I'm so proud of my father for many reasons. Not only is he an incredibly talented musician, artist and poet, but over the past 4 years, he has become an exquisite writer. He has so many amazing stories from his childhood, 10 years of touring with his band, and lifetime of being a musician that 4 years ago, I told him he should write a book. Over the past 4 years, he has sent me chapters from his untitled book and every time I read them I become incredibly inspired and proud. He just sent another one to me tonight and I thought I'd post an excerpt and share.
Leadfield came into being in the 1920’s when ruthless speculator salted the area with lead ore in order to seduce get rich quick suckers into purchasing worthless land. Within a year their hopes had been washed away like so much alluvium; leaving only abandoned holes and decrepit shacks in their wake.
From here the ride gets real good as we descend into the narrows. The walls contract and tower above, leaving only a slim passage for us to navigate. High up sunlight glints off the ramparts, while down in the gully we drive mainly in shadow. Once more we come face to face with nature’s grand architecture, as the road cuts through eons of strata that have been twisted in every direction! We must leave the car and scurry up a seam. Soon we’re high on a ridge, lost in some pre-Cambrian delight. This is the section that unequivocally qualifies the canyon as an “E TICKET.” One that will require numerous revisiting … I recall one trip through Titus in a VW Bus with a sun roof, where we sat on top and the driver steered with his feet, while someone down below worked the clutch and gas. Many times we’d putt along in a Bug with such a low idle, that the car simply drove itself. We could operate it by steering from the running boards; often jumping on and off to run alongside, just for the fun of it. Once we ignored the “Road Closed at Dusk” sign and ventured into the canyon well past dark. (No one ever seemed to shut or lock the gate anyway-so what the hell!) We had an 8 Track tape of the soundtrack from “2001 A Space Odyssey”. This particular voyage just happened to conveniently coincide with a full moon and I can’t impress upon you enough, just how otherworldly and far out it was cruising this alien terrain, with no headlights and Also Sprach Zarathustra blaring from the speakers…a three dimensional, stereo, surrealistic, moonlit world that even Dali or Magritte might envy! Rounding a bend, we gazed up at a monolithic wall; just as the moon topped the canyon rim, hitting us square in the eyes- duh-Da-DA…DUH-DA - a moment of unforgettable serendipity!
Our musical performances at the Ranch had become such a mainstay, that from time to time the management offered us little perks in order to encourage their continuance. On one occasion, a tremendous storm blew in and we were forced to abandon our campsite. What to do? Well, when the resorts’ manager heard of our plight, he offered the use of his social halls to bed down on until the tempest passed. So there we were, snug and dry until the mud had congealed enough for us to get back to the elements. Another time, our man (Dave Davidson) arranged for us to perform poolside at Furnace Creek Inn, for all the high rollers and their families, in exchange for one of their outrageous Sunday brunch buffets. Imagine us, use to a diet of shotcakes, corned beef hash and beans an’ franks heated on a camp stove, with all the fresh fruit, vegetables, meats, eggs, cheeses, bread, pastries and juices we could eat staring us in the face- this was something we would never have dreamed of, let alone been able to afford – which made the multiple trips through the buffet line that much more delicious!
The Inn! Ah, the Inn! Opened in 1927 with the expressed purpose of bringing tourism to the region and catering to the hoi polloi, Furnace Creek Inn has remained a destination for the well heeled ever since.
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Nestled on a broad fan at the base of the Funeral Mountains, overlooking the foreboding salt pan and majestic Panamint Range, the Inn is a luxurious oasis comprised of classic adobe and native stone. It has lush, multi-terraced gardens with water courses cascading everywhere and sits under a canopy of swaying palms. In short, it was way too elegant for schmucks like us… and yet our music gave us accessibility.
We had brought along our stage clothing (black suits, white shirts and ties) in order to get some unique promo shots and decided the Inn would be a suitable backdrop. We hardly looked conspicuous strolling the grounds in our attire, because the Inn strictly enforces a dress code at dinnertime (coat and tie are required for entre’ into the elegant dining room). The night before our shoot, I had broken my glasses while stumbling around drunkenly in the desert…. So here we were, roaming these beautiful gardens, nattily dressed, instruments in hand and me - blind as a bat. After a few shots here and there, I somehow got separated from the other guys and when I finally saw them, they were on the terrace below. It appeared to me that there was an intermediate patch of grass that I could easily jump onto before reaching the guys on the next level, instead of taking the long way around. I couldn’t quite make out what the lads were trying to signal to me as I waved and with my banjo, blithely stepped off the upper ledge onto the grass below. Imagine my surprise, when I instantly realized that this imagined lawn was in fact an immaculately trimmed six foot hedge! I sank like a ton of bricks, finding myself intimately intertwined and up to my eyeballs in its sturdy branches. The boys ran up with mixed expressions of horror and bemusement. It took some wrangling to untangle and extricate the scratched, torn, bruised, slightly bloody and greatly embarrassed wrecks that I and my banjo had become. From then on, our visits to the Inn were confined strictly to nocturnal – evening escapades - sneaking into the gardens with some lovely, in order to introduce her to their magnificence and hopefully, stimulate a romantic interlude.
The mines at Ryan were another source of immense adventure. Our interest was initially piqued on the first “Y” trip, when one of our fellow campers told of how he had once ridden through the tunnels on a gas powered, baby gauged mine train. After hearing that, we were intent on returning to explore!
Before moving their operations to an open pit at Boron CA, Pacific Coast Borax mined mainly in Death Valley and Ryan was their headquarters. This tidy little company town connected to a vast network of mines and underground tunnels. The hillside was honey-combed with shafts and terraced with an abandoned roadbed that had once carried the ore trains to rendezvous with the narrow gauge Death Valley Railroad. The town, although abandoned, was in pristine shape; buildings were well kept up, roofs intact, windows unbroken and paint unpeeled – it had been put in mothball, should the company ever decide to resume mining here. Our greatest interest however, lay below ground.
It was a hefty climb from the road into the Greenwater hills to the mines. The route was over open ground strewn with sharp and nasty volcanic breccias. We encountered numerous signs that warned of DANGER! PRIVATE PROPERTY! KEEP OUT! TRESSPASSERS WILL BE PROCECUTED TO THE FULLEST EXTENT OF THE LAW! Of course, since there wasn’t a soul around to enforce such edicts, we just kept trudging up the hill. At the top, we came to a major entrance that was blocked by a cyclone fence and posted with similar warnings. Fortunately, there was a small gap
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between the gate post and the hillside that we just managed to squeeze through, gaining complete access to the tunnel. We lit the lantern and plunged ahead…after awhile, we came to a trap door that led to a series of ladders thrusting deep into the mountain. It was Bruce, always the fearless instigator, who cavalierly led the way. There were eighteen flights of ladders in all, each flight about fifteen feet in length. At the base of each ladder was a small platform with an opening that led to the next level. Once again, the timbers and all the wood for that matter proved sound; buried deep as they were from rain or shine. As we descended, the gloom and stillness were overpowering, reality was reduced to a six foot wide shaft, with only a hissing Coleman lantern to forestall total blackness. When we finally touched solid ground again, we could see what appeared to be a pinprick of light off in the distance. We also saw a set of rails leading toward the light and decided to follow them. About half a mile up the track, we came to the lights source- in actuality, a 20’ by 20’ entrance, again blocked by cyclone fencing. Just inside the entrance, joy of joys, was what we’d been hoping for – a functional ore car. Having just walked the length of the track and finding it in good shape, we figured a little ride through this underworld paradise was in order. Warren and Bruce rode while Aunga and I pushed to the end of the line, then we exchanged places and reversed course. We repeated this action several times - What can I say, we were happier than a bunch of kids in an abandoned mine had the right to be!
On a later expedition to Death Valley, Steve Hughes, who had joined the band as harmonica, jug and washtub bass player and me, got a wild hair to hitchhike back from there to Modesto. We grabbed our gear and instruments, bid the boys farewell, and tenaciously hit the highway. We got a ride right off that took us to Stovepipe Wells. From there we made it to the turn off to Saline Valley and then things got a little dicey. It was here, that we waited for several hours watching what little traffic there was, pass us by. People starred and honked, but not a car stopped. There wasn’t a tree or bush around for miles. The only shade was the pitiful shadows cast from our dehydrating bodies. The heat was extreme; it glanced off the roadway, doubling its intensity before slamming into our hides. Buzzards circled lazily overhead, casting hungry eyes upon what they perceived to be today’s bill of fare. We were slipping into hopelessness, the romance of hitchhiking wilting under the unrelenting desert sun and blankly gazing across this great nothingness; beginning to think that we were doomed, when up comes a vintage yellow drop top Cadillac and pulls over. The occupants were two hard looking black men, who definitely had an aura of “convict” about them.
“You boys needin’ a ride?” asked the driver, who sported a mean scar down his right cheek.
I gratefully answered YES, but Hughes wasn’t so sure, as alarm bells were simultaneously going off in his head. He was desperately trying to come up with an excuse to decline the invitation- but it was painfully obvious that there weren’t many good Samaritans on the road today, let alone those willing to stop for a couple dusty hippies, so Hughes swallowed his reservations and we climbed in.
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“How bout you come up front wit me” the driver said to Steve. “Blondie, you hop on back there wit LEE-roy!”
“Names An-twon, but you can call me Twon” said the driver as he gunned the motor and that Caddie took off like a bullet. LEE-roy wasn’t much of a conservationist and seemed contented to just sit and glumly stare. Once in awhile he’d grunt a few syllables and cast a jaundiced eye on Steve and me, but mostly he remained mute. Hughes began to silently pray as the speedometer rapidly shot past eighty. We tried to engage in some polite conversation, but it seemed strained. The car fell silent, until Twon produced a jug Night Train. He unscrewed the cap, took a couple swigs and then passed it around. After a few swallows, my tongue began to loosen and I affected my best ghetto brogue, in an attempt
to relate. As I incessantly prattled on, Hughes was anxiously trying to figure out if Twon and LEE-roy were going to rape us before they killed us…or visa versa.
The desert was a blur….as the car topped 100…
Hughes asked the guys if thy wanted to smoke some weed, which of course they did.
At first, he had a hell of a time rolling numbers in the front seat of that speeding convertible, what with the wind and all, but being a seasoned pro, he succeeded and it wasn’t long before we were all pretty high and having a good old time. Even LEE-roy seemed to crack a wicked smile. Being stoned however, only served to increase Hughes’ paranoia, thus every chance he got, Steve would mention that we didn’t have much money-just in case our hosts’ motives were less than honorable.
We finished the Night Train and LEE-roy sailed the bottle off into oblivion.
“Anyone in the mood for a little entertainment?” I enquired. “Just happen to have my
old gui-tar handy!”
Being a folkie and not much acquainted with the blues, I was trying to come up with something the fellas might get off on. Sorting thought the recesses of my smoke-filled memory; I came across what I thought might be the perfect tune: Leadbelly’s “Black Betty!” I was feeling pretty inspired now and let her rip...
“Oooooooo Black Betty. Bam-ba –lam
Black Betty had a baby. Bam-ba-lam. Damn thing went crazy
Bam-ba-lam
Black Betty had a child. Bam-ba-lam Damn thing went wild
Rock steady Black Betty ………………………..”
Hughes wasn’t quite sure at first if I was really singing THAT SONG or if he was in fact hallucinating. Either way, his jaw dropped and upon realizing that I was indeed belting it out, considered his options: crawling into the glove compartment or jumping out of a speeding vehicle. He mellowed some when he saw that the boys were getting a kick out of it….sort of.
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We ended up in Fresno-in the ghetto. Twon stopped the car in the middle of the street and left the motor running while he and LEE-roy bolted into a house. (Hughes is now convinced they’re going for their guns.)
All of a sudden we’re surrounded by a sea of black faces. Kids are pointing, starring and peppering us with questions:
“Who you?”
“What you doin’here?”
“How you know LEE-roy n’ Twon?”
“You narcs?”
“Look at da weasels!”
After seemingly an eternity, LEE-roy and Twon returned and we were off again. We headed for a liquor store. Hughes supposed they were going to rob it before knocking us off. We gave LEE-roy our last few bucks to buy some beer and then we proceeded to drive way out of town, down a lonely country road. We turned into a vineyard, drove to the end of a row and stopped.
As we popped a top, Steve knew: This is it FOR SURE …Here’s where we get popped. But we didn’t! We finished the suds and then were driven to the closest freeway entrance.
We shook hands; our traveling companions wished us well and then drove off into the night. Hughes got down on his knees and thanked God, I stuck out my thumb, we got another ride and soon were rolling up “99“ to Motown.
Once in awhile, twilight Games (a holdover from Y camp days) would take the place of music-making. The games followed supper and required leaving before dusk, in order to find the perfect spot in which to observe the sun set. Once there, we’d partake of a little “attitude adjustment” and then silently watch as night descended over the desert world …the warm wind whooshing past as it sails up the arroyo, twilight- the appearance of the first star, the sweet bouquet of sage, a coyotes’ call, shadows slowly creeping over the land…darkness. Our eyes adjust; we’ll need night vision for the return trip. (When the moon is full night hiking is a breeze since its almost bright as day. However without moonlight, navigation is mostly by intuition. The challenge comes in keeping up a full stride, while avoiding the pitfalls: ledges, rocks, holes and numerous other obstructions).
Once again we find ourselves charging down a canyon, this time in total darkness. We reach bottom unscathed and walk out to the parking lot - empty except for our lone vehicle. Here we stretch out on our backs, on the asphalt which still radiates from the heat of the day and feast upon the heavenly show. The warmth is a balm and soon the asphalt, as well as “the here and now” are forgotten-we fall into a trance. We have become one with the universe. Once again silence is golden, as each of us ponders the cosmos and our respective place therein. We have transcended the earthly bonds and are now lost among the stars…….
For these and so many other reasons, I must return to the desert whenever possible.
For here is a place so deep, that I could be every day of my life and never…ever, cease to be inspired!
