventful except for frequent stops at roadside parks for planning sessions and meals.  Nobody in Salt Lake City had any trailers for hauling automobiles so Pat kept on driving.  When we tired of traveling, we stopped at convenient RV parks for the night.

Leaving Lubbock, the dials and gauges on the dash of the motorhome began to fluctuate wildly and the diesel engine died.  I pulled off to the side of the highway to minimize the risk of being smashed by passing 16 wheelers, turned the key, and the diesel engine started up - no problem.  Rolling down the highway, outside temperature 95F turned on the air conditioner, and it died again.  Drove for a couple of hours to Abilene where the mechanic at the Freightliner Truck Shop cleaned the battery terminals and pronounced the problem solved.  It proved a partial fix, but we were able to limp on to Schulenburg where I hope the problem will go away.  But, to help along the natural healing process that motorhomes go through, I will provide some assistance by cleaning the alternator terminals and such.

Now we are parked on Bruce’s Pecan Farm under the shade of live oak, a post oak, and some yaupon trees.  The temperature outside is in the low 90's so the air conditioner works almost full time to keep us cool.  We had expected to spend the summer in and about Glacier National Park where blankets would be required every night.  Instead, we are back in “good old Texas”.

 

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Oregon Trail

Oregon Trail

 

July 27, 2000

Infection with Oregon Fever first struck when my younger sister Ruth decided she wanted to do the Oregon Trail.  “Good idea,” I said, “maybe we can do it too.  We can travel the entire Oregon Trail on our trip from Texas to the Heacock (my mother’s family) reunion in Oregon.  We will spend about a month traveling slowly from Independence, MO to Oregon City, OR -- visiting most of the museums, roadside signs, and historical spots that relate to the Oregon Trail.  And since we tow a 4-wheel, sport utility vehicle behind our motorhome, maybe we can even drive parts of the actual trail that is not maintained for automobiles.   We will leave Independence about the same time that the emigrants started their trip, to get a feel for how much grass was available for livestock and to experience the storms on the plains, the heat of the desert, the dust of the trail and the chill of the mountains.”

“Great,” Ruth said.  “But I don’t have an entire month that I can devote to the Oregon Trail.”

“Well, maybe you could meet us on the trail somewhere for a few days as you are driving to Oregon,” I suggested.

Later, Ruth decided to fly from Texas to the reunion in Oregon, so she was unable to travel with us.  But because we had now “caught the bug,” we took her idea and decided to do the one-month, intensive tour of the Oregon Trail.  As we began to plan the trip, Oregon Fever became more and more intense.  Later, I came to realize that maybe my fever was similar to the fever experienced by the emigrants when they were deciding to take their covered wagons 2000 miles across the “Great American Desert” to the Willamette Valley of Oregon.  Of course, their reasons for traveling to Oregon were much different from mine.  I wanted to soak up some of the histories of the Oregon Trail – to get some sense of their experiences – their joys, triumphs, difficulties and tragedies.

But first, it seemed important to understand why these emigrants were so willing to risk their lives on such a long, hard and dangerous trip.  There were probably as many reasons as emigrants – about 300,000 of them.  But free land in the fertile Willamette Valley was certainly one of the primary considerations.  Reports from French trappers, mountain men and missionaries indicated that the climate was mild and the soil was fertile.  Some even exaggerated a little when they claimed that “folks never even get sick in Oregon,” or “pigs that run around in Oregon are already cooked and ready to eat.”  But when Narcissa Whitman, a missionary’s wife, reported that they had made the trip to Oregon in a wagon, potential emigrants realized that it was not only possible to pull a wagon the entire 2000 miles, but that it was possible for women and children to make the trip.  The Rockies could be crossed at the South Pass by the Wind River Range and the rivers could be forded.  Now all the potential emigrant had to do was convince his wife that it was OK to sell the house and farm, buy a sturdy wagon and some oxen to pull it, obtain some supplies and head out for a 2000 mile hike.  Maybe, in some of the male-dominant families -- where the father figure had been sufficiently infected with the “Oregon Fever” – he simply instructed the family to get ready.  “We are going!”

Pat and Win Trail Simulation

So the rewards were great – if they could make it – and it was “doable” but dangerous.  One of the greatest fears of the emigrants was the threat of Indian attack.  But stories of Indian attack were often exaggerated.   Mostly the Indians only wished to trade something like a salmon for a shirt.  Some Indians served as guides across dangerous river crossings.  However, as the number of emigrants increased, especially with large, organized wagon trains, the Indians began to see a reduction in the abundance of wild animals along the trail.  A few trigger-happy Indians, emigrants, and soldiers began to sour relations so that it became increasingly dangerous to travel alone on the trail.  There were plenty of hazards to the emigrants.  Their graves lined the trail all the way to Oregon.  About one in ten humans died along the trail.  Mortality of oxen must have been much higher.  As often as not, the grave was dug directly in the trail so that it could not be detected by hungry wolves or Indians looking for a cheap scalp.

As they traveled, many emigrants kept diaries that provide fascinating reading.  Also, there are a plethora of good books written on this subject, so there is no need for me to repeat all these stories.  

Trail monuments dominated our trip.  There are two kinds of these monuments: the natural landmarks that helped guide the emigrants as they navigated the trail and the artificial ones like historical signs and museums.  The natural monuments can be very imposing – such as Chimney Rock and Scott’s Bluff in Western Nebraska or Independence Rock and Split Rock in Wyoming – then the Snake River in Idaho and the Blue Mountains, the Columbia River and Mt Hood in Oregon.  Having read about these and many other landmarks, it was great fun seeing and recognizing them as we traveled the highways that more or less parallel the trail.

However, we invested much more time in the artificial monuments because they were such a great source of information.  The newest is near Kearney, NE in central Nebraska, where its imposing structure is built like a large ranch gate over I-80.  It is actually a little startling when first seen while driving I-80, partly because it is so unusual to see such a large museum built up and over an Interstate highway.  Evidently, it was intentionally built this way so that it could not escape the attention of any driver, regardless of his/her state of driver’s fatigue.  Named the “Great River Road Archway Monument,” it represents not only a great river road and trails (Oregon, Mormon, Pony Express and Gold Rush) but the transcontinental Lincoln Highway and its history.  One might guess that it will become something of a major tourist attraction.  It certainly did an amazing job of telling the story, from Indian trails to Oregon Trail to modern highway. 

Win leading the bull

On the roads following the Oregon Trail, there are several excellent museums that can be recommended.  The National Frontier Trails Center in Independence, MO, Chimney Rock NHP (National Historic Park), the Fort Laramie NHP, Fort Bridger, WY, Fort Hall Replica in Pocatello, ID, The Oregon Trail Visitor’s Center in Baker City, OR (do not miss this one), The Whitman Mission NHS at Walla Walla, WA and the End of The Trail Center in Oregon City, OR are all worthy of an extended visit.  Most all of the rest stops along highways near the Oregon Trail, especially in the State of Oregon, have excellent displays of Oregon Trail history.  State Parks along the trail are frequently a good source of trail information.

As a tourist destination, Scott’s Bluff in Nebraska is certainly a favorite.  From the visitor’s center, one has the option of driving up to the top of the bluff on a paved road through a couple of tunnels and up the steep mountainside.  Or there is a paved trail to the top for the more adventurous.  The view from the top revealed the rugged landscape along the south side of the Platte River that caused the emigrants to take the detour around Scott’s Bluff.  Back to the east, it is possible to see Chimney Rock, where during a hike one morning, we heard and watched a family of Prairie Falcons.  Three young fledglings were scattered on a nearby cliff and were loudly encouraging their parents to bring more food.  Having seen Prairie Falcons only once before, we obtained excellent views of the “dirty armpits” used in part to recognize these beautiful and speedy birds.

Our trip was greatly enhanced by having obtained a copy of two books by Gregory Franzwa: “The Oregon Trail Revisited” and “Maps of the Oregon Trail.”  Depending on our mood, Gregory sometimes gave us much more information than our tired brains could handle.  But when we were fresh and eager, we could not get enough.  He guided us over some dirt and rock portions of the trail that should only be attempted in a high-clearance, 4-wheel drive vehicle.  We had some exciting moments when, 40 miles from nowhere, we were to forced stop and plan our route carefully over some really bad rocks.  We survived OK but later learned that a group of Mormons, who were recreating their historic trip across the same rocks, had lost about 100 tires to the sharp rocks.  

Being lost is not something that we will freely admit, but we once “became temporarily disoriented” when we guessed wrongly at an unmarked trail intersection.  When our trail ended at a high embankment of either Beaver Creek or the Sweetwater River, we ended our “detour” and headed back to find the correct trail.  Seeing a flock of rare Sage Grouse, which we added to our life list of birds, was one of the highlights of this particular day trip.  

It is possible to drive the Oregon Trail in a few days, but if you are interested in the details and the drama of this great migration in human history, one could invest an entire summer or more following the many alternate routes.  Although we spent a month on the trail, there were times when we felt the need to hurry so as not to miss the family reunion, consequently we missed some sights that we later regretted.  

After the reunion, we found the Applegate Trail through California.  Can there be such an affliction as Applegate fever?

 

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Oregon Swift Flight

Vaux's Swift Flight

September 9, 2001

The elementary school furnace had been turned off, so children sat in their classrooms wearing winter clothing to stay warm.  A scene from an underdeveloped country?  No, this event takes place every spring and fall in the Chapman School in Portland, Oregon.  Why?  Because the school administration and the kids realize that if they ignite the furnace to warm the building, hundreds or maybe thousands of birds roosting in the furnace chimney might be killed.  

It is one of the most spectacular bird displays we have seen.  Vaux’s Swifts spend the summer near the coast of the northwest USA, British Columbia, Canada, and Alaska.  In September, they begin to collect in certain places before they make their major migration into Central America and Venezuela for the winter.  One of their major collection sites is at the Chapman School, where they roost at night in a single, large chimney.

Pat and I had read about this display of swifts from the Portland Audubon web site and decided to see it for ourselves.  We were instructed to arrive one hour before sunset.  A small crowd was already there when we arrived.  Most sat on blankets and some were picnicking.  A few were sharing a bottle of wine.  We chatted with the volunteers who provided brochures and detailed information about swift biology.  Then we sat on the grassy sidehill beside the school to observe the spectacle.  The weather was very mild, the sky was blue and Mt. St. Helens could be seen in the distance.  Kids played happily on the school ground below.  Before the first bird appeared, I felt a dog sniff the back of my shirt.  Then I felt a strange warmness spreading below my right shoulder.  “Pat,” I whispered, “did that dog pee on my back?”

“I can’t see anything,” she replied.

Then an embarrassed fellow came up behind me and said, “Sorry but my dog just wet your back.  I’ll be happy to pay the cleaning bill or something.”  

More amused than irritated, I replied, “Don’t worry about it.”  After all, the dog was just following his biological imperative.  His wolf ancestors marked their territories with urine and the instinct was probably genetically encoded in the little dog.  I muttered something about the dog not showing much respect to the visiting Texans, and we continued watching for swifts.

Soon the volunteer announced that he heard his first swift of the evening.  Scanning the sky with binoculars, I could see a couple of small, cigar-shaped, dark birds flying rapidly in the distance.  “They are one of the fastest birds in the world,” our volunteer claimed.  “They can fly over 100 mph when flying horizontally.”

Vaux’s Swifts

 

Then, something like a gathering storm, the numbers of swifts began to grow and grow.  From our distant vantage point, they gave the appearance of winged flecks of black pepper caught in a big Texas whirlwind -- some so high that they were mere moving specks.  Lower birds would sometimes fly at the tall chimney as if to enter and then veer away at the last moment.  Almost exactly at sundown, the first swifts began to enter the chimney.  A cheer arose from the crowd.  By now there were thousands of swifts, but they could not all enter the chimney at once, so out of the cloud of swifts, the ones nearer the chimney flew in a large circle and whirl-pooled down into the opening.  By now there were an estimated 10,000 birds circling overhead -- not a good time to be looking skyward with your mouth open.  We received three direct hits on our car parked one block away.  By late-September there may be as many as 40,000 birds in this cloud, all entering the same chimney where, by clinging to each other, they may form up to four birds deep on the wall.

Suddenly, a larger bird appeared.  It flew with rapid wingbeats, fast and straight toward the top of the chimney where the swifts were congregated.  It passed through the funneling birds, but somehow the swifts avoided the attack.  As best we could tell in the dim evening light, the attacking bird was a Merlin Falcon.  Its wide wing base and falcon shape were the identifying clues.  It circled up and around through the swifts, but never seemed to capture any.  But the behavior of the swifts changed.  They stopped entering the chimney except for an occasional one or two.  The falcon circled a couple more times, then disappeared.  The swifts, possibly now terrorized by the falcon, also did not return.  The thousands that remained outside the chimney must have found some other chimney for the night.

This show takes place almost every sundown in September as the swifts congregate.  Then, about October 1, the whole group flies together to Central America and Venezuela.  I don’t believe that the Merlin is an official actor in the drama every night, but who knows?  It was certainly a show-stopper!

These interesting little swifts weight only 2/3 ounce and live during daylight hours in the air.  While flying, they catch insects for food, mate, drink and build nests.  Only at night do they stop flying and cling to the walls of a chimney or old growth snag to get a well-needed rest.

It was really a great show!  So good that David Attenborough is coming to photograph this event for a forthcoming TV series titled: “Nature in the City.”  Thus, you may be able to see it on TV and judge its merits for yourselves.  It was even worth suffering a little humorous humiliation by receiving a little dog “scent.”  As you watch the presentation in front of your TV, you should be safe from some canine mistaking you for a fire plug or being bombed by swift droppings, so enjoy the show!

 

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New Mexico and Lucien Maxwell

Bigger than the King Ranch

January 11, 1999

“There’s a wildlife refuge on our way; wanna stop there?” Pat asked.  

“Sure,” I replied.  “We have plenty of time.  What can we expect to see?”

“Well, we have a chance to see a Prairie Falcon” my navigator/brochure-reader replied.

I was convinced.  We had been looking to find our first Prairie Falcon through much of the last year as we traveled through Alberta, Montana, Wyoming, Utah, Colorado and New Mexico.  Birds that we thought might be Prairie Falcons either were too far away or flew too fast for a positive identification.  We had been skunked!  Now was our chance to finally see this elusive bird.

The Maxwell National Wildlife Refuge is just a few miles off of I-25 south of Raton, NM.  After parking the motorhome in a parking lot where a sign read “Area closed to the public,” we drove the Honda to the refuge headquarters.  The refuge is not exactly a tourist mecca – only one other visitor had signed the registry that day.  “We would like to see a Prairie Falcon,” I told Jerry French, the refuge manager who met us.  

“Sorry,” he said.  “Prairie Falcons left for warmer climates a few weeks ago.  But look out on the ice of Lake 12.  Those two large black spots are bald eagles and that is a female Northern Harrier flying by.  Unfortunately, Lake 12 is closed to the public, but Lake 13 is open and you can see lots of birds there.  Eagles congregate here every winter.  How they communicate with each other, I don’t know.  But they seem to all show up at once.  The attraction on these playa lakes during the winter is coots.  As the lakes freeze over, the areas of open water become smaller and smaller.  Coots require a long run on the water to take off.  These small areas of open water are sometimes too small for coots to become airborne.  Bald eagles take advantage of this fact and are able to catch the coots fairly easily.  It is like eating chips out of a bowl.”

Trapped Coots

And sure enough, there were plenty of eagles on and between the three lakes of the preserve.  Before the day was over, we counted 18 adults and immatures.  Some of the eagles were standing on the ice eating something.  Several ravens surrounded each feeding eagle, ready to snatch a bite of the eagle crumbs.  Not wanting to spook the birds, we edged closer slowly to obtain a better view through our binoculars.  I really wanted to see the eagle strategy – how they attack and kill an icebound American Coot.  But these eagles were very wary of humans, and apparently detected our movements with their eagle eyes.  They suddenly flew away to some neighboring trees where they could keep an eye on us.  After the eagles had flown, we could see little harm in moving closer to the area where the eagles had been feeding.  Nearby there was a small area of open water containing about 50 very nervous coots.  They would swim to the edge of the open water and a few would climb out on the ice.  Then they would quickly jump back into the water.  They performed this ritual several times until suddenly one brave coot decided the “coast was clear” and took off across the ice -- maybe one hundred yards -- to a larger area of open water.  Now, most of the other coots and one stray Canada Goose decided to follow.  Their feet slipped on the ice as they flapped their wings.  They moved fairly rapidly, but could not gain enough speed to become airborne.  They would have been “sitting ducks” for the eagles when out on the ice.  Not able to fly or dive, their movements were one dimensional and posed easy game for eagles.  But the eagles would not attack because we were too close.  Unwittingly, we had interfered in a natural process of predation and had allowed these coots, and the Canada Goose -- who seemed to think he was a coot -- to escape the eagle trap.  Our consciences were salved somewhat by the fact that about 10 coots were too “chicken” to brave the ice and remained in the eagle trap, where some of them would likely become eagle breakfast tomorrow.  The others had made it to the relative safety of more open water, where their defensive strategies could include either diving or flying to escape the sharp claws and beaks of hungry eagles.

On the nearby ice, we could see several areas colored grey with coot feathers and the red of their spilled blood.  Although we are not eagle experts, the eagles in this refuge appeared to be particularly well satiated.  

Coots are not favorite game birds for duck hunters, so few tears are wasted when eagles eat a few of them.  However, if eagles were as successful against mallards, pintails or shovelers, duck hunter associations might lobby to have the eagles “removed.”

Bald Eagles also congregate on Maxwell’s lakes to feast on released Rainbow Trout which are uneducated about the threat of hungry eagles.  As many as 62 eagles have been counted at one time. 

The Maxwell Wildlife Refuge is part of the chain of 2,996 Waterfowl Protection Areas in the USA.  Most are located in the pothole areas of the Dakotas, Minnesota, and Montana.  The purchase of duck stamps by duck hunters provide much of the funding for the purchase and maintenance of these areas.  But superficially, it would seem that the managers of such areas face a dilemma.  What is more important, the protection of all wildlife on the refuge or the production of ducks?  In one sense, these wildlife refuges function as duck farms for duck hunters.  Certainly, these refuges have played a very important role in the conservation of ducks in the USA.  However, one can only imagine the pressure that is likely exerted on the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service to produce more and more ducks for hunters.  Production of duck meat for diurnal raptors such as eagles might not be viewed by duck and goose hunters as a legitimate objective of these refuges.

Employees of Maxwell Wildlife Refuge are not just policemen who protect game animals from poachers.  They are also farmers.  Corn is grown on the refuge for migrating and resident waterfowl.  We observed about 150 sandhill cranes, a few jillion geese and various ducks feeding in the corn fields that had been planted, irrigated and maintained by refuge employees.  Volunteers do not play a big role here – “they prefer not to sit on a dusty tractor,” claimed Jerry French.

Perhaps one of the most interesting aspects of the Maxwell Refuge is the history associated with its name.  The refuge land was once part of a single ranch that contained 1,714,764 acres – larger than the King Ranch in Texas -- and was owned by Lucien Maxwell.  Lucien was an Indian trader,  mountain man, and scout who married Luz, the daughter of Charles Beaubien.-- who just happened to be half owner of about 2,680 square miles of a Mexican Land Grant.  When an Indian uprising in Taos killed Beaubien’s business partner, the duties of administering the Beaubien-Mirenda Land Grant fell to Lucien Maxwell.  Maxwell sold beef and grain to the Indian Agency at Cimarron.  He also provided Fort Union with goods and supplied small towns throughout the area.  In 1869 he made $87,000 from his gold mining interests alone.  By then he had acquired much of the original land grant for which he paid about $40,000.  He built a huge, lavish home, beat his Mexican workers, raced horses, gambled, warred with squatters and ruled his kingdom.  This kingdom ranged from the10,000 foot peaks of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains in the west across the Canadian River to the east.  The northern boundary edged into Colorado, and the southern boundary reached almost halfway to the latitude of Santa Fe.  It roughly covered the entire area of present-day Colfax County.  He grew sugar beets, wheat, and stock of every description.  It is claimed that at one time he owned more than 100,000 head of sheep and cattle and had about one thousand tenants working for him.  In 1870, he sold the Maxwell kingdom for $1.35 million to some Englishmen who began to sell it off in parcels.  

Interestingly, Ted Turner of CNN fame now owns a little (480,000 acres) piece of Maxwell’s old kingdom.  The national park folks were interested in buying this land back in the 1970's until they found that the asking price was about $26 million.  A biological inventory revealed that this property – The Vermejo Ranch – was home to 7,000 elks, 40,000 deer, 300 pronghorns, many black bears, grouse, quail, doves, ducks, eagles, hawks, owls, rabbits, squirrels, chipmunks, prairie dogs, frogs and other animals.  Now it serves the pleasures of Ted Turner and Jane Fonda.

Now maybe we can understand why the wildlife refuge, close to the town of Maxwell, was given the Maxwell name.  It seems only natural to name it after the man who had owned the whole area.  But is there some danger that it will someday be renamed the Ted Turner Refuge?

Anyway, where it was once necessary to build platforms in fields as a means of protecting workers from grizzlies, and where wolves ran in large packs, there is now a tranquil wildlife refuge – no longer inhabited by wolves and grizzlies.  A place where Bald Eagles eat coots on cold winter days.

As we prepared to leave, I suggested that Pat drive the Honda separately from the motorhome so that it would not get covered with dust as we pulled it behind the motorhome.  “The keys are in the ignition,” I said.  I pulled onto the gravel road and watched for more birds as I drove a mile or so to our rendezvous site by the paved highway.  I looked in the rearview mirror and there was no Pat.  “Something is wrong,” I thought to myself.  I turned the motorhome around and headed back in time to see Pat jogging over the crest of a hill toward me.  

“The keys were in the car OK,” she exclaimed breathlessly.  “But you inadvertently locked the door.  I waved and waved, but you never looked back.”  

Although this one silly act marred our otherwise perfect day, we both took it in stride and enjoyed the late afternoon drive to our RV park in the chilly town of Raton.  Wonder why Ted Turner did not to buy Raton too.  Lucien would have.

 

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