tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12544633583760593272024-03-13T10:50:11.227-07:00Tony's Vision . . . The BlogPhotography, Hiking, Typewriters, Geology, etc.TonysVisionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12004608151032301174noreply@blogger.comBlogger158125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1254463358376059327.post-44068131863190892322017-11-25T13:26:00.002-08:002017-11-25T13:26:11.071-08:00Knickerbocker Flats<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">One of my favorite local trails follows the edge of oak woods on one side and open rolling meadow on the other, leads past the ruins of a gold rush era ranch and a walnut orchard, then down to a small reservoir. A couple of short steep hills had been leaving me breathless prior to my heart surgery about 6 weeks ago. Today I tested myself on them for the first time with my rebuilt heart (3-way bypass and aortic valve). All went well - no huffing and puffing, just joy at being alive and able to be out in the woods.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I took along my Sony A7ii - I feel naked without a camera over my shoulder. I punched some menu options to bring up the "painting" effect just for fun. Here are a few of the pics. You can click on an image to scroll through them at full screen.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Live oak leaves along the trail</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh05qnIpowK7zZPhioWpdkfY7eIO4NkxK4WIZcfGwXMw9OPr7zH3sZMDpTpj-3PjS5IJd1P6xFWxZM-VYeQ7fX_SuBzdBEFYw9TN4Dv6wWAr2eQiZ1H1gA_NSWc75MRNsY-H0z8h-cbk7E/s1600/DSC00747.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh05qnIpowK7zZPhioWpdkfY7eIO4NkxK4WIZcfGwXMw9OPr7zH3sZMDpTpj-3PjS5IJd1P6xFWxZM-VYeQ7fX_SuBzdBEFYw9TN4Dv6wWAr2eQiZ1H1gA_NSWc75MRNsY-H0z8h-cbk7E/s640/DSC00747.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Up one of the whoop-dee-do hills</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw47LqmpCJd87OcGTq6CKOT-mCXJ_c3TkU90dj06Cv56wWmOHc2gx9qp_6tK_T5o30UJ5FY0YI2HO1jRyWbekiJgT_7ruvaj3avNckEB7KA7FVZ4xAhydMjnndmQhuEiUFpCmeR3xgN80/s1600/DSC00752.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw47LqmpCJd87OcGTq6CKOT-mCXJ_c3TkU90dj06Cv56wWmOHc2gx9qp_6tK_T5o30UJ5FY0YI2HO1jRyWbekiJgT_7ruvaj3avNckEB7KA7FVZ4xAhydMjnndmQhuEiUFpCmeR3xgN80/s640/DSC00752.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Where a little life became another's meal</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBDBUiDiaMqdP5u0PTf0XWN25noPMiLtDvyYtIGA75qsx56aQjnNVALtjmf8qZidulTwzbbJMa0HSZBM47J3ZI0iNzxzFLs8Sro53lxKNA-M7RS2_DHNbfu4_dmK9P0k1jbr8q0bisueA/s1600/DSC00754.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBDBUiDiaMqdP5u0PTf0XWN25noPMiLtDvyYtIGA75qsx56aQjnNVALtjmf8qZidulTwzbbJMa0HSZBM47J3ZI0iNzxzFLs8Sro53lxKNA-M7RS2_DHNbfu4_dmK9P0k1jbr8q0bisueA/s640/DSC00754.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Winter's wind-swept grasses and a single white feather</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGGPrEJAv5OhacZiUmftzS9m9wu_JIT1i6Du3ZFUMFxIxzwSm9RJClLRvEZyLg6ZoNyUcH2N8qmXZBX0uesJiftyfbNUXZ6_21aQ67r1oCO3FSh-VgBmjlpw0ejpRa0U-QlR7IWBGfMQo/s1600/DSC00758.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGGPrEJAv5OhacZiUmftzS9m9wu_JIT1i6Du3ZFUMFxIxzwSm9RJClLRvEZyLg6ZoNyUcH2N8qmXZBX0uesJiftyfbNUXZ6_21aQ67r1oCO3FSh-VgBmjlpw0ejpRa0U-QlR7IWBGfMQo/s640/DSC00758.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Trees, meadow, and ancient orchard</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3r2itZuofS3aBXVC11qAIV9I_6mE_QkSsdjRA4GOZ7QgF0qnDI8TDuFm57hUHTbFFw77GDXeWfFHJGzWYt22XjBvzENe9-7d3CG_ZdVXZ5uU15UjJp56BxN50pA3SVN1wEqtRpTIuN8M/s1600/DSC00760.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3r2itZuofS3aBXVC11qAIV9I_6mE_QkSsdjRA4GOZ7QgF0qnDI8TDuFm57hUHTbFFw77GDXeWfFHJGzWYt22XjBvzENe9-7d3CG_ZdVXZ5uU15UjJp56BxN50pA3SVN1wEqtRpTIuN8M/s640/DSC00760.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Thistles along the fence line</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixEl6zCl8GLNAY9eE5DgewTRVrJByPz4qj8Ey5DWntp8uimIqMT6U5K3kdEjsT5JLFEpI7tlLH6t-YU-HcgeMgR2Cy8yyvyW3DCL4kHAKYArcHoiNc9EqdpkV8qs49O0JOf8nw9szi7mw/s1600/DSC00761.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixEl6zCl8GLNAY9eE5DgewTRVrJByPz4qj8Ey5DWntp8uimIqMT6U5K3kdEjsT5JLFEpI7tlLH6t-YU-HcgeMgR2Cy8yyvyW3DCL4kHAKYArcHoiNc9EqdpkV8qs49O0JOf8nw9szi7mw/s640/DSC00761.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fine old oaks along the trail</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPiT7kIzwlNSDN6KrP-W-iUVqkszOBYRdVAoOlJGgrxCQipcLrWp06nZUS_USHIezaqYtfYgsqc-2PFpeumHG3Ex7ltrWExFJNMqzDWbrd3uR9OTq8MIa8-xXQ24OhlsxcbFuxKihxyto/s1600/DSC00762.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPiT7kIzwlNSDN6KrP-W-iUVqkszOBYRdVAoOlJGgrxCQipcLrWp06nZUS_USHIezaqYtfYgsqc-2PFpeumHG3Ex7ltrWExFJNMqzDWbrd3uR9OTq8MIa8-xXQ24OhlsxcbFuxKihxyto/s640/DSC00762.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Barbed wire and meadow</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW8M3LXVttpjaXDeJDCTDjY9Y6RZJBSIQPOkH6lCHar4GgMT3G2nK6Rpg1vQM_Mc4rAz42j5-Emdd7sJJrKlWz3A6MVcAo9HVbufM4lMEp2LI2k_B6qwSer1OjNCilDk9RSJ2zGQGR4fM/s1600/DSC00763.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW8M3LXVttpjaXDeJDCTDjY9Y6RZJBSIQPOkH6lCHar4GgMT3G2nK6Rpg1vQM_Mc4rAz42j5-Emdd7sJJrKlWz3A6MVcAo9HVbufM4lMEp2LI2k_B6qwSer1OjNCilDk9RSJ2zGQGR4fM/s640/DSC00763.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Down a hill and through a tunnel of trees</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgweoNZInlJkYRVbg4aUhTjVWJfBbbsVt4vGaRUPDbw_bgfLfM1lZBEQmihV06D7wmdoqPXvQSIPd0hff8mtk6_YkRWxeuTAztTuHNMkajNtM9WmRtu_TCcGQ4QfzX7ZE9JGv4pzDxkr2o/s1600/DSC00767.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgweoNZInlJkYRVbg4aUhTjVWJfBbbsVt4vGaRUPDbw_bgfLfM1lZBEQmihV06D7wmdoqPXvQSIPd0hff8mtk6_YkRWxeuTAztTuHNMkajNtM9WmRtu_TCcGQ4QfzX7ZE9JGv4pzDxkr2o/s640/DSC00767.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An often photographed group of oaks</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> </span>TonysVisionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12004608151032301174noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1254463358376059327.post-52059082098230877442017-05-27T20:15:00.003-07:002017-05-27T20:21:29.366-07:00Central Nevada Road Trip - Part 8: Berlin, Grimes Point, and Home<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibi7kgjMOH4PJ0_sIkF2U_ZsLE5ykcmHHKZsjVrIZn12CxOlez7DtYF6OiqYPtdFbDK7MV8VgsH5-ClVJl8Yt1vOnl_55qJbc4eHsWHiJHZgGZRT6XZjJ1XJH6haqWZ58UBUkloyUzNjU/s1600/Ione+Valley+Virga+HDR-Edit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1196" data-original-width="1600" height="478" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibi7kgjMOH4PJ0_sIkF2U_ZsLE5ykcmHHKZsjVrIZn12CxOlez7DtYF6OiqYPtdFbDK7MV8VgsH5-ClVJl8Yt1vOnl_55qJbc4eHsWHiJHZgGZRT6XZjJ1XJH6haqWZ58UBUkloyUzNjU/s640/Ione+Valley+Virga+HDR-Edit.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Eric and I stopped in the middle of Ione Valley outside of Berlin to enjoy the smell of rain on sage</td></tr>
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<i>The Journal – Sunday, 5/14/17</i><br />
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<i>In which we photograph the ghost town of Berlin, the Petroglyphs at Grimes Point, complete our journey and determine to do it all again next year.</i><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxcukA9A3aSbpr4pPXfx5M6t3Fg9J3sa1nXRona2d6TdIDJrsxPAtVPBmM7TSQejQw5jlcfdOcLnkrAms8dvl5aXZArvKTRWkDp0vybOsBShT_Qwo7Z4w8Sish4QLI_FsR1E6gqvv_8T0/s1600/P1050266.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1376" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxcukA9A3aSbpr4pPXfx5M6t3Fg9J3sa1nXRona2d6TdIDJrsxPAtVPBmM7TSQejQw5jlcfdOcLnkrAms8dvl5aXZArvKTRWkDp0vybOsBShT_Qwo7Z4w8Sish4QLI_FsR1E6gqvv_8T0/s320/P1050266.jpg" width="275" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jason and Ray graciously pose for us after delivering<br />
a replacement spare tire for the truck.</td></tr>
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My morning reverie with coffee and journal in the Belmont Campground was interrupted by the rumble of a big diesel dualie scrunching to a stop in the gravel next to our campsite. It was Ray and Jason, delivering on their promise to scare up and mount a good tire on our wheel replacing the one that had blown out. These guys, after a day of activity riding and collecting cattle and branding them had picked up our old tire and rim, taken it to Ray’s place in Big Smokey Valley, found and mounted a decent replacement tire, then found us at our compsite to deliver it. They would not consider any payment for either their efforts or the tire. As they drove off we were left with gratitude, shaking our heads at the kindness of the people we’d met.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlvLGsgQNpNeSRiPlqkVZUL1kPH4ILjpCl3B_jJDfluFMM29UoUdvnU4kxIF10zADXf3wKvm0_Vg0T7WCfm37TxQHPRO6Jw0fIsKKMTFOnH2_iSaQLfqGaZI2BnKnw7RpHmKPK1Iozy1E/s1600/P1050305.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlvLGsgQNpNeSRiPlqkVZUL1kPH4ILjpCl3B_jJDfluFMM29UoUdvnU4kxIF10zADXf3wKvm0_Vg0T7WCfm37TxQHPRO6Jw0fIsKKMTFOnH2_iSaQLfqGaZI2BnKnw7RpHmKPK1Iozy1E/s400/P1050305.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Eric catches up with the outside world via an internet connection at the<br />
Belmont bar.</td></tr>
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We hooked up the trailer and pulled into Belmont, where we parked in front of the saloon, where Eric was able to make internat connections thanks to Puggie’s sharing her security code. I enjoyed the sunshine and a bit more poking around while he took care of touching base with the outside world. In Tonopah we parked in front of the Central Nevada Museum for more San Juan tuna sandwiches. We chalked up our disappointment at finding it closed on Sundays as just another reason to repeat our Central Nevada experience the following May. After making a few phone calls connecting with loved ones back in the real world, we headed toward ghost town of Berlin.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaTrqUXhuSzxXYHMD-fGm2YEKlbDamT7OVFkjnhazLvrs8IrAkd9habJkpU6UXds9cjg607IWj9l95se4QcS9o6vOobwfp9DQk6H0EMbwA0pQIVdvHbmnFrjCrK-wof29-9hgngn0mygY/s1600/berlin+hdr+913-Edit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1195" data-original-width="1600" height="297" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaTrqUXhuSzxXYHMD-fGm2YEKlbDamT7OVFkjnhazLvrs8IrAkd9habJkpU6UXds9cjg607IWj9l95se4QcS9o6vOobwfp9DQk6H0EMbwA0pQIVdvHbmnFrjCrK-wof29-9hgngn0mygY/s400/berlin+hdr+913-Edit.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The tipple and mill at Berlin look out over Ione Valley as thunder echos<br />
between the encompassing mountain ranges</td></tr>
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The ghost towns of Nevada developed during a period of repeated sequences of mining boom and bust. The sequence would begin with a discovery, followed by staking of claims, development, consolidation and exploitation, then bust as the mines played out and became unprofitable. Word would arrive of another strike, and the population would move to begin the sequence all over again in some lonely place in the desert which had previously existed for thousands of years as the seasons passed and the sun rose and fell illuminating nothing more active than a passing antelope herd or an argument between a pair of crows. People would carry their shovels and picks to the new location, dragging even the huge stamp mills and on several occasions even entire buildings, leaving the shacks of the previous location with doors creaking in the desert breeze and tables still set. There they would develop a new community, with the full expectation that it would last for hundreds of years, as evidenced by the sturdy construction of stone and brick buildings such as the Belmont courthouse.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTjCJ34j4-QL2yt8LhilLXRwQ9Xfxu9iIq1TI-pB4cgyftQSLmHbDHstK_r9CcnE_UGDOjsQ444dEdc2sn4vsOgE_vceQ_4UmuKizLQB40s4dtX-vXc6pJ_yKsTblr1Qmv0mCni-LjSBc/s1600/berlin+743.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1212" data-original-width="1600" height="302" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTjCJ34j4-QL2yt8LhilLXRwQ9Xfxu9iIq1TI-pB4cgyftQSLmHbDHstK_r9CcnE_UGDOjsQ444dEdc2sn4vsOgE_vceQ_4UmuKizLQB40s4dtX-vXc6pJ_yKsTblr1Qmv0mCni-LjSBc/s400/berlin+743.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This wondrously picturesque weathered truck poses patiently outside one of<br />
the buildings in Berlin</td></tr>
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Berlin, now located within Berlin-Ichthyosaur State Park, is one of many of those boom and bust mining communities, now ghost towns. It is about 47 miles east of Fallon on US 50, 32 miles south of Middlegate on Hwy 361, then 20 miles west of Gabbs on Hwy 844, the last bit being a few miles on a gravel road. Like many other boom towns, its discovery drew former residents to drag equipment over the desert from their former fading communities. The town was founded in 1897, following discovery of gold and silver in 1895. The Nevada Mining Company purchased two stamp mills formerly used in the Ione area and hauled them the five miles from Ione to include in a new 30-stamp mill in Berlin. But the town never prospered as much as some other boom towns and the financial panic of 1907 finally did it in. By 1911 it was a ghost town. It had been operated as a company town by the Nevada Mining Company, who maintained it until 1970 when it was acquired by the state, which accounts for its good state of preservation.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNDnVBTBx_7Kfifp2NkcnPCwr_4kwr2SROP4THqFkUCtT_IVoD3uLdlFb4dCK4P7Xa7yyegL6k14fhCCk92gFm2KVyhhOpQpeRTvX57n2qUTL-zaswCDGA3eCgZrtOh_3FCl_1ueG6Bkc/s1600/P1050574.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNDnVBTBx_7Kfifp2NkcnPCwr_4kwr2SROP4THqFkUCtT_IVoD3uLdlFb4dCK4P7Xa7yyegL6k14fhCCk92gFm2KVyhhOpQpeRTvX57n2qUTL-zaswCDGA3eCgZrtOh_3FCl_1ueG6Bkc/s320/P1050574.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Eric is in full flow, setting up lights, camera,<br />
and tripod for a shoot inside one of the old<br />
mine buildings in Berlin.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
We photographed a bit around the town in the cool, breezy evening, and then wound up into the nice State Park campground, which was reasonably accessible to our truck and 27-foot trailer. We woke after a very chilly night to a blue sky filled with rapidly moving clouds, which eventually filled in creating a complete overcast. As we photographed more in and out of the buildings I watched a crow bringing food to a nest up in the roof beams of the huge, vacant mill, then take some time to give me a severe scolding. Eric posed us in front of an old car rusting into the desert, and then set up his lighting gear inside the machine shop as we listened to thunder echo across the desert. Through the windows we watched streamers of rain sweep across the valley to the west. Hand-wringing as always, I fretted about the dirt road becoming slick or of snow building up on the pass we had negotiated on the way into the park.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMkM1vv0yz6R1uGmkt4e3Y1-UPUDJtZidXB9vR1v4vxlsGNVLu25DcWg5-KjUd_HVpV-vq-emIgjXG5bbOdO0Z2QADdCKnLDMIOkwZsW5yNXVd1pyNMye-JGuK8dRdMC6DAFg965fE9Ns/s1600/berlin+hdr+947-Edit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="699" data-original-width="1600" height="278" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMkM1vv0yz6R1uGmkt4e3Y1-UPUDJtZidXB9vR1v4vxlsGNVLu25DcWg5-KjUd_HVpV-vq-emIgjXG5bbOdO0Z2QADdCKnLDMIOkwZsW5yNXVd1pyNMye-JGuK8dRdMC6DAFg965fE9Ns/s640/berlin+hdr+947-Edit.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A fine storm followed us out of Berlin, making for dramatic skies.</td></tr>
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But all we got was some rain mixed with snow as we headed west, then north, finally emerging from under the storm clouds into a bright desert sky filled with Kodachrome clouds. Our last stop took us to a site of human habitation nearly 10,000 years older than the ghost towns we had been visiting, which in those times was on the shoreline of ancient Lake Lahontan.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnDgNEB7ikXF7-CA-JHpWE4DRB8ki_8IrUGe0pwnUNDLtGBS59fIVa-X5FTiza77McM76EnNdzb4PqSw-w3vZ5HS1I6j6SqNowBE0FKrRYjr6vHE747KL7wHXrVytnZTRGoVkxvBi7oZc/s1600/grimes+point+hdr+247-Edit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1199" data-original-width="1600" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnDgNEB7ikXF7-CA-JHpWE4DRB8ki_8IrUGe0pwnUNDLtGBS59fIVa-X5FTiza77McM76EnNdzb4PqSw-w3vZ5HS1I6j6SqNowBE0FKrRYjr6vHE747KL7wHXrVytnZTRGoVkxvBi7oZc/s400/grimes+point+hdr+247-Edit.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rock art at Grimes Point</td></tr>
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<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lake_Lahontan" target="_blank">Ancient Lake Lahontan</a> grew to encompass an area of over 8,500 square miles, extending over much of northwestern Nevada at its peak during the moist and cool times about 12,700 years ago. Archaeology along the lake shores indicates that the existence of the lake coincided with the first appearance of humans in the region, although by the time of the dated habitation at Grimes Point, it was already shrinking as a result of the increased evaporation rate as the climate warmed around the end of the Pleistocene epoch.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYoi8dQmTtnbUfgJ1VPFuCDFT8sjvJKYqbHwS4vIy65ANwOY2kBLisK_MQxyJogBfPDvbC68dBw1kSFU8YuUKGMMZo94jDFdWa_6vKlJUqy2GKHn9jG9AVkkem5aVfVfKHd_UXdxBA6Rc/s1600/grimes+point+hdr+316.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1197" data-original-width="1600" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYoi8dQmTtnbUfgJ1VPFuCDFT8sjvJKYqbHwS4vIy65ANwOY2kBLisK_MQxyJogBfPDvbC68dBw1kSFU8YuUKGMMZo94jDFdWa_6vKlJUqy2GKHn9jG9AVkkem5aVfVfKHd_UXdxBA6Rc/s400/grimes+point+hdr+316.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: 12.8px;">Pits chipped out of the basalt boulders at Grimes Point thousands of years ago </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: 12.8px;">make me </span><span style="font-size: 12.8px;">wonder if the people who made them had invented the memory tool known</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: 12.8px;">as the "method of loci" well before the Greeks and Romans. Like the knots in</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: 12.8px;">strings used by some cultures, the pits may have been used as a memory aid to</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: 12.8px;">recall historical events or genealogies. Check out </span><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lynne_Kelly_(science_writer)" target="_blank"><i style="font-size: 12.8px;">The Memory Code,</i><span style="font-size: 12.8px;"> by Lynne Kelley</span></a></div>
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Features of the site include rock art and caves, in one of which, Spirit Cave, a mummy was found and dated to 9,470 years before present. The rock art is unique for the width and depth of the markings, and the “cupules”, small pits chipped out of the rock surface and found on hundreds of the black, basalt boulders that cover the site. It is considered to be the oldest rock art in Nevada, which makes it pretty damned old<br />
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The ghost towns we had visited elicit a sort of bittersweet sense of the passage of time. This feeling touches on the Japanese aesthic of Wabi-sabi, which constitutes “a world view centered on the acceptance of transience and imperfection” (Wikipedia, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wabi-sabi, accessed 5/27/2017). I see it in a lichen-covered boulder, the weathered timber of a ghost town structure, or the ghost town itself. It also comes strongly when I sit on a boulder at Grimes Point, and contemplate the ancient lake and the people who once lived along its shores.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHpWuz-PrfP0BADRX5jmGUGYbUuHcp9YFslLoSpVRDgoNX3aOi_DEtNMDfTRmKq23ucTrn4cyNkGkGkN0xB7hGDrBCBFlXryEsht6XQg9_kKt1fzPN2ggk3FJBN0faswvKFV8gFvsv7f8/s1600/berlin+hdr+833.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1196" data-original-width="1600" height="478" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHpWuz-PrfP0BADRX5jmGUGYbUuHcp9YFslLoSpVRDgoNX3aOi_DEtNMDfTRmKq23ucTrn4cyNkGkGkN0xB7hGDrBCBFlXryEsht6XQg9_kKt1fzPN2ggk3FJBN0faswvKFV8gFvsv7f8/s640/berlin+hdr+833.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dramatic skies followed us back across Nevada as we followed Hwy 50 to Carson City</td></tr>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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And so on to Carson City, a shower, and a delicious dinner served up by Eric’s mom, Jean. Over the good food and libations we relived the trip for her, to the extent that is possible for one who has not experienced it first-hand. It will fade a bit in our perception as well, but I know, as Eric wrote after our day at Pine Creek Ranch, “<i>This time together and the way the world has opened to us have created something that will stay in us until we each die</i>.”<br />
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Next May we will return to Central Nevada, step into that cozy bar in Belmont, and get Puggie to explain to us once more how to get to White Rock, which is just, “straight across the valley – you can’t miss it!”<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7vTttrYRLio_jrwIZ8vE2DFu2g_8EIX3JgvTcXjrerTH7jJhLvoxlttpEP__d9ffeuuwLeKgFp9e6f6gCGoXr6X5_OgiukHaxj0eGNgXvnaXVEfpzlbcxtUMhPT06lR5u2aSMOV90pcQ/s1600/Pops+and+the+kid.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="662" data-original-width="1000" height="422" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7vTttrYRLio_jrwIZ8vE2DFu2g_8EIX3JgvTcXjrerTH7jJhLvoxlttpEP__d9ffeuuwLeKgFp9e6f6gCGoXr6X5_OgiukHaxj0eGNgXvnaXVEfpzlbcxtUMhPT06lR5u2aSMOV90pcQ/s640/Pops+and+the+kid.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Pops and the Kid" - photo by Eric Mindling</td></tr>
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<h2 style="text-align: center;">
</h2>
<h2 style="text-align: center;">
More Photos</h2>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTpufzN9hS9Tkz1ins6vF3BKv8LxTlzjn9zXoUj4LTQHVE7-UfW7Lo6DXDP05UJ8hvdPaWeT5OlM7vZyHakOfRB1pyW9j-w3XR0lbeGQ2uTKY0P50cMd5CuBNP2Y7uoUHJVEctD_iXE_g/s1600/berlin+733.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1210" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTpufzN9hS9Tkz1ins6vF3BKv8LxTlzjn9zXoUj4LTQHVE7-UfW7Lo6DXDP05UJ8hvdPaWeT5OlM7vZyHakOfRB1pyW9j-w3XR0lbeGQ2uTKY0P50cMd5CuBNP2Y7uoUHJVEctD_iXE_g/s640/berlin+733.jpg" width="484" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Part of the mining structures in Berlin, this was used to deliver ore to rail cars.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpBz3U9PDqBydw9MuOCkEPyODez3ld6YY5sgGI2vsZEoZsHenM1zFb8Xjg9TYSDfCuQS4FBrm14oomP5DKQ4-3q_wk5iaKqKzwI5M4fO9YLtmSPfTpeMeAfdj1kF77Hg3oBX_c3HeccN0/s1600/Berlin+HDR+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1090" data-original-width="1600" height="436" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpBz3U9PDqBydw9MuOCkEPyODez3ld6YY5sgGI2vsZEoZsHenM1zFb8Xjg9TYSDfCuQS4FBrm14oomP5DKQ4-3q_wk5iaKqKzwI5M4fO9YLtmSPfTpeMeAfdj1kF77Hg3oBX_c3HeccN0/s640/Berlin+HDR+1.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Storm clouds begin to grow over Berlin</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbesFRpgWaTNR8fO73DgQpBoOin9yNQVKGgXtc5swaUDeRrNyBKA08KkoqanoZq7yxwoUjoenPCBF2BBJGe9fY59llQxvXaXMPBHaGdmFAl5lliEaAZ5aBqraoXkxqKyDD5HIk07aykLA/s1600/berlin+hdr+710.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1199" data-original-width="1600" height="478" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbesFRpgWaTNR8fO73DgQpBoOin9yNQVKGgXtc5swaUDeRrNyBKA08KkoqanoZq7yxwoUjoenPCBF2BBJGe9fY59llQxvXaXMPBHaGdmFAl5lliEaAZ5aBqraoXkxqKyDD5HIk07aykLA/s640/berlin+hdr+710.jpg" width="640" /></a><br />
Desert rain</td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrcz4E-B4bldZU6_He8WGnDMtHwcfb5vUyUiJhjJPWPj_bxGw-VyMkaMzXcy7o9CvMoZHC4N4n-yLUGbuHGuYMPG73GIgkEJhpHt6bWgK3oxlYy4CapwrmTynJtcreoMP7wgRFuR2z50w/s1600/berlin+hdr+908.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1594" data-original-width="1600" height="397" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrcz4E-B4bldZU6_He8WGnDMtHwcfb5vUyUiJhjJPWPj_bxGw-VyMkaMzXcy7o9CvMoZHC4N4n-yLUGbuHGuYMPG73GIgkEJhpHt6bWgK3oxlYy4CapwrmTynJtcreoMP7wgRFuR2z50w/s400/berlin+hdr+908.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nevada Mining Company tipple and mill</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQaUv26mp4j6obeBnytcLBO2fUyOPxqOG_-PflklafmdGKfQDM8Mn-X-uCh3sXaLIghmYwRFU6Ni3rfXgK_lOZbkUISUy0wUKVqKEMYHr4C36CCA8ZIYMg3ieu3-fSsnO-1qXazNoYSqE/s1600/P1050577.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQaUv26mp4j6obeBnytcLBO2fUyOPxqOG_-PflklafmdGKfQDM8Mn-X-uCh3sXaLIghmYwRFU6Ni3rfXgK_lOZbkUISUy0wUKVqKEMYHr4C36CCA8ZIYMg3ieu3-fSsnO-1qXazNoYSqE/s640/P1050577.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Eric pursuing his craft</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAhe6MK9hfxQZecR1e-aXxlg2m_YHvwfieqeB4yahmRTTT1oNqXBIy5A_vIkLDxzumQG2KAAQfEuKK34FidIpz67Jvpau2BNoetUvLj42xgyMrTmmwvLqFrYRolKGCubCUsJvPiqK8QxE/s1600/P1050516.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAhe6MK9hfxQZecR1e-aXxlg2m_YHvwfieqeB4yahmRTTT1oNqXBIy5A_vIkLDxzumQG2KAAQfEuKK34FidIpz67Jvpau2BNoetUvLj42xgyMrTmmwvLqFrYRolKGCubCUsJvPiqK8QxE/s640/P1050516.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gas stations can be scarce when you get off the pavement in Nevada. We carried two, 5-gallon cans, and were glad to have them. Here Eric gases us up for the trip to Fallon while I take advantage of the facilities at the Berlin-Ichthyosaur State Park to service our holding tanks.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0HFmjbx2jbKutSytQtj4QS90Up4OBb1FFKYH-0qcofDRCMJXp4EOMdRziXsQzgMNe804W5O5bg9nc9ijoAD-500cRGq5Xwpc5gsC2rOsehfZjrnR_m4x4P2Kk0h97kFKoEF1t2Au9z1Q/s1600/823.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1196" data-original-width="1600" height="478" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0HFmjbx2jbKutSytQtj4QS90Up4OBb1FFKYH-0qcofDRCMJXp4EOMdRziXsQzgMNe804W5O5bg9nc9ijoAD-500cRGq5Xwpc5gsC2rOsehfZjrnR_m4x4P2Kk0h97kFKoEF1t2Au9z1Q/s640/823.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Peeking out from beneath rain clouds from a stop in the mountains west of Berlin toward the sunny vastnessof western Nevada</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8408gtx9pzrMLBIJFbRAYFo-P4QGfT1bM4MyP8csWxBQTYIeM6v1Vmpu0jEImq_yH7-RjiSsJ53WzYW977U1UiNB4SO-JUn8iwOp6L86BbQ4PtvBVvBH59uFPl8XEvPFKR41St072tdc/s1600/berlin+hdr+828.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1201" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8408gtx9pzrMLBIJFbRAYFo-P4QGfT1bM4MyP8csWxBQTYIeM6v1Vmpu0jEImq_yH7-RjiSsJ53WzYW977U1UiNB4SO-JUn8iwOp6L86BbQ4PtvBVvBH59uFPl8XEvPFKR41St072tdc/s640/berlin+hdr+828.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Storm clouds chase us west on US 50 toward Fallon</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sand Mountain, east of Fallon. The desert winds have accumulated the beaches of ancient Lake Lahontan in this corner of the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Humboldt_Sink" target="_blank">Humboldt Sink</a>.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf5p1xdF-CeYB8Fze4k1pDskN82S6SY1CREc12bPsWGySuROMxu-lFMS7Os2EzdXneoxOB1dk3Auzj_-lLiTr-Mw1vIywGWTVg_yTDcZiCRV2ztZyEnqiOM-MQLfgvLS8gxwRjF7uNaDE/s1600/grimes+point+hdr+1156.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1198" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf5p1xdF-CeYB8Fze4k1pDskN82S6SY1CREc12bPsWGySuROMxu-lFMS7Os2EzdXneoxOB1dk3Auzj_-lLiTr-Mw1vIywGWTVg_yTDcZiCRV2ztZyEnqiOM-MQLfgvLS8gxwRjF7uNaDE/s640/grimes+point+hdr+1156.jpg" width="478" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Grimes Point rock art</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: x-large;">The End</span></h2>
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<br />TonysVisionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12004608151032301174noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1254463358376059327.post-59696195961897062642017-05-27T00:25:00.000-07:002017-05-27T09:59:28.367-07:00Central Nevada Road Trip - Part 7: Branding at Pine Creek Ranch<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnZYtdUKoLWv5FOwdR5peo2obgvLSJ-G95KYacMcGJSyEeDTUy4nsFhyphenhyphenYepH_kMXIXBP8vxWahiPot2Y8HrtQje2vYkoCEJhT8XMdBfIzIFy4Yn1thwOwNci5lwi5sk8VBp7rxLWct234/s1600/P1040719-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnZYtdUKoLWv5FOwdR5peo2obgvLSJ-G95KYacMcGJSyEeDTUy4nsFhyphenhyphenYepH_kMXIXBP8vxWahiPot2Y8HrtQje2vYkoCEJhT8XMdBfIzIFy4Yn1thwOwNci5lwi5sk8VBp7rxLWct234/s640/P1040719-1.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The "Running W" brand of Pine Creek Ranch</td></tr>
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<i>Journal for Saturday, 5/13/17</i><br />
<i>In which we enter a 200 year-old world of ranching and cowboys.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
We enjoyed a delightful sleep in, cozy after a cool night of bright stars in the Belmont Campground, followed by coffee time and catching up the journal. After breakfast and with Eric at the wheel we drove sedately through Belmont, where we stopped briefly to say hello to Henry who was helping to set up a horseshoe tournament, thank him again for the courthouse tour, and tell him that we had been invited by Ray and Jason to attend a branding at Pine Creek Ranch. Then on over the low pass, where we had trudged a mile and a half yesterday under the threat of rain hoping for help with our flat tire, not only receiving it graciously but an invite to the branding at Pine Creek Ranch as well. Clear blue skies made the orange brick of the Combination Mill stack stand out against the sky and contrast with the purples of the vast valley.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0C1oojpdVQNZeQWcR8CKfpG5bsSj83arbYf1bHSyxXqXXKFuZyVb0LT8WeX20q36Qrkd3SScr8UupFnIKgOeL8caTXLBOnZyChSSPRpVxlQWHRQSacV-cbfxPwX8-Jj7Rp6F-ufhrMaI/s1600/P1040708.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1600" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0C1oojpdVQNZeQWcR8CKfpG5bsSj83arbYf1bHSyxXqXXKFuZyVb0LT8WeX20q36Qrkd3SScr8UupFnIKgOeL8caTXLBOnZyChSSPRpVxlQWHRQSacV-cbfxPwX8-Jj7Rp6F-ufhrMaI/s400/P1040708.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The approach to Pine Creek Ranch past snowmelt from the Toquima Range.</td></tr>
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The sedate pace was engendered by our new respect for desert roads which had given us three failed tires in as many days. We were riding on a tire of indeterminate age that had been plugged to staunch yesterday’s leak, three others with thinning tread, and were without a spare. Where previously we hadn't given the graded gravel road much thought, other than to appreciate the lack of washboarding, now we saw the seemingly innocent pebbles popped up by the grader as containing a hidden malevolence. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtil5NDiGULMHZHeij6Q66MxFNnfPF3Y-dFnMSbUfcFue4ybXSSa2ZGaHdbvLX-WM9XxUQ5dVvzfMTjf6g3iUAbDd7mBt4l6aBw3YFN9b_3CJ_60d7kix7f6crYp5rEmU78teQA2hkz5s/s1600/P1050019.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtil5NDiGULMHZHeij6Q66MxFNnfPF3Y-dFnMSbUfcFue4ybXSSa2ZGaHdbvLX-WM9XxUQ5dVvzfMTjf6g3iUAbDd7mBt4l6aBw3YFN9b_3CJ_60d7kix7f6crYp5rEmU78teQA2hkz5s/s400/P1050019.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The ranch house at Pine Creek</td></tr>
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But we made it safely to Pine Creek Ranch which is approached through green pastures and past a stream of snowmelt from the 12,000 foot peaks of the Toquima Range to the west. Lynn, a sturdy woman of about 50 described what was going on, which I semi-understood as involving collecting the cattle in groups based on owner, then branding, ear tagging or ear marking to distinguish them for the four owners. The brand is the “running W”, identifying the owner of the ranch on which they were grazing. The animals to be marked were 100 or so about eight months old.<br />
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On horseback the men separated the cattle into a complex maze of corrals, then drove them in groups into a long chute leading to a cow trap. Men at the corral leading to the chute herded them in, those stationed along it prodded them along, as the cattle were understandably apprehensive of the bang and clatter of the cow trap, the bawling of the cow being branded, and the smell of singed hide. At the cow trap a large solid steel back door was slammed shut, and a sturdy man in his 30’s who had gone through college on a football scholarship threw his muscle and weight into the two ropes controlling the trap's body squeeze and the neck trap. Ray wielded the branding iron which had been heated in a fire in an old wheelbarrow. Other men, also in their 70’s, helped with positioning and holding the cow still for the operations. In back of the chute, 8-year-old Conner was helped by Lynn with the job of prodding the cows along when necessary with a beat up and weathered chunk of 2X4, and another similar bit of lumber was used to keep them from backing out of the chute. Lynn showed Conner how to hold the piece of wood so that it wouldn’t break his wrist if the cow lunged against it in an unexpected way – though not even quite yearlings, being just 8 months old, they were already up to about 500 pounds.<br />
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All of this took place with the background of the Toquima Range, the long long vistas of Monitor Valley, and … but wait, my son Eric has produced a piece of writing as part of a note to a friend that expresses the ambiance of the event far beyond my powers:<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBc_lf7rG_cc6PfXggRp-VgnhDjA-iqsapAAqMoLWdiVhvmsyP86CfB6VZ2PtkzEYmRQXK1bVDdE1UXi-cALFDr-kMAjGUQBMRJHX61AZM5YPRs9X_GlMMgkonpNp8mJ1tvR1lv6y_Rec/s1600/P1040794.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBc_lf7rG_cc6PfXggRp-VgnhDjA-iqsapAAqMoLWdiVhvmsyP86CfB6VZ2PtkzEYmRQXK1bVDdE1UXi-cALFDr-kMAjGUQBMRJHX61AZM5YPRs9X_GlMMgkonpNp8mJ1tvR1lv6y_Rec/s400/P1040794.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Puggie's husband, Jason, handled his horse with a grace that<br />
was a pleasure to watch. While not being a cowboy, Jason works<br />
as a contractor. He told us that they had met when he had been<br />
hired to replace the floor, and make plumbing and electrical<br />
repairs. "I came for a week and got life, " he says with a grin.</td></tr>
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<i>By Eric Mindling</i><br />
<i>The days and experiences of this adventure with my father have been truly good. This time together and the way the world has opened to us have created something that will stay in us until we each die. Yesterday, for example, we spent hours at a ranch on the edge of a tremendously long valley sided by snow capped mountains and carpeted with sage brush and cattle meadows fed by the surging runoff of melting snow. The sky was endlessly blue and clear and the air had a bite to it that left my cheeks red and reminded me how tropical my blood is. We'd been invited out to Pine Creek Ranch by the cowboys who'd fixed our flat the day before. It was branding day and we both watched and photographed somewhat transfixed in this world of confident, friendly, sturdy handed outdoorsmen wearing worn Carhart jackets and beat leather boots with pretty horses... and the crazy, jumbled work of lining up cattle to brand and ear snip. The animals bellowed and bucked, hammered against the fences and each other with heaving breath , the air smelled of woodsmoke from the branding iron fire and sizzled hair from the branding proper. And as they worked in that big open landscape, or spoke to me with an ease and openness akin to that l<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhagGRmfBvVdyNBoTUkcdxDV0THYLYmQ86VXAOlq2pWvJmAij6Pz05ADTZmMb7WkQTPF-odU_2xjfcGJjnKDpny2hdpuwuUeZ-XT9kyuufYuenVxwAYFJ5WbkxPPEqvW8q0EVSPA_0adXc/s1600/P1050090-Edit-Edit-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1128" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhagGRmfBvVdyNBoTUkcdxDV0THYLYmQ86VXAOlq2pWvJmAij6Pz05ADTZmMb7WkQTPF-odU_2xjfcGJjnKDpny2hdpuwuUeZ-XT9kyuufYuenVxwAYFJ5WbkxPPEqvW8q0EVSPA_0adXc/s400/P1050090-Edit-Edit-2.jpg" width="281" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ray prepares to wield a branding iron, which has been<br />
heated in the wood fire in the wheelbarrow.</td></tr>
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andscape and no doubt bred by it, or offered a Bud Lite from the cooler in the back of the truck or told the story of building a house with their bare hands it became clear to me that this was a good and healthy way of being human. As one of the bearded cattlemen said to me, "we’re all cut from different cloth. I like the 40 mile gaze", referring to the vast horizon of open, empty, wild and solitary land that surrounded us on all sides. </i><br />
<i>== Eric Mindling, May 13, 2017</i><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Spectators</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpcmPHWZXItE3AWnl8jifUCSAza4O78fjI195ePHOQHHSzHzhSaJjPo40UiIw6EfyQHwNVQApZOE1dA0BPm35_sfeNS9yA1DD98AC7ASFcmXUFAir5uKp0u_Zdtu3Mub2t9cT4ViGpLzc/s1600/P1040777.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1332" data-original-width="1600" height="532" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpcmPHWZXItE3AWnl8jifUCSAza4O78fjI195ePHOQHHSzHzhSaJjPo40UiIw6EfyQHwNVQApZOE1dA0BPm35_sfeNS9yA1DD98AC7ASFcmXUFAir5uKp0u_Zdtu3Mub2t9cT4ViGpLzc/s640/P1040777.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Conner sat his horse just out of the way of the turmoil of the roundup with the patience of an adult. I'd observed his outfit the day before of straw hat, long-sleeved shirt, and jeans, and adopted it as best I could for the event at Pine Creek.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ray</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Conner helps to carefully sort out some ear tags</td></tr>
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TonysVisionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12004608151032301174noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1254463358376059327.post-30177593568111070392017-05-26T15:24:00.000-07:002017-05-26T16:03:10.911-07:00Central Nevada Road Trip - 6. Diana's Punchbowl and Stonehouse Stage Station<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>Central Nevada Journal for Friday, 5/12/17 - In which we further explore Monitor Valley, Diana's Punchbowl, an old stage station, and are brought to our knees by some little bits of gravel.</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i>Note that you can single click a photo for a full-screen slideshow view.</i></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Diana's Punch Bowl, Monitor Valley, and the Toquima Rangh</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Neither I, nor Eric (thank God) are early risers. But I do like my quiet time with coffee and my journal in the morning. Today I barely disturbed Eric’s deep breathing as I climbed out at 7, stealthily crafted my coffee, (AeroPress) and took it back to bed to scribble a few more pages in my 7 X 10 Canson Sketch Book. The focus and the flow of real ink from a fountain pen (Lamy) are like a meditation, the recording of the previous day’s events almost secondary. As I told Eric, while discussing the comparative benefits of digital vs. hand writing, just seeing my bottle of Noodler’s moves me a step into the meditative state. No lie.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The approach to a late 1800's stage station, the two-story structure of native stone<br />
dwarfed beneath the 12,000 foot peaks of the Toquima Range within the<br />
immensity of Monitor Valley</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Soon we sat with our breakfast, instant McCann’s Rolled Oats, in our blue folding chairs in the sunny spot with the view of Ralston Valley, planning the day. The sun felt good, as it was a crisp and breezy morning. The plan was to further explore the vast Monitor Valley. Monitor Valley is 10 to 20 miles wide and 70 miles from north to south. It is huge, providing clear vistas across the sagebrush terrain of the snow-capped peaks of the Toquima Range on the west, which reaches elevations of over 10,000 feet. Similar elevations are reached by the peaks to the east, and the valley itself is at nearly 7,000 feet elevation. So we bundled up a bit, and enjoyed being buffeted by the wind when we stopped to check out a playa. Our objective was an old stage station called Stone House, Diana’s Punchbowl, and the wonders, finally, of White Rock.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stone House was built in 1869 as a station on the Belmont-Austin stage line</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Stone House was one of the places I remembered well from my time here in the late 1960’s. Although it is an impressive two-story structure of local stone, it is nearly lost visually in the vastness of Monitor Valley. According to Shawn Hall in <i>Preserving the Glory Days of Ghost Towns and Mining Towns of Nye County, Nevada</i>, it was built as a station on the Belmont-Austin stage line in 1869 and operated for thirty years, also serving as a gathering place with dances held in the ballroom which occupied the second floor. While the folks of Belmont have done a heroic job of rescuing the fine old courthouse there, energy and resources are just spread too thinly over this sparsely-populated landscape to protect all of the old buildings, and we found that Stone House has collapsed considerably over the 49 years since I had last seen it. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stone House in 1968</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Nevertheless, it is still an imposing and photogenic structure, made even more interested by the several wattle and daub outbuildings. According to Shawn West, after no longer being used as a stage station, a native American family named Hooper bought the station in the 1880’s and operated it as a cattle ranch, adding several additional structures. It may be that the wattle and daub construction of several outbuildings at the site represents a traditional Native American solution to building construction in the desert, where lumber must come from distant mountain ranges. They have weathered the desert storms and are in better condition than the stone building. I found their texture made for fine photographic subject matter. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An interesting wattle and daub structure behind the main building at Stonehouse was probably added by a native American family who owned the facility following its use as a stage station in the 1880's. These 140-year-old structures are worthy of consideration for preservation as possible representatives of traditional native American construction solutions to building where lumber is difficult to obtain.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Further north up the valley we turned east on the mile or so long side road that approached Diana's Punchbowl. Over the past several thousand years, this mineral-laden hot spring, energized by the fading volcanic forces that created the layer upon layer of extrusive volcanic rocks now exposed in the tilted fault block mountains, has built a deposit of travertine nearly one quarter of a mile wide and rising 60 to 75 feet above the valley floor. A circular, 60-foot-diameter crater-like opening tops the mound, with a pool of steaming water 15 or 20 feet below the rim. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The approach to Diana's Punchbowl, a 60 to 75 foot high deposit of travertine nearly a quarter of a mile in diameter.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nearly 60 mile-an-hour winds off of snow-capped peaks, driven by a passing front be darned - we enjoyed our bath immensely.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">To build the mound, the spring must have spilled over its top in ages past, creating a deep blue infinity pool of hot water. Now the spring seeps out around the sides of the mound, with part of the flow collected in a dug canal. Here the water temperature has decreased to "just right", and despite the high wind we stripped down, dipped our aluminum washpan into the flow, and repeatedly dump it over our bodies delighting in the warm water and the chance to scrub off a bit of accumulated grime. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Back at the truck our feeling of cleanliness and refreshment quickly evaporated as we crawled around in the dust replacing a leaky tire. Now we were about 40 miles from Belmont, and another 50 from real auto service in Tonopah without a spare. The gravel roads were looking increasingly treacherous to us, so drove at a sedate pace. </span><span style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;">It was about 5 or 6 PM as we approached Belmont, having given up for another day our search for the real White Rock because of the late hour and lack of a spare. After our second failed tire in three days, we had gained real respect for desert travel, the possible hazards now welling up into our awareness. Besides, dark clouds and distant virga threatened a shower. We were thinking about the cozy bar as we approached the lone brick smoke stack of the mill about a mile and a half from Belmont when there was a thump and swishing sound as if we had run over a tumbleweed. Except that there was no tumbleweed. Eric said, “We’ve had a blowout”. Sure enough, the right rear had a big, unrepairable rip in it. Thinking there might be enough air in the slow-leak tire we’d removed at Dianna’s Punchbowl to limp into town, we put it on. No go. As Eric pointed out, driving on it would likely destroy it, "It's our only ticket back into Tonopah."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">So we dragged by ourselves on foot up over the low pass. At over 7,000 feet Eric patiently held his pace to match that of low-lander Pops. Cruising downhill into town our spirits picked up a bit, but it was still with our tails between our legs that we pushed open the door to the Belmont bar. We were immediately welcomed by Puggie, and directed to the pot luck buffet. When we explained our situation she introduced us to her husband, Jason, a slender cowboy and contractor who thought they might be able to scare up a tire for us, and plug the slow leak. He conferred with his father-in-law, Ray, a tall and slender man in jeans and long-sleeved shirt, the costume generally topped with a straw hat from Michoacán adopted by the local cattle ranchers. We heard Ray say, “We can do that!”, accepting helping out a couple of tourists not as a begrudged but necessary task, but just another job for the day, like greasing up a trailer hitch, or driving over to another valley to deliver some stray cows. We immediately felt the concern and worry drop away as we dug into the very welcome supper and a couple of beers. The Friday night crowd was a large one, and included Puggie’s two grandchildren, Conner, about 8 or 9, and his sister, about 10 or 11, sitting at the table playing cribbage. An assortment of dogs completed the cozy and comfortably friendly group.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">As the group broke up, we went out to Puggie’s and Jason’s place next door where Jason and Ray prepared for our rescue by filling a couple of air tanks and loading up the compressor itself into Jason’s truck. We all piled in and drove back to my forlorn Ford, where the low tire was pressured up and we drove back into town. There Ray lay in the dirt under the truck plying his craft of tire plugging, which we watched with interest, where previously it would have been met with a yawn. We learned that the gravel roads are treacherous, especially at this time of year when they are freshly graded and while without washboarding, the gravel has been popped up to lie exposed on the surface, ready to get forced into tires. Later in the year they would get driven into the road base, but now they were such a threat that locals use 10-ply, rather than the normal 4-ply, carry a plug kit and some sort of compressor, and often a second spare.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">With four firm tires on the ground, Ray said he thought he would have a tire over at his place in Big Smoky Valley that would match, so we left the bad one there. He would work on that the next day after they rounded up branded some cows up at Pine Creek Ranch in Monitor Valley between Dianna’s Punchbowl and Stone House. Perhaps we would like to come and watch? Hell, yeah! Jason even offered to let us use one of his trucks, as we were without a spare for now, but I felt uncomfortable about that, and besides felt too lazy to transfer all of our gear. We chalked that offer up as another plus for these fine people, drove carefully to our campsite for another fine night’s sleep after fun talk and celebration of our “good luck, bad luck” encounter, i.e., the series of incidents that had lead to meeting Puggie, Jason, Ray, Buddy, Henry, John, Bertie, and more, including Buddy’s dog, Cassie.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Another of the wattle and daub structures at Stone House</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Corral at Stone House</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stone House</td></tr>
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TonysVisionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12004608151032301174noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1254463358376059327.post-30586481108929284902017-05-25T09:20:00.000-07:002017-05-25T09:36:22.301-07:00Central Nevada Road Trip - Part 5. Monitor Valley South and the Belmont Bar.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;">Note that you can click on a photo to view it full screen together with a slide show of all of the pics.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcQECst-DaCDoa1w2x4ZKc8fy4pveFSAY5i_AIKEu8oUm79WbBFPlajdKkuqtx86trf0jZc-s99t_zlab5zhiC7KQX_Rw5zWTYWFBMlckPrGGpX5jQKl3DSdN2jrKTxT6-2RJ9yFRh3vY/s1600/P1040369.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="989" data-original-width="1600" height="394" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcQECst-DaCDoa1w2x4ZKc8fy4pveFSAY5i_AIKEu8oUm79WbBFPlajdKkuqtx86trf0jZc-s99t_zlab5zhiC7KQX_Rw5zWTYWFBMlckPrGGpX5jQKl3DSdN2jrKTxT6-2RJ9yFRh3vY/s640/P1040369.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our trusty truck negotiates some desert two-track and generates that wonderful sage aroma while exploring southern Monitor Valley. We were looking for a scenic area of eroded white volcanic ash we assumed was on the west side of the valley. When I took this photo I didn't realize that the real White Rock was directly behind us, appearing as patches of snow right of center in this photo. But it's all about the journey, right?!</td></tr>
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<i>Journal for Thursday, 5/11/17 - Continued<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>In which we explore a couple of brick mills in Monitor Valley, fail to find White Rock, meet the folks at the Belmont Bar, and learn that it's all about the journey.</i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLLbuLoFC3D9VOnEnxRDxS6zpTtmB7aGmHcuT9pOxnA_aFncXloBeccmWjMwngVQrGp30RIKqOXV2m4J6KIM1vkC9Xywslr6FqSUZJ8w7n288s86Xx88OkOZIMupsaD2fx1OOfA1noLRY/s1600/P1040356.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLLbuLoFC3D9VOnEnxRDxS6zpTtmB7aGmHcuT9pOxnA_aFncXloBeccmWjMwngVQrGp30RIKqOXV2m4J6KIM1vkC9Xywslr6FqSUZJ8w7n288s86Xx88OkOZIMupsaD2fx1OOfA1noLRY/s320/P1040356.jpg" width="320" /></a>Following our photo tour around Belmont, and our meetup with
Puggie who inflated our limp trailer spare tire, we went back to the camp site
to install it. Well, Eric installed it while I built us a couple of San Juan
tuna fish sandwiches for lunch, off we went in search of “White Rock”. The
journey took us past the Combination and Monitor-Belmont mills, where I photographed them
for the lovely color of the red brick with the huge blue valley spread out in the
background. But I also worked some of the photos into black and white, showing
the mills as lonely ghosts. As our search for White Rock took us further south
down Monitor Valley we found increasingly sketchy roads, leading us onto some
delightful two track and finally to a pair of tracks through crushed sagebrush,
producing a distinctive Nevada ambiance. Despite my uncertainty of the trucks
abilities, she took us through gulches and up gravelly slopes without
hesitation.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcuAy67ZlZA9_gQ6lVl16hGoo3ryGGU0yUoMjDLCqrYE_ePzYNUY6Qyx2Wo-R6sbGyS2k2fWZNKEUVQSzfj9YoYeW6xzUNwJtr5ZLND4XndwOycx_dKuux-0zBvfEiKnBm5AqqLb8euWY/s1600/P1040356-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1135" data-original-width="1600" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcuAy67ZlZA9_gQ6lVl16hGoo3ryGGU0yUoMjDLCqrYE_ePzYNUY6Qyx2Wo-R6sbGyS2k2fWZNKEUVQSzfj9YoYeW6xzUNwJtr5ZLND4XndwOycx_dKuux-0zBvfEiKnBm5AqqLb8euWY/s320/P1040356-2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Monitor-Belmont Flotation Mill was built to re-work old<br />
<span style="font-size: 12.8px;">tailings during WWI</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Eventually we explored on foot through a deposit of very
light-colored volcanic ash within a forest of pinon and juniper trees and sagebrush. A
distinctive wild horse pathway led past the area, marked with one truly
impressively stacked accumulation of droppings, which were later told was “placed”
by a lead horse marking its territory. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFwk1YR7o8PGhGWH6iIjmCl30Js4qov35pjKrD3-tEUk_2FpEV8k-ajQfX1eswq8NcKTuit-7zI2ZuTePcM3ul6VqUlQwrWQV2BwxDGj28prdHCIvVcwWpyip5FkCqO5ayoPvEiYPm1zU/s1600/White+Rock+HDR+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1208" data-original-width="1600" height="301" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFwk1YR7o8PGhGWH6iIjmCl30Js4qov35pjKrD3-tEUk_2FpEV8k-ajQfX1eswq8NcKTuit-7zI2ZuTePcM3ul6VqUlQwrWQV2BwxDGj28prdHCIvVcwWpyip5FkCqO5ayoPvEiYPm1zU/s400/White+Rock+HDR+2.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A natural bonsai juniper about two feet high and volcanic ash, southern Monitor Valley</td></tr>
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The photographic opportunities within the eroded columns and
ridges of the white ash were OK, but the real pleasure was mostly in the desert
ambiance; the clear fragrant air, long views, and the counterpoints of tiny
flowers extending on seemingly delicate stems above a soft cluster of leaves
which when touched were found to be as tough and bristly as a hedgehog.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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So we retraced our route, stopping again at the mills to
take advantage of the late afternoon light. At the base of the tall stack of
the Combination Mill I knelt to get a view looking up through the tall opening, I put my had down to brace myself, felt something soft, and gently placed the
long-deceased mouse out of the way.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxinEOSPD15-MePiImksWTo0pyBssFDnU5KPOqeap-bpGjdsuSa1r9ZWCkDdupt7APRx5BjQYk-h_tY9tU_Ey8R__GBw-zNn-DAs6EboWQfnOAMKwywUltdmcm7_OStMHoQaDYES-AJ5Q/s1600/dirty+dick+saloon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1195" data-original-width="1600" height="297" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxinEOSPD15-MePiImksWTo0pyBssFDnU5KPOqeap-bpGjdsuSa1r9ZWCkDdupt7APRx5BjQYk-h_tY9tU_Ey8R__GBw-zNn-DAs6EboWQfnOAMKwywUltdmcm7_OStMHoQaDYES-AJ5Q/s400/dirty+dick+saloon.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dirty Dick's Belmont Saloon</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Puggie had invited us to stop by the bar in the evening with
our binder of photos, but neither of us being bar types we clomped up on the
wooden porch and approached the door with some apprehension. How would a group
of tractor hat rednecks react to us camera-toting tourists? We opened the door
and entered, expecting to perhaps be barely tolerated or even simply shut out.
A couple of hours later we left with the warm feeling of having met some new
friends and having even perhaps contributed to their enjoyment of the evening.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhks9UVyedwpIluMErR_WAxfN2XLzPEh60FHA870peWGxuIToeYYxsbhdrUhwR0iTFpx3nn6FzGlMMPDTGVYyqRri7h24P2U5ty_x_4USwWNCzN1ZKE8V2etxjLAvPqcNVz0iP5zq-4gw/s1600/P1040532.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1156" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhks9UVyedwpIluMErR_WAxfN2XLzPEh60FHA870peWGxuIToeYYxsbhdrUhwR0iTFpx3nn6FzGlMMPDTGVYyqRri7h24P2U5ty_x_4USwWNCzN1ZKE8V2etxjLAvPqcNVz0iP5zq-4gw/s400/P1040532.jpg" width="288" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Buddy's wolf-dog, Cassie, rests as he peruses the famous<br />
black binder of <span style="font-size: 12.8px;">50-year-old Central Nevada photos</span></td></tr>
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The first person we
met was Buddy. Actually, Buddy’s wolf dog, Cassie, who at first put on a bit of
a show of ferocity, then relaxed into her normal self, accepting an ear scratch
then lying at Buddys feet while he paged through the black binder, which was
rapidly gaining fame. Buddy is about my age, that is to say, really old. When
he saw the photos of the mine structures in Tonopah he explained that he had
worked as a contractor making many of the structural improvements to them as
they were being stabilized to open to the public. He was especially proud of a
tunnel he had developed that provides visitors with an underground view of the
1,000 foot deep open trench which was used to exploit the surface deposits and
then just kept on going down. </div>
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Henry offered to give us a tour of
the courthouse, and then spent a couple of hours with us there a couple of days
later. John had stories about the mines and also the ranches in the book,
giving me some names of people and places that I scribbled in the margins with
a Sharpie borrowed from Bertie, the bartender and Henry’s wife. I recall her as
being a bit reserved the first night we met her, but by the time we returned
the evening after our visit with Henry to the courthouse she was full of smiles
and interest in how the tour had gone, and questions about, "had we seen
so-and-so’s name on the wall", and "had we really gone all the way up into the
cupola?!" And all because of that book, which I promised to reproduce and send
to the bar with even more photos. I’ll be getting after that, just as soon as
this obsession with getting down the words documenting our fine road trip
peters out. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA70LshGYfxyUbYrgyZr_TqYx1DEz4htP0JK7Gu6FRS5Kckon1iN3KM1MxDz7wa7wsuiGtvrYMd2_aWhvNGRBKCwLWZCf6hfAfkRN9kldwWx3rqrrcL9uS7MrpFuJzBW3tpvjNMXifsbo/s1600/gas+pump+hdr.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1198" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA70LshGYfxyUbYrgyZr_TqYx1DEz4htP0JK7Gu6FRS5Kckon1iN3KM1MxDz7wa7wsuiGtvrYMd2_aWhvNGRBKCwLWZCf6hfAfkRN9kldwWx3rqrrcL9uS7MrpFuJzBW3tpvjNMXifsbo/s400/gas+pump+hdr.jpg" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The glass cylinder pump, now a museum piece, that<br />
welcomed Jean and I when we rolled into Belmont<br />
with a near-empty gas tank in about 1970.</td></tr>
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Before we left the bar I had to take photos of the old
glass-cylinder gas pump which had been restored and was on display next to a
wonderful old 1800’s painting of a woman lying on a downy bed in a state of
considerable disarray. That pump had some meaning to me, as it had saved our
butts about 50 years earlier when Jean and I had gone on a tour in our 1951
Plymouth sedan around Monitor Valley. That was back when I’d been “sitting
wells”, meaning working long shifts collecting and describing samples as they
were being drilled, and then even more interminable shifts doing hydraulic
testing, in 1969 and 1970. But I had 48 hours off between shifts, so Jean would
come down with Ian, then just about two years old, and I would show her around.
This day, after visiting Belmont, Stonehouse and Diana’s Punchbowl, I decided
for variety to loop back south on a road along the other side of the valley.
All went well until we were within just a couple of miles of the main road when
our road plunged through a steeply eroded gully that would have been a
challenge for a 4X4 but not even to be considered with our Plymouth sedan. This
meant that we had to retrace our route, arriving in Belmont at sundown without enough
gas to get ourselves back to the Sundowner Motel in Tonopah. But glowing in the
last light as we finally rolled into town was that glass cylinder atop the
pump. I had to trot down the hill a bit to knock on the door of the service
station’s owner, who came out and filled our tank. I can still recall the
relief and pleasure at seeing that precious amber-colored fluid slosh up into
the cylinder as the owner worked the hand pump.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6Htv0zgxZGmOkSwt3PHd_6Y8l8cCsMpsMI0ZGCorrQ6uVA1EQETKxv-dBYzCQFT9kQs41KuLQL3EgQW2b4oTAI83U5zW8jNLTM8XqZ0I0O91wHktOgMpEsHdp0Fe1y593XnN-u5FL488/s1600/196801xx-belmont_gas_pump-GEM4-12bit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6Htv0zgxZGmOkSwt3PHd_6Y8l8cCsMpsMI0ZGCorrQ6uVA1EQETKxv-dBYzCQFT9kQs41KuLQL3EgQW2b4oTAI83U5zW8jNLTM8XqZ0I0O91wHktOgMpEsHdp0Fe1y593XnN-u5FL488/s640/196801xx-belmont_gas_pump-GEM4-12bit.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Cosmopolitan was still standing back in 1969 when Jean and I rolled into Belmont after a days exploration of<br />
Monitor Valley. and with less than enough fuel remaining in the tank of our 1951 Plymouth to get us back to our motel in Tonopah. The glow of the last light in the glass cylinder atop the old gas pump lifted our hearts.</td></tr>
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At some point Puggie arrived at the bar. Told where we had
got to that day, she pulled up some photos on her cell phone of the “real white
rock”, a fascinating looking area of volcanic ash that has been wind-eroded
into fantastic arches and caves. Eric and I agreed that we had to attempt to find
it again. “Just go straight across the valley from the Belmont-Monitor Mill,”
she said, “You can’t miss it”.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR6dezq0BjATq4TqMSHKQwwkIF8FoCE_ifXxYG1hg4SBC8FTTzR1yHtSMUHWzu-FJXh49Pf78PFV7ocp8Qb8fIWdf51S2r3o4fU_8poMWQFH0J6OzO1EM0NnPe1c5kTsCqowHk0QNwhZE/s1600/P1040365.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="965" data-original-width="1600" height="386" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR6dezq0BjATq4TqMSHKQwwkIF8FoCE_ifXxYG1hg4SBC8FTTzR1yHtSMUHWzu-FJXh49Pf78PFV7ocp8Qb8fIWdf51S2r3o4fU_8poMWQFH0J6OzO1EM0NnPe1c5kTsCqowHk0QNwhZE/s640/P1040365.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Drinking up the delicious desert air and the near-infinite space of Monitor Valley. The snow-covered mountains behind Eric include 9,400 foot Kawich Peak, 45 miles to the south. Monitor Valley is about six miles across at this point.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitjdcjtLVeOwk9jNzFGSwwjnbbtzpLvSJhZbgaGGqYbfPoiYCzLQCzS-0y1ahiUyMORvZ_7tQV0Dmfc-5i_uyt7Hk0oyUEskLBjioZBOi8p_LwXGL5VBTuwif4X5cUy-xL7S5vbw1KPE0/s1600/P1040482_3_4_5_6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1186" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitjdcjtLVeOwk9jNzFGSwwjnbbtzpLvSJhZbgaGGqYbfPoiYCzLQCzS-0y1ahiUyMORvZ_7tQV0Dmfc-5i_uyt7Hk0oyUEskLBjioZBOi8p_LwXGL5VBTuwif4X5cUy-xL7S5vbw1KPE0/s640/P1040482_3_4_5_6.jpg" width="474" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Late afternoon sunlight sets last year's sagebrush flowers aglow at the Belmont-Monitor Mill</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjviXqD31A8oe3UyHpTE63RYT-azDhqCd-nCdFVpHQrhi7yTgqnJmqGKSHf88ZTq-YrUyN0KX9S_n_TTY5uMGcv4PLpB1rcj6n40Pm1Hs6OkFL_zbEyRp_OFGOGI8JSYWpQD_Of0QQu1gg/s1600/P1040366.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1107" data-original-width="1600" height="442" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjviXqD31A8oe3UyHpTE63RYT-azDhqCd-nCdFVpHQrhi7yTgqnJmqGKSHf88ZTq-YrUyN0KX9S_n_TTY5uMGcv4PLpB1rcj6n40Pm1Hs6OkFL_zbEyRp_OFGOGI8JSYWpQD_Of0QQu1gg/s640/P1040366.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our visit to the southern end of Monitor Valley was blessed with a Kodachrome sky.<br />
This black and white was developed in Lightroom, darkening the blue slider and lightening the orange one, simulating the use of a deep red filter in film photography to provide a dramatic ghostly efffect.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC0xSN9gwIYDfjBhkGUBCi_CskE8y5XQ2D1tPj7G8VeF3kIQ6CYC0QBbIlnASELJ_Um2mSCeHQWOC2aiZddMbticz9dBWZPbdM4rhyphenhyphenF-hLzPvi6SdYKjZ9blkfDn5qQQZQ1loH4WZ2dvc/s1600/P1040492-Edit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1065" data-original-width="1600" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC0xSN9gwIYDfjBhkGUBCi_CskE8y5XQ2D1tPj7G8VeF3kIQ6CYC0QBbIlnASELJ_Um2mSCeHQWOC2aiZddMbticz9dBWZPbdM4rhyphenhyphenF-hLzPvi6SdYKjZ9blkfDn5qQQZQ1loH4WZ2dvc/s640/P1040492-Edit.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The tall brick stack of the Combination Mill looms over the vastness of Monitor Valley.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2XtIbM3Z0ZB3EqKK8-rA5T98WBnAQZ6beag0Y1opIjLCwTRIFG4qc3Znh9TcTEFUSs1IJBanxIFKu9RXgF_p6GaTMeDlmis5scoCN71QIYjfK_bxyuCnWx8JTjwLzZUTJiNKiO8I1iqE/s1600/White+Rock+HDR+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1534" data-original-width="1600" height="612" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2XtIbM3Z0ZB3EqKK8-rA5T98WBnAQZ6beag0Y1opIjLCwTRIFG4qc3Znh9TcTEFUSs1IJBanxIFKu9RXgF_p6GaTMeDlmis5scoCN71QIYjfK_bxyuCnWx8JTjwLzZUTJiNKiO8I1iqE/s640/White+Rock+HDR+1.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Among the gullies and hoodoos of the volcanic ash formation in the southern part of Monitor Valley. Although we failed to reach the real "White Rock", we enjoyed poking around on two-track roads and taking in the desert ambiance.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3At2CFkiWHZsdBbshMcOBN0K1ddEjQokPnwFrw5FEpPCyRc9fh1v1hlR-Rt3xhLiq9xSwte8fB05ibgG9Vh8pkfOGRkwmpCyF3zZJbw6vTZewJ9auT9qGlZtGBlfmzn3BqwFOqh6G8Nw/s1600/P1040527.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3At2CFkiWHZsdBbshMcOBN0K1ddEjQokPnwFrw5FEpPCyRc9fh1v1hlR-Rt3xhLiq9xSwte8fB05ibgG9Vh8pkfOGRkwmpCyF3zZJbw6vTZewJ9auT9qGlZtGBlfmzn3BqwFOqh6G8Nw/s640/P1040527.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Puggie and Bertie serve up at the Belmont bar, AKA "Dirty Dick's Belmont Saloon"</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0hKi6CT5XVw8l25Ki0lu4SPU_ZNnh66o9v1ifJsOOVawDij_DsvKrELlutkk4hqyTMueyycfk8Bcfk3CyRapimOdNjuFF93Ly8DV4HD_RC5VJP41gOo3Eqq41dNVLH3Y-bOMmAAGpY44/s1600/P1040517.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0hKi6CT5XVw8l25Ki0lu4SPU_ZNnh66o9v1ifJsOOVawDij_DsvKrELlutkk4hqyTMueyycfk8Bcfk3CyRapimOdNjuFF93Ly8DV4HD_RC5VJP41gOo3Eqq41dNVLH3Y-bOMmAAGpY44/s640/P1040517.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Eric, Buddy, and friends at the Belmont bar. Eric and Henry discuss some of the photos in the black binder</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxqjlm-Bm-bUNonbM7YC5rhiSQJoFEg-13VThs2kapA2hznEh9tKO64l4X1rn694q3Iz-1LMSaXKbV3S2CLpcmgnjTEjLixp3-jSVkRse6SsjKg06HxM9NV2JVBKCZ_1oH0vREmym1upo/s1600/P1050249.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxqjlm-Bm-bUNonbM7YC5rhiSQJoFEg-13VThs2kapA2hznEh9tKO64l4X1rn694q3Iz-1LMSaXKbV3S2CLpcmgnjTEjLixp3-jSVkRse6SsjKg06HxM9NV2JVBKCZ_1oH0vREmym1upo/s640/P1050249.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dogs, friendly folks, and even kids at the weekly pot luck night give the Belmont bar the warm family-friendly ambiance of a British pub.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOZWQV_z3zSz9vF2NxMWE8VaPMgeQiAU4_ZHTjl39sN365euAibot0s5vRneIaBMotAt4Gvzd4nevE7Eac0eV-0Of5jXnXbNWMCXGVqmw45Rv1-NA4mTSaRrjKNrrWnH8osLGjUfk61Ls/s1600/P1050255.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOZWQV_z3zSz9vF2NxMWE8VaPMgeQiAU4_ZHTjl39sN365euAibot0s5vRneIaBMotAt4Gvzd4nevE7Eac0eV-0Of5jXnXbNWMCXGVqmw45Rv1-NA4mTSaRrjKNrrWnH8osLGjUfk61Ls/s640/P1050255.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Eric and John peruse my old photos of the Tonopah-Belmont area taken back in 1968-1970 </td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxinEOSPD15-MePiImksWTo0pyBssFDnU5KPOqeap-bpGjdsuSa1r9ZWCkDdupt7APRx5BjQYk-h_tY9tU_Ey8R__GBw-zNn-DAs6EboWQfnOAMKwywUltdmcm7_OStMHoQaDYES-AJ5Q/s1600/dirty+dick+saloon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1195" data-original-width="1600" height="476" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxinEOSPD15-MePiImksWTo0pyBssFDnU5KPOqeap-bpGjdsuSa1r9ZWCkDdupt7APRx5BjQYk-h_tY9tU_Ey8R__GBw-zNn-DAs6EboWQfnOAMKwywUltdmcm7_OStMHoQaDYES-AJ5Q/s640/dirty+dick+saloon.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
TonysVisionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12004608151032301174noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1254463358376059327.post-55638393010624132542017-05-24T11:16:00.000-07:002017-05-24T16:54:50.590-07:00Central Nevada Road Trip - Part 4. Belmont Town<div class="MsoNormal">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-gch0wj8qQE7EWZDP03ngluvkga2wd-nR0q48PJLJo9MinPQiuUrE5inRkzOJ9xqAqSh8PXVmHIBXutbngQ2o_2wE6f0wg10KhSxuRj__phonFTc-0sEiwS9yzxaC9vgk0XEuMR5IglE/s1600/P1050271.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1043" data-original-width="1600" height="416" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-gch0wj8qQE7EWZDP03ngluvkga2wd-nR0q48PJLJo9MinPQiuUrE5inRkzOJ9xqAqSh8PXVmHIBXutbngQ2o_2wE6f0wg10KhSxuRj__phonFTc-0sEiwS9yzxaC9vgk0XEuMR5IglE/s640/P1050271.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Breakfast among the fragrance of pinon pines and junipers in the Belmont Campground</td></tr>
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<i>The journal - Thursday, May 11, 2017 - Belmont, Nevada</i></div>
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Despite a good night’s sleep after Eric’s fine dinner and a
relaxing evening, both of us scribbling in our journals, I woke a bit anxious.
What to do in a remote desert campground with a failing tire on the trailer.
And how would it affect our limited time here? We must deal with the tire
before anything else lest it be hanging over our heads. Would the truck jack
lift the 4-ton trailer? And where the heck is the truck jack, anyhow? Oh, and
will there be any air in the spare – the last time it was checked was when we
bought a new set of tires for the trailer? Finally I told myself, “You are not
alone”. That affirmation eased my troubled mind, and I was able to enjoy
breakfast sitting next to Eric in a spot he’d picked where the sun just
balanced the cool air, and we had a good view down the valley we’d driven up
the evening before.<o:p></o:p></div>
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There are good reasons for why I am a bit of a hand-wringer.
A bent toward deferred maintenance and less than complete preparation for
contingencies are a couple. Loose lug nuts and bits of the hitch falling off
had brought Hilda and I within a hairsbreadth of catastrophe in the past.
Although I learned from each event, what’s going to happen next? The fact is,
without Eric’s having agreed to join me on this adventure, my anxieties at the
thought of leaving the security of home would likely have totally nixed the
plan before I would have begun even deciding on photo gear to take. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijXfnl32FOnTYfCpqocSNZiKnBSKypH5xPAqevEtGnx71XsxKixZsbaoa1ZqbU1BmdbL21mWJJ_mZgjH8M3msSec9hGKWKTa4_RhiQQ49MiYI_AHwjCA_yNzHeVUqlW-70GVb1_Rsf69g/s1600/P1040320.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1388" data-original-width="1600" height="277" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijXfnl32FOnTYfCpqocSNZiKnBSKypH5xPAqevEtGnx71XsxKixZsbaoa1ZqbU1BmdbL21mWJJ_mZgjH8M3msSec9hGKWKTa4_RhiQQ49MiYI_AHwjCA_yNzHeVUqlW-70GVb1_Rsf69g/s320/P1040320.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Texture in the clear light of Belmont</td></tr>
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So, sitting in the pleasant sunlight and influenced by Eric’s
calmness, we made a plan to leave the trailer in the campground, hump the flaccid
trailer spare into the back of the truck, and head into town and see if we
could scare up a compressor. We rolled into a sweet little town that was dead quiet. No one outside, no
curtains slipping back into place after curious peeks. There were several nice
homes scattered around, but few vehicles. It was as if the town was on
vacation. So we poked around with our cameras enjoying arranging texture and
color through our viewfinders. As with the old mine buildings in Tonopah, those
textures together with my long experience of dabbling black and white prints
through trays of darkroom chemicals led me to envisioning many of the images in
shades of gray. I was soon “in flow” – that delightful experience of being
transported into one’s own timeless space of creativity. I’d brought along my
binder filled with a dozen or so of silver gelatin (i.e., “black and white”)
prints from the negatives I had made in Belmont and its Central Nevada environs
back in 1968 and 1969, so for a while I was quiet lost in wandering the quiet
town identifying the buildings, or lack of them, which I had photographed back
then. Many were still standing, and in the case of the two-story courthouse with
its cupola, actually in better shape than it had been nearly 50 years ago. Unfortunately,
the lovely Cosmopolitan Hotel had crumbled into a heap of warped and weathered
lumber some time ago. Already teetering, it finally disintegrated with the help
of some yahoos with a cable, truck, and no brains. <o:p></o:p></div>
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At some point a barking dog broke into my consciousness when
it roused itself to come from under a mobile home trying to play the role of a
dependable protector, but blowing it with wagging tale and an eagerness to
have its ears scratched. A woman emerged from the big shiny fifth wheel in a
bathrobe, who admitted to having an air compressor when queried after a moment
of polite explanation. Great. We said would come back with the tire after
poking around town a bit. And giving her time to adjust herself for a further
social encounter.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Diane, or “Puggie”, turned out to be a pleasant-looking and
energetic woman in bright red T-shirt and jeans in the mid-thirties who has owned
and operated the bar adjacent to her home for the last half dozen years or so.
The bar, officially Dirty Dick’s Belmont Saloon, is the only enterprise in town
with more or less regular hours. Inasmuch as we ended up visiting the bar for
three nights in a row doing research, more will be written about it and its
inhabitants – actually a whole section of this blog series – in the
near future. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-ZE7t1YAHBgV4MQQf7DusUnRKVqcT2P3WG1xPzoBfUIaGEY0ZMa2oKglwc1Gi2p0HSRYIIoEKfQbV_7B6TWbuZImxbi5m3vBQaFg_SjsMZcTo3ociNVN0LC9mutKXZ12Qpfcn77Hxg4E/s1600/P1040252.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-ZE7t1YAHBgV4MQQf7DusUnRKVqcT2P3WG1xPzoBfUIaGEY0ZMa2oKglwc1Gi2p0HSRYIIoEKfQbV_7B6TWbuZImxbi5m3vBQaFg_SjsMZcTo3ociNVN0LC9mutKXZ12Qpfcn77Hxg4E/s400/P1040252.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In front of the former and unfortunately demolished Cosmopolitan Hotel in Belmont.<br />
My black binder of prints of the photos I took back in 1968 and 1969<br />
provided a reminder of places I wanted to re-visit and better yet a connection<br />
with the people of Belmont</td></tr>
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While the black binder of old photographs was nice to have for comparing and
reminding me of the places I’d photographed those decades ago, it actually got
thrown in along the several maps and guidebooks in the expectation that it
might serve as an icebreaker as we met people along the way, and that I might
learn a bit more about the places photographed. It succeeded on both counts
well beyond my imagining, beginning with Puggie, who after thumbing through it
said we should bring it to the bar that evening, as there would likely be some
old-timers who would like to see it. <o:p></o:p></div>
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So off we went, happy and pleased with our encounter with
Belmont, and looking forward to a day of exploration of the two mills outside
of town, and an area called “White Rock”, that Puggie recommended we see. “You
can’t miss it,” she said.<o:p></o:p><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz2D4EwaIC92C5SxjZnY4KjXJj8mr7OPjjowH4kv178iroNQ5fDoiIU392UvS2p2f1mo7cVbDH_BSG_X_JNl4y6rGV1Lj_r_EvbxtOCC-BTzaxcMYcT1Re_Cu1peEMh6UA60Hfnn7yAP4/s1600/Belmont+HDR+window.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1372" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz2D4EwaIC92C5SxjZnY4KjXJj8mr7OPjjowH4kv178iroNQ5fDoiIU392UvS2p2f1mo7cVbDH_BSG_X_JNl4y6rGV1Lj_r_EvbxtOCC-BTzaxcMYcT1Re_Cu1peEMh6UA60Hfnn7yAP4/s640/Belmont+HDR+window.jpg" width="548" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDIWvY5n3NMPXPynOSqOoeh1rzycps6h1Ru5TRPKPrzKCmLoLFTaasi51vdyLfbz7SkZNPQvjxpYPckigP_RPq3qHp5jLSkR94aPji3nVL65giNgK1ZNAmIpc5MZmpQWGTxD0W0q2aYzQ/s1600/P1040235.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDIWvY5n3NMPXPynOSqOoeh1rzycps6h1Ru5TRPKPrzKCmLoLFTaasi51vdyLfbz7SkZNPQvjxpYPckigP_RPq3qHp5jLSkR94aPji3nVL65giNgK1ZNAmIpc5MZmpQWGTxD0W0q2aYzQ/s640/P1040235.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Philadelphia House, Belmont. Built as the superintendent's home and office of the Combination Silver Mining Company in 1866. During the following 20 years the Belmont mines yielded $15 million in mineral production. Subsequently the building was the home of Rose Walter, a local girl who married a miner named Jack. By 1950 Jack had died of silicosis and the mines had been long played out, but Rose remained for 30 years as protector of the town - "These old houses, such as they are, still belong to someone somewhere".</td></tr>
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The former Nye County Courthouse in May, 2017.</div>
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The Nye County Courthouse in 1968</div>
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The second floor windows open onto what was the district attorney's office. At one time a local mule skinner, a kindly simple man and the butt of jokes, got elected to the office. He enjoyed the perks so much, including a comfortable chair and huge oak desk, that he wouldn't leave when his term was up. Here's a tune about that event, "The Ballad of Andy Johnson":</div>
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<a href="https://vimeo.com/30938018">https://vimeo.com/30938018</a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFggxKN7TkeOZ2h7q2vTf0uH-GD0Gz-VhY87I5xNgvECygOvBqf1jYmy_Ha8gQfy4hb04EXBhKGjEtycIIZ3rZTmrU8NX2-FuMfZ3qwfU4KHnLzCbOZz4iFPPd8A8C9pWWwbtk6ErdxZ0/s1600/P1040276.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1074" data-original-width="1600" height="428" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFggxKN7TkeOZ2h7q2vTf0uH-GD0Gz-VhY87I5xNgvECygOvBqf1jYmy_Ha8gQfy4hb04EXBhKGjEtycIIZ3rZTmrU8NX2-FuMfZ3qwfU4KHnLzCbOZz4iFPPd8A8C9pWWwbtk6ErdxZ0/s640/P1040276.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoIGLdSwMewHheDLRTil5ZQLgCnM990JnbtEdTmTFhA4MJCL80T4lOaaaZ41yhMCK2oNjUY5-2dxw4q27hLUZ897e2oBxvg0vjill-Z-IwE8ZgZ1DhHRdYu-E9KvFHw4s4DTTJJlbNT6A/s1600/P1040545.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1057" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoIGLdSwMewHheDLRTil5ZQLgCnM990JnbtEdTmTFhA4MJCL80T4lOaaaZ41yhMCK2oNjUY5-2dxw4q27hLUZ897e2oBxvg0vjill-Z-IwE8ZgZ1DhHRdYu-E9KvFHw4s4DTTJJlbNT6A/s640/P1040545.jpg" width="422" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Henry was one of the Belmont residents who paged with interest through the black binder of 50-year-old photos. Closing the binder, he graciously offered to provide us a tour of the old courthouse building. Henry and others have worked with Nye County, Nevada State Parks, and a group of donors and volunteers, Friends of the Belmont Courthouse, to secure the building with a new roof, windows, and doors. Massive interior structural improvements were made to stabilize the building, although Henry bemoaned the loss of portions of the graffiti covered lath and plaster , necessary to install the new structural members - "Lots of history lost there", he mourned for the missing signatures, some as old as the 1910's. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Henry describing the purpose of one of the artifacts he's collected in glass cases in the old courthouse. He had stories for old pipes and horseshoes, the rooms in the building, and the names in the graffiti on the walls.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQRI77pOQ-tOhJqms7MPGH110qa5dcTAOqJF8mESXCZzZpFcAsq02eFB6cRrtG7Ty7MON3HJKmF-OwnWYlsyNEixSPLz8oMNY8Pi_hFLz972r7tvJyr1Q83ouW96diWgwIvspsdf7XpME/s1600/P1040562.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1568" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQRI77pOQ-tOhJqms7MPGH110qa5dcTAOqJF8mESXCZzZpFcAsq02eFB6cRrtG7Ty7MON3HJKmF-OwnWYlsyNEixSPLz8oMNY8Pi_hFLz972r7tvJyr1Q83ouW96diWgwIvspsdf7XpME/s640/P1040562.jpg" width="626" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Henry's dog rests in the former courtroom on the second floor of the courthouse.</td></tr>
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Addendum - </h2>
<h3>
How to get there and services</h3>
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Belmont is about 47 miles northeast of Tonopah. Follow Hwy 6 east from Tonopah for about 5 miles and turn north on Hwy 376, a paved road. After about 13 miles turn right onto Hwy 82 and follow it for about 27 miles into Belmont. Although Hwy 82 is paved, when we traveled it in May 2017 there were some serious potholes which may have led to the demise of the front right tire on our trailer. We took it much slower on the way out, and still had trouble dodging them all.</div>
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At the time of our visit the only services were the bar and the campground. I believe courthouse tours are available seasonally on weekends, and there appeared to be a gift/antique/junk shop that would be open seasonally. The campground has well-maintained pit toilets and no water or other services. It is located in a lovely forested setting southwest of the town. There is a signed turnoff to the left from Hwy 82 about a mile before reaching Belmont.</div>
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The semi-paved road ends on the northern outskirts of Belmont, and continues as a gravel road north up beautiful Monitor Valley past cattle ranches, Stonehouse, a former stage stop, and a dramatic hot spring, Diana's Punchbowl. The road was well-graded at the time of our visit, however we still suffered two flat tires. Locals recommend deflating tires somewhat and slowing down to help prevent sharp bits of gravel from penetrating. They also use 10-ply tires, as opposed to the normal 4-ply, carry a portable cigarette lighter compressor, and a plug kit. They also often carry two spares. You are warned!</div>
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<h3>
A Bit of Belmont History</h3>
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After finding the Wikipedia article disappointingly sparse and out of date, I poked around a bit and found the 1972 form nominating Belmont for listing in the National Register of Historic Places. The nomination was submitted by the University of Nevada's Desert Research Institute. As my photos of Central Nevada were exhibited in the DRI lobby at that time, I would like to think that perhaps they had some influence toward initiating the research necessary for the nomination. At any rate, here is a summary of what the application's content.</div>
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The town is located within a pinon-juniper forest just below the low pass between Ralston and Monitor Valleys. Abundant spring water and the presence of pine nut trees make it a probable prehistoric habitation site. Historically, native Americans from neighboring valleys gather via horseback to participate in rabbit drives and festivals, and a Shoshone population lived among the Europeans in Belmont.</div>
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The mining town was settled as a result of a silver strike in 1865, and soon grew to a population of 2,000. The town became the county seat in 1867, by which time it had become an important mining and milling center as well as a trading center for settlements within a radius of 100 miles. By 1868 it was the most flourishing town in eastern Nevada. </div>
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After a decline of a few years as ore played out, new discoveries in 1873 resulted in another temporary boom. in 1874 the town included 3 miles of streets, and wood and stone sidewalks shaded by maples, locusts, and balm-of-Gilead trees, and many substantial brick and stone buildings. The town contained four stores, two saloons, five restaurants, a livery stable, post office, assay office, bank, school, assay office, two newspapers, and a blacksmith shop. By 1887 most of the mines had shut down, and business and population declined. In 1905 the county seat was moved to Tonopah, following a new wave of silver discovery. The last mining activity was in 1907-1908 when tailings were reworked during the WWI years via the Highbridge Mill.<br />
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At the time of the application in 1972 the significant structures noted were the Monitor-Belmont and Combination Mills, the courthouse, and the Cosmopolitan hotel. The most significant structures of the mills were the smokestasks, fifty to sixty feet high. The Cosmopolitan, built on Main Street in 1870, was used as a saloon and a music hall. (unfortunately, as described above, the Cosmopolitan has since completely collapsed). The courthouse was described as being in fairly good condition, although all of the interior furnishing and the windows and frames had been removed. The prime threat to the structure was said to be the market for used brick. </div>
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TonysVisionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12004608151032301174noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1254463358376059327.post-13833303203628835202017-05-23T16:34:00.001-07:002017-05-23T16:34:07.606-07:00Central Nevada Road Trip - Part 3. Into the Desert<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBIYLVhs4w0ghBvRQwy2rrxGocndA5DenJtLLmah-9_ZyWJIw9N4G4sqe22wKq9_FQqTJzlWiWKRDm4ZW2QLfr9uV_FIxExJeAzo7AqV_HBLRgU2MAZ_tE_u9IHSSbfOY0Nkfx_MroBjo/s1600/DSC00623-Pano.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="232" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBIYLVhs4w0ghBvRQwy2rrxGocndA5DenJtLLmah-9_ZyWJIw9N4G4sqe22wKq9_FQqTJzlWiWKRDm4ZW2QLfr9uV_FIxExJeAzo7AqV_HBLRgU2MAZ_tE_u9IHSSbfOY0Nkfx_MroBjo/s640/DSC00623-Pano.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mono Lake at dawn<br />(Note that clicking any image will open up a larger version and allow clicking through all of the images in sequence. Of course, you will want to do that only after you have enjoyed my engaging prose below)</td></tr>
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<i>Journal for Wednesday, 5/10/17</i><o:p></o:p></div>
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The western sky glimpsed thru the trailer window as I rolled
over cozy at 4:30AM was a gentle orange merging up into deep blue - a nudge of a reminder that night was soon to become day, and that we had risked eviction to camp
near the lake for the opportunity to photograph the tufa towers at first light.
Maybe, maybe not, I semi-decide as I roll over for more delightful snoozing.
But soon my 77-year-old urinary tract has me up again. With a wistful glance
at the still-warm, tossed-back bedding I find myself dressing, grabbing tripod
and Sony bag, and heading out into the day. Eric, awakened by my rustling, is
already out, winding through the sagebrush labyrinth toward the lake shore. As
I stumble sleepily along in his wake the sun is already touching the peaks of the snow-capped eastern
Sierras. Almost sensing the earth's inexorable rotation I pick up my hustle a bit to get to the tufa towers for that special light. At the shore they are silhouettes for a moment against the glowing mountains, then they are lit in turn. Every direction has a
stunning scene – the sun winking behind a tower out in the lake, mountains
framed between odd shapes that could only be imagined by Antoni Gaudi. I
meet up with Eric and we watch an osprey carrying a fish as it swoops and
dives, calling all the while as if performing a victory dance before delivering
it to a scraggly nest atop one of the towers.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEa59kLfnVdQA2NynLAPGIExGlGd2LpSr5bRPgmLP7Oc07FRApo3VCT9PFUrkBMS3vGsVmydvQfQl8JVUDbTU8c1RxGb49dQexj1yhFZ38jgL6hFJiFlpSh_mYd-oVkluOkD3aetXWb3A/s1600/P1040127.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEa59kLfnVdQA2NynLAPGIExGlGd2LpSr5bRPgmLP7Oc07FRApo3VCT9PFUrkBMS3vGsVmydvQfQl8JVUDbTU8c1RxGb49dQexj1yhFZ38jgL6hFJiFlpSh_mYd-oVkluOkD3aetXWb3A/s320/P1040127.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Carson Peak as seen from Silver Lake</td></tr>
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Snow is down to the road in places, the mountains dazzling
and closing in as we explore the June Lake Loop, a glaciated valley cut into
the heart of the eastern Sierra. The view climaxes as we push to the shore of
Silver Lake through springy willows just coming into leaf. The impossibly steep
and craggy face of Carson Peak reflected in the still water is just one of many
such spectacles along the eastern face of the Sierran fault block. The gentle
sound of the flow of water around the boulders at the lake’s outlet contrasts
with the distant roar of a snowmelt cascade from a high hanging valley. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivzIXxAzo3dsyD926AIZv6NXW1lj_w61-oNXSVofzpyJkelH86Vc35sh8jFuGLqaeyvHB_RALPXXamR7x7Yk2CGfhPBg3hT0Ej-All0ICcV5b4rksahkTwAVyku-UDimCIVIOg88GFtj0/s1600/P1040140-Pano.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="310" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivzIXxAzo3dsyD926AIZv6NXW1lj_w61-oNXSVofzpyJkelH86Vc35sh8jFuGLqaeyvHB_RALPXXamR7x7Yk2CGfhPBg3hT0Ej-All0ICcV5b4rksahkTwAVyku-UDimCIVIOg88GFtj0/s640/P1040140-Pano.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Sierras are left behind as we head east into the desert. Their rampart marks the western boundary of the Great Basin, where the trapped rivers never reach the sea.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMDnr7ObAg4UqHc4eP6DGl8n_4ii1ZVPOXqGrwcV18hCO5c-NGqo_N2hv7zQ1KvkxcuhKAtKbC8_WzDtEmuJuQ9YZgXtDaPHPY-MirQzVdD2ir_7dZYfOQaGdHRVfLmHDrbn4H6-f6b9Q/s1600/Eric+-+lunch+stop+above+Benton+from+his+peak.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="334" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMDnr7ObAg4UqHc4eP6DGl8n_4ii1ZVPOXqGrwcV18hCO5c-NGqo_N2hv7zQ1KvkxcuhKAtKbC8_WzDtEmuJuQ9YZgXtDaPHPY-MirQzVdD2ir_7dZYfOQaGdHRVfLmHDrbn4H6-f6b9Q/s640/Eric+-+lunch+stop+above+Benton+from+his+peak.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Heading into the deep desert. Photo by Eric from his aerie atop the jumble of boulders he climbed in search of cell signal</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh5Ou28R7zUGZXXicdCJoWTBzAadErnxgj7_1Wbt0oQ0oGEZGDhF8CCpiiZkfIecEMJD-RveG2c3CHa8rMDN1rPXm0vUiCrieHNG3mJpTem3LevxELvD4JIwqucBcSV4y0dOJbrXhfcqg/s1600/P1040166.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh5Ou28R7zUGZXXicdCJoWTBzAadErnxgj7_1Wbt0oQ0oGEZGDhF8CCpiiZkfIecEMJD-RveG2c3CHa8rMDN1rPXm0vUiCrieHNG3mJpTem3LevxELvD4JIwqucBcSV4y0dOJbrXhfcqg/s320/P1040166.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Eric summits a jumble of eroded granitic bedrock<br />to commune with Instagram followers.</td></tr>
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We finally leave the Sierras in our wake as we head off into
the desert proper, rolling east on Hwy 120 between the south shore of Mono Lake
and the dark basalt of geologically recent volcanic craters and cinder cones. At
a photo break among pinon pines and deeply weathered granite cliffs and boulders above Benton I enjoy the textures and resinous desert scents while Eric clambers to the top
of a jumble of granite in search of the signal bars that will enable contact with his Instagram followers. I’m happy to sit and breath and feel
gratitude for being in this lovely place with my son who shares that
appreciation – even if diverted on occasion by his need for an internet hit.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbnYLkeaf1owECVCDxoqSjIvdMujrU2MgRMq9eGXkvHsDCMRlLMih6xusI_C6I_ZLQvGByY0RATRQktrpCjZ9adoi-faO-8V_lVLXIGPdFjTJY3RQcFGlyol-DlsiFotBgGVEp7_OgA5w/s1600/P1040146.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="352" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbnYLkeaf1owECVCDxoqSjIvdMujrU2MgRMq9eGXkvHsDCMRlLMih6xusI_C6I_ZLQvGByY0RATRQktrpCjZ9adoi-faO-8V_lVLXIGPdFjTJY3RQcFGlyol-DlsiFotBgGVEp7_OgA5w/s640/P1040146.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Great Basin desert is far from a monotonous dune-covered waste. Crustal stretching has created a series of fault-block mountains separated by wide valleys. The White Mountains are one of its highest ranges, with peaks of over 14,000 feet. Most of the range lies within California. The boundary with Nevada passes through the notch at the north end of the range, placing Boundary Peak at the far left in Nevada. At an elevation of 13,147 feet, it is the tallest peak in Nevada.</td></tr>
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Onward, circling the north end of the majestic White
Mountains, where somewhere up there in that nourishing whiteness exist some of
the oldest beings on earth, hopefully out of reach of man’s desire to pave and
cut. The approach to Tonopah is slow over long grades and featureless desert. I
comment to Eric that Hwy 6, rather than Hwy 50, better deserves the epithet of the
state’s loneliest road. Eric points out that there is a lot of competition for that title in
Nevada. With the scenic desolation my fears that the trip might turn out to be
a huge bore for Eric began to rise again. But of course I should not have
feared. In Tonopah’s outdoor mining museum we were both perked up by the
photographic possibilities of the old structures, and impressed at the
appreciation of the local people for their historical heritage, and the energy
they put into preserving it. This impression was to continue into Belmont and
its environs.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBAZ9wCw8bhnxYSwK5_dEPV5I0MUGxea_O4Xv-u6EPR-NG1s3sKNlqQOndgfOt4uPWRlSXH4UIZSOFlBJn_o1YipS2eHUu-Dgb1wBmWn423VjBW4n0pglnA93h8PQNj0z8M2_yM3UNuFM/s1600/P1040180.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBAZ9wCw8bhnxYSwK5_dEPV5I0MUGxea_O4Xv-u6EPR-NG1s3sKNlqQOndgfOt4uPWRlSXH4UIZSOFlBJn_o1YipS2eHUu-Dgb1wBmWn423VjBW4n0pglnA93h8PQNj0z8M2_yM3UNuFM/s320/P1040180.jpg" width="294" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Silver Top tipple, May 10, 2017</td></tr>
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In my darkroom days of dim lights and trays of chemicals the
process of photography was only just beginning once the negatives were dry. Hands and pieces of cardboard on coathanger handles were used to
lighten selected areas of an image by holding back the projected enlarging light,
or darken areas by giving them a bit more exposure through a hole in cardboard
or an opening configured by contorting one’s hands. It was even possible to
locally control contrast, as well as exposure. Image processing in the digital world allows even more control, and the fun and artistic expression of taking an image far from its original look. Options
include turning a color image into a black and white one with all of the
filtering options previously available in the film world, and then some. <o:p></o:p>Perhaps it was the memory of my earlier photos of the Tonopah mining structures, or the textures and contrasts of the subjects themselves that called for a black and white representation, but that’s where I found myself going in the processing stage of the Tonopah photos taken as we wandered through the outdoor Tonopah Mining Museum. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzg8sm8zIi9n173istycFATB8LmPZkUU-ft3t495jQ3szlbY75L1-bKy3j1iLKVJ95Im6_fv84q9Bptv5rFEEpUoNazFfqqyRVWugGh-311jXP1vuxHGN7UN2BF_nHaQ0v-OY_X4OiZ9M/s1600/Central+Nevada-silve+top+shaft-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzg8sm8zIi9n173istycFATB8LmPZkUU-ft3t495jQ3szlbY75L1-bKy3j1iLKVJ95Im6_fv84q9Bptv5rFEEpUoNazFfqqyRVWugGh-311jXP1vuxHGN7UN2BF_nHaQ0v-OY_X4OiZ9M/s320/Central+Nevada-silve+top+shaft-1.jpg" width="269" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Silver Top tipple - 1968</td></tr>
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We rambled around and within the old structures and buildings until
closing time, then gassed up and headed out Hwy 6 for a bit, then north on 376
and finally attempting to skirt the potholes of 82 to the Belmont campground, pleasantly
located among pinon pines, junipers, and warm-colored outcrops of
deeply-weathered granite. The campground has no water supply, but does include clean pit toilets and is well maintained by the Belmont community. </div>
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As we
set up the trailer where it would be our home for the next three nights Eric
pointed out deep sidewall cracks in one of its tires. Discovering that the
spare had insufficient pressure, we put our heads together for a moment and
came up with the thought that, “Someone in town must have an air compressor”.
And so we enjoyed a dinner of delicious Indian curry cooked by Eric, confident
in solving our problem, but really having no idea of the degree of
kindness and warmth of the Belmont community we would unleash in the coming few
days.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIXpvwhQH77nYtc2pOTt2lilMZr0OI4Yfcj2S8r4Sg8K5hOnyTB4dIefKAHO_hyphenhyphenBm7qT1_mggL3FvyN34LRTOS-O1tgQX0k2sQvyRxauk3uXWVgvai1F45Q62j7Lsl-bfmHzGomrKAkLs/s1600/P1040207.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="574" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIXpvwhQH77nYtc2pOTt2lilMZr0OI4Yfcj2S8r4Sg8K5hOnyTB4dIefKAHO_hyphenhyphenBm7qT1_mggL3FvyN34LRTOS-O1tgQX0k2sQvyRxauk3uXWVgvai1F45Q62j7Lsl-bfmHzGomrKAkLs/s640/P1040207.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Inside the hoist operator's station, Silver Top Mine, Tonopah</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWUnVMbopXAWOdjw2qw-GE9ylD9USWI7koQuXEgibl-44AkQu9d4hnxNldCI1uoIqSoT38ow4wgy5Tj1qpmgiXChLy2TlIiDupKI6y1ec5yq8Ca5RE2SaY1jLsoHTTSAOfh3jeIZisgI4/s1600/P1040216.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWUnVMbopXAWOdjw2qw-GE9ylD9USWI7koQuXEgibl-44AkQu9d4hnxNldCI1uoIqSoT38ow4wgy5Tj1qpmgiXChLy2TlIiDupKI6y1ec5yq8Ca5RE2SaY1jLsoHTTSAOfh3jeIZisgI4/s640/P1040216.jpg" width="538" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Door to the Silver Top Mine hoist</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvU66bV0eYs59KvZDpqyxQX-BUcrW_3ulJTqhak8e06tV1A-_LTcqAUWLVBV2sIa717XW0P8ibiLuDOFWomaEupSxOtpzRR9AQnli8F0SIP60_G5ARtaZqrARA135__LBtoNHwq67m1fY/s1600/P1040230.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvU66bV0eYs59KvZDpqyxQX-BUcrW_3ulJTqhak8e06tV1A-_LTcqAUWLVBV2sIa717XW0P8ibiLuDOFWomaEupSxOtpzRR9AQnli8F0SIP60_G5ARtaZqrARA135__LBtoNHwq67m1fY/s640/P1040230.jpg" width="560" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The huge timbers for the Desert Queen hoist works were shipped by rail and freight wagon from Truckee, California,</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb5kkOGIBdmX5-4q45Ypt9djnR8_PXgccFoOdvmX-CQgTm0Gm-osI_83otxjMnIAKrx_-AcGUtvxxv7FU5K7etMxPsdN7yx8SbdP-Ee6nTs7uD37lkPpHK2kL13u6Avwxufh0XW3VuGxA/s1600/P1040194-HDR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb5kkOGIBdmX5-4q45Ypt9djnR8_PXgccFoOdvmX-CQgTm0Gm-osI_83otxjMnIAKrx_-AcGUtvxxv7FU5K7etMxPsdN7yx8SbdP-Ee6nTs7uD37lkPpHK2kL13u6Avwxufh0XW3VuGxA/s640/P1040194-HDR.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The hoist drum for the Silver Top Mine is about 7 feet in diameter. Chalk marks in the operator's station say that it was last used in 1944. Contrary to the graffiti and decay I feared to find, these and other remnants of mining history were<br />obviously appreciated and well cared for by local and county groups. Buildings were even more accessible than when<br />I had wandered around them in the late 1960's with my camera.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDdPhzZpUtIMYJplU0HxNfDvoLIcC_5bopDoCh0spJ-j2S2LbR1X59zfCFVHRwoJlEkcHUBLsooz2RMSI4_V6lQPBdiVrcZz92npQC6Rr47DK89zW-SpS-wiCduLWmgRSsDe05gE1zfvo/s1600/P1040210-HDR+-+distort.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="466" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDdPhzZpUtIMYJplU0HxNfDvoLIcC_5bopDoCh0spJ-j2S2LbR1X59zfCFVHRwoJlEkcHUBLsooz2RMSI4_V6lQPBdiVrcZz92npQC6Rr47DK89zW-SpS-wiCduLWmgRSsDe05gE1zfvo/s640/P1040210-HDR+-+distort.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hoist controls for the Silver Top shaft. The wheel seen through the door on the left is an indicator showing the<br />operator the level of the man cage or cart elevator. Once raised to the surface the carts were rolled across to<br />the tipple seen below, where the ore was dumped into railcars for shipment to a mill.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSBDcBZnr4c46m9_RKGV7ijGSBoZivVo_NuTL2iGA5OQBnViVgvwrdBso9lwTzLC0m48G-lf-FApnUtZVR2pUeRFb7QUpL-8dtXrUrXOHsibecIJYIuw5Egwstm4xDyF4vcUwaGHMtL60/s1600/P1040188.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSBDcBZnr4c46m9_RKGV7ijGSBoZivVo_NuTL2iGA5OQBnViVgvwrdBso9lwTzLC0m48G-lf-FApnUtZVR2pUeRFb7QUpL-8dtXrUrXOHsibecIJYIuw5Egwstm4xDyF4vcUwaGHMtL60/s640/P1040188.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Silver Top tipple looks much as it did in 1968 when I photographed it with my twin lens Ricoh. The difference is that<br />it is now safely accessible.<br /></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIgdPApDkXYXie_OU8WIRnqQJa3II61jIyymmaqiyVPUIQd1Tmu_ZWb8teSttNDpLpUKp67kIiFHItoVnY9Mh3APlOBXUAoll-CmH7EEgoDDFY5Rol-NxKsYmCipCpyBcpby8VPaMIXuQ/s1600/P1050338.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIgdPApDkXYXie_OU8WIRnqQJa3II61jIyymmaqiyVPUIQd1Tmu_ZWb8teSttNDpLpUKp67kIiFHItoVnY9Mh3APlOBXUAoll-CmH7EEgoDDFY5Rol-NxKsYmCipCpyBcpby8VPaMIXuQ/s640/P1050338.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Eric peruses the gazetteer planning the next leg during lunch at the museum parking lot in Tonopah. I've put together our "San Juan Tuna" - a recipe learned on a river trip in southeast Utah. Key ingredients include olives, raisins, chopped nuts, small diced apple - as well as tuna and mayo. One of Orowheat's heartier breads and lettuce wraps it up. Eric planned and prepared all of our dinners, based on curry dishes he had enjoyed in India.</td></tr>
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TonysVisionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12004608151032301174noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1254463358376059327.post-1632617995260763992017-05-22T17:00:00.000-07:002017-05-22T17:00:09.149-07:00Central Nevada Road Trip - Part 2. Mono Lake Camp<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtioV19hDDZQ6Mqpe1KSzR4dUSAQd92bLoYw-zTGeHkImjm9inXcYej8lJpkq1sGBNNFRf8tQZGpjhPHhw_MVlH-cwsdDaxGBgRkohxHeUD07xeHNj5gKfWPnaWaxMZIF97fx0BrKZK8I/s1600/DSC00435.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtioV19hDDZQ6Mqpe1KSzR4dUSAQd92bLoYw-zTGeHkImjm9inXcYej8lJpkq1sGBNNFRf8tQZGpjhPHhw_MVlH-cwsdDaxGBgRkohxHeUD07xeHNj5gKfWPnaWaxMZIF97fx0BrKZK8I/s640/DSC00435.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mono Lake looking south down CA 395<br />(Click on the photo to view larger versions of all of the photos in sequence)</td></tr>
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Vast as it is, covering 70 square miles and filled with ¾ of
a cubic mile of water, Mono Lake is but a puddle of its former self. From when
it was formed about a million years ago, until the end of the last ice age
about 10,000 years ago, it was up to 500 feet deeper and twice as large, extending from what is now California well into
western Nevada.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhugWWFnI2xAv7PdOUG9rvUxY12NIb9gIMvyqO_DK7I8wfJtb5h0NIWEj8pBS_V_r9SE0atalu5vlYkXxPqPPXXL1oEjdNQ0k0rYxvoTTFwNdQLDUgua69zjE0ITtA5uCJPDqP64DFD1sU/s1600/DSC00456.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhugWWFnI2xAv7PdOUG9rvUxY12NIb9gIMvyqO_DK7I8wfJtb5h0NIWEj8pBS_V_r9SE0atalu5vlYkXxPqPPXXL1oEjdNQ0k0rYxvoTTFwNdQLDUgua69zjE0ITtA5uCJPDqP64DFD1sU/s320/DSC00456.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The tufa columns of Mono Lake were created as<br />underwater springs deposited dissolved minerals.</td></tr>
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The ancestral Mono Lake was one of several large Lakes
within the Great Basin during that time, known by geologists as Pliocene –
Pleistocene time. The Great Basin is an area of internal drainage including
most of Nevada and eastern California – rivers within the Great Basin are
trapped by topography and never make it to the sea. The Great Basin formed
beginning about 4 million years ago as the movement of tectonic plates began to
pull that part of the continent apart, tilting some crustal blocks and dropping
others as fault-bounded valleys, or grabens. The ongoing expansion and tilting created
the Sierra Nevada range and the fault block mountain ranges of Nevada. The
down-dropped grabens form the vast, 40-mile-view sagebrush-covered valleys.
Passing through that landscape seen from the point of view of our life span,
minuscule in comparison to geologic time, all seems stable, the mountains and
vast valleys as having existed unchanged forever. In fact, by speeding up time
in our imaginations as a stop motion video, we can see the mountains
continually rising, while being worn down by erosion nearly as fast as they
rise, their sediments carried into the valleys by periodic catastrophic flash
floods building huge alluvial fans and filling the basins to depths of many thousands
of feet.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJoVPkDKMN8ysXrMTdo7ghoe_HpvUbKkTv8VC8IEXihHYrFaU5-OyxVdRESxJ70rTb-KPeyZ9uUsw3elMnM9GUYUl7odRpXajE7GCQ16emyeiSykeVMJArKZ5dY_Q9g2mMR1SzDeD0fiQ/s1600/DSC00468_tonemapped.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJoVPkDKMN8ysXrMTdo7ghoe_HpvUbKkTv8VC8IEXihHYrFaU5-OyxVdRESxJ70rTb-KPeyZ9uUsw3elMnM9GUYUl7odRpXajE7GCQ16emyeiSykeVMJArKZ5dY_Q9g2mMR1SzDeD0fiQ/s640/DSC00468_tonemapped.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The desert quiet enhanced the gentle sounds of birds. Two of them flew into this shot as I was setting up, to perch on the top of a tufa tower.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLJ1Jnu6Rrmiseqd8dE2_mwW9QfG4OV1Xo1ocsaZrN0cPpxDK6hffd8lFJSvIfhmVk-NM45xEw-ouZt9w15aYm-4l3scfnZEiO7nY15K5eBPCjWsWEgSqXv4ZEpojYGLSEARniUXVaWWY/s1600/DSC00542_tonemapped-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLJ1Jnu6Rrmiseqd8dE2_mwW9QfG4OV1Xo1ocsaZrN0cPpxDK6hffd8lFJSvIfhmVk-NM45xEw-ouZt9w15aYm-4l3scfnZEiO7nY15K5eBPCjWsWEgSqXv4ZEpojYGLSEARniUXVaWWY/s640/DSC00542_tonemapped-2.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tufa towers at sundown,</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwWyKf8PO-w6a1YExXZIx8plw9jPjT77R2is12iuWLQVAFuhJGEnTZNcGwlh0LWqqQe3NEuUhnmdSnZKv4SNmgn-FUZsxHKGKyj67USEKNQKCGmbo9MLY3PKYMYbRWyku31Ehorq8FkZY/s1600/DSC00576-HDR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="428" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwWyKf8PO-w6a1YExXZIx8plw9jPjT77R2is12iuWLQVAFuhJGEnTZNcGwlh0LWqqQe3NEuUhnmdSnZKv4SNmgn-FUZsxHKGKyj67USEKNQKCGmbo9MLY3PKYMYbRWyku31Ehorq8FkZY/s640/DSC00576-HDR.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A nearly full moon rose to add to the feeling of otherworldly ambiance</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggTirsJFihlQZGP6_3mU3AJ3iCFTv2q7QKEXJBOrT97mytzrvl_-RldtH6hKq-ujRxcvRZsaHCTUUWN5Rf20p4ySywuG8-s2bTeb4Ps9X_6uoKIX0ac2sP1Asx9VCcXLd813rqDmyIbks/s1600/DSC00632-HDR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggTirsJFihlQZGP6_3mU3AJ3iCFTv2q7QKEXJBOrT97mytzrvl_-RldtH6hKq-ujRxcvRZsaHCTUUWN5Rf20p4ySywuG8-s2bTeb4Ps9X_6uoKIX0ac2sP1Asx9VCcXLd813rqDmyIbks/s640/DSC00632-HDR.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chancing eviction we camped in a parking lot near the lake <br />to encourage us to emerge from cozy beds to catch the morning light.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjybAziTQ5gvGf2wxmpzXnu-MOvxkJr_ViEuNfIw9xPltN_tnFNOCk4Lo2qO6WCy3XwKRi0nQX4TzzzidUNFzDs3BeszO9fpRbFwYPmoistsa37nIiAKkN9Z-4umA9RGxBT_PFNXjxS9Nw/s1600/DSC00719.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjybAziTQ5gvGf2wxmpzXnu-MOvxkJr_ViEuNfIw9xPltN_tnFNOCk4Lo2qO6WCy3XwKRi0nQX4TzzzidUNFzDs3BeszO9fpRbFwYPmoistsa37nIiAKkN9Z-4umA9RGxBT_PFNXjxS9Nw/s640/DSC00719.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our first night's camp on the south shore of Mono Lake</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Breakfast with a view before heading east and deeper into the Nevada desert.</td></tr>
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TonysVisionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12004608151032301174noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1254463358376059327.post-11986472461023603492017-05-22T12:54:00.000-07:002017-05-22T17:00:34.800-07:00Central Nevada Road Trip – a father and son experience in deep Nevada - Part 1. The Beginning<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Eric and Tony Mindling, Berlin, Nevada, May 15, 2017<br />
Photo by Eric Mindling<br />
<span style="font-size: 12.8px;">(Click on the photo to view larger versions of all of the photos in sequence)</span></td></tr>
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<i><span style="background: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "cambria" , "serif"; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 115%;">Pops and the Kid. Today we emerged
from Deep Nevada back into the world of cel and internet and people in too much
of a hurry to do who knows what. We went to another world beyond the sagebrush
curtain, saw vast places, met people who live by another rhythm and shared time
together that was pure goodness for the heart and soul. Pictures will follow,
and those of you lucky enough to cross our paths in these days can hear
stories. There are things truly worth doing in this life, and this was one of
them.</span><o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i><span style="background: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: "cambria" , "serif"; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 115%;">Eric Mindling, May 15, 2017<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #1d2129; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Part 1. The Beginning</span></span></h2>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background: white; color: #1d2129; line-height: 115%;">The funny feeling in the truck’s steering was back. On the
straight, as our long-suffering F150 patiently hauled our 27-foot travel trailer
up the long grades leading to Donner Pass, where the I-80 finally drops over
the summit of California’s Sierra Nevada, I’d been trying to convince myself that
all was well. I was about an hour from our home in the foothills on the gentle
west slope of the Sierras, and finally relaxing into this first leg of a
much-anticipated road trip with my son Eric into Central Nevada. I’d soon be
meeting him in Carson City, from which, according to plan, the next morning we would
be heading south down 395 beneath the steep eastern face of the Sierra’s to Lee
Vining, spend the night camping in the desert on the shore of million-year-old and
mysterious Mono Lake, then east toward Tonopah from which we’d plunge off the
pavement into “deep” Nevada. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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The trip would be a photographic re-visit to the desert
clarity, weathered old mining town buildings, hot springs, and cattle ranches I’d
last seen 50 years earlier. Then I was a young geologist, bouncing a stiff 4X4
over two-track roads in search of springs which I would sample, measure their
flow rate and temperature, and describe their occurrence. Enthralled by the
colors and texture of the desert, my latent interest in photography received a
reboot carrying my pleasure in it to my present 77 years.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Amazingly, and to my great pleasure, my son Eric picked up a
passion for the craft, taking it far beyond my imaginings, to photograph for
many years in southern Mexico, and most recently returning from projects in
Cuba and India. So when I’d emailed him a few weeks ago with my idea to revisit
the desert places I’d known in my 20’s, ending with, “Wanna come?!”, I’d
assumed he’d be soon flying off for another project and I would be doing the
trip solo.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;">But now I was truly on the way to meet him and
soon together we’d be off on a father-son adventure of a lifetime. Except that
as I eased my truck and travel trailer rig into one of I-80’s smooth freeway
bends I could no longer ignore the resistance to turning the steering wheel, as
if the power steering had failed. After pulling off onto a fortuitously wide
section of shoulder, a straightened out bit of the old Lincoln highway, still
bounded by lovely hand-laid stone protective fencing, I found that, indeed, the
power steering no longer functioned, along with the alternator, fan, air
conditioner, and coolant pump, all of </span></span>which had been driven by the now-deceased serpentine belt
whose shreds were now complexly wrapped around the fan’s shaft.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">No doubt we will bore our grandchildren with the details of
how on the side of the road, despite the failure of CSAA to be any help at all
despite the membership dues that I pay expecting the benefits of “roadside
assistance”, a replacement belt was obtained, and Eric diverted from his trip
from Oregon to his mother’s home in Carson City to lend his strong arm as the
third hand necessary to slip the new belt over the final pulley, and I was on
the way again in time to arrive in Carson City in time for a glass of wine
before a very welcome supper served up by Eric’s mom, Jean. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu2rIrNiYMqLNeqdcyuDMZB_ST1DqanMqPMaQRAjk16cnSUJWBj5PjP_hYuP4sXwEpbj_VbzpIlRv5AWAA2JJWt_dwu-vDVXYqgwybbpoATpBOZ-8gAoT1m4FbqnLdBQf-8mMfDd-h980/s1600/1968xxxx-belmont_courthouse+-+Copy+-+Copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="291" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu2rIrNiYMqLNeqdcyuDMZB_ST1DqanMqPMaQRAjk16cnSUJWBj5PjP_hYuP4sXwEpbj_VbzpIlRv5AWAA2JJWt_dwu-vDVXYqgwybbpoATpBOZ-8gAoT1m4FbqnLdBQf-8mMfDd-h980/s320/1968xxxx-belmont_courthouse+-+Copy+-+Copy.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Cosmopolitan Hotel, Belmont, Nevada 1968</td></tr>
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<span style="background: white; color: #1d2129; line-height: 115%;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent;">Sitting around the old round table, we paged through a book
of old silver-gelatin prints of the photos I’d taken of the ranches, abandoned
mines, and weathered buildings of the central Nevada of 1968 and 1969. Those
black and white photos – rusted ore cars tumbled from tracks leading into an
abandoned tipple, branding irons casting shadows on a white-washed stone
building, a close-up of a weathered door – had hung in our home for a decade
and longer. Eric no doubt expected that we would be travelling through a world
of tones of gray in the days to come. I feared finding buildings covered with graffiti,
surrounded by trash, their history unappreciated. In fact, we would both be
filled with the beauty of the colors and textures of the desert, the warmth and
unaffected kindness of its people, and their deep appreciation of the land and
its history.</span> </span></span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjagm3goJfN4E2nOOTzaFtS-tfc0mw2Rrlh_j-OcC2i6R5r_ZlMsJjVExlkCNPpUaxzmCkXuI3eeq2vgV-CdlGnUhJe7LPz7wCAT0k-eG30sVwdYFR2yAaXCBmCnNhVbaXN9wuXxA6IXsg/s1600/196807xx-08-belmont_courthouse-11x14-s-Edit+-+Copy+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjagm3goJfN4E2nOOTzaFtS-tfc0mw2Rrlh_j-OcC2i6R5r_ZlMsJjVExlkCNPpUaxzmCkXuI3eeq2vgV-CdlGnUhJe7LPz7wCAT0k-eG30sVwdYFR2yAaXCBmCnNhVbaXN9wuXxA6IXsg/s640/196807xx-08-belmont_courthouse-11x14-s-Edit+-+Copy+%25282%2529.jpg" width="500" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nye County Courthouse, Belmont, Nevada. 1968</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnDSf2zL19N8hkrmDlX2byPDsb_YX6jKywBPdbDi1laWWQI96Z35SaOYATGkeGY2tKGMar2IeM4QK5EYds4uBSAixPwnxX4ArtJYfJyu_xK5PN02_bwoJOxtSp52AlsUuxKE2IylTDzSM/s1600/Central+Nevada-silve+top+shaft-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnDSf2zL19N8hkrmDlX2byPDsb_YX6jKywBPdbDi1laWWQI96Z35SaOYATGkeGY2tKGMar2IeM4QK5EYds4uBSAixPwnxX4ArtJYfJyu_xK5PN02_bwoJOxtSp52AlsUuxKE2IylTDzSM/s640/Central+Nevada-silve+top+shaft-1.jpg" width="538" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ore cars and tipple, Silver Top Mine, Tonopah, Nevada. 1968</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Branding Irons, Twin Springs (Fellini) Ranch, Nye County, Nevada, 1969</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqjWj6A_QGwvEDBn5M_vGGILYnKymbeKRKT4fHAP_Yz4aszOkX5Kvew-Wab-D4NsEjQYKLlAvGGOdlpJAbBpMEBodclFx8zrDJnQm6wb8xDDtHNcV5ZgUuknoP4I4fE8watGSuYsb2oE8/s1600/Belmont+Door.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="603" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqjWj6A_QGwvEDBn5M_vGGILYnKymbeKRKT4fHAP_Yz4aszOkX5Kvew-Wab-D4NsEjQYKLlAvGGOdlpJAbBpMEBodclFx8zrDJnQm6wb8xDDtHNcV5ZgUuknoP4I4fE8watGSuYsb2oE8/s640/Belmont+Door.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Weathered door, Belmont, Nevada. 1968</td></tr>
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<br />TonysVisionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12004608151032301174noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1254463358376059327.post-34150534975960286722016-03-25T08:32:00.000-07:002016-03-25T08:32:58.820-07:00Typewriter Found<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQX6sdb5mxxqAqyX-IVK2Hkz8o8wFp_kx_3flK6eaSWjEu9RXva5xL3ITmTbDfYaUeeM3zw1VMaICpCiiqosjAL11Vvj_mcTqi0HMZc77Z75kq4j3Gx1bhLMArM6xu-epdGHfliRaN80c/s1600/shes+back+01.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="264" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQX6sdb5mxxqAqyX-IVK2Hkz8o8wFp_kx_3flK6eaSWjEu9RXva5xL3ITmTbDfYaUeeM3zw1VMaICpCiiqosjAL11Vvj_mcTqi0HMZc77Z75kq4j3Gx1bhLMArM6xu-epdGHfliRaN80c/s640/shes+back+01.jpg" width="640" /></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnJhMVFU2sUqH0wFw6TtR96N1_T79uBKjeIlEvBzuRSnY5YdS3xTuzzldDAVULtae_PiaTxgz3yGGHbRBck6hLML455QbsqyGqXFPRURk1kB_lrXXdVgWwqbxLjS3sk40CsUv23Oym3RY/s1600/shes+back+03.JPG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="496" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnJhMVFU2sUqH0wFw6TtR96N1_T79uBKjeIlEvBzuRSnY5YdS3xTuzzldDAVULtae_PiaTxgz3yGGHbRBck6hLML455QbsqyGqXFPRURk1kB_lrXXdVgWwqbxLjS3sk40CsUv23Oym3RY/s640/shes+back+03.JPG" width="640" /></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAb4zq-2h-wRsDxkDiEEfQ5sjxaFTG_iHT4SAe6VAjSKEOP6ylenq4rLbp0_wVo4a9bTif-WgzjTCA7-M7tLqyR1RFv2jmp8TO5P1ugVmkfrpQtgu4WEHGIEY_W-2T6VZfFVqhqS-PU3k/s1600/shes+back+02.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAb4zq-2h-wRsDxkDiEEfQ5sjxaFTG_iHT4SAe6VAjSKEOP6ylenq4rLbp0_wVo4a9bTif-WgzjTCA7-M7tLqyR1RFv2jmp8TO5P1ugVmkfrpQtgu4WEHGIEY_W-2T6VZfFVqhqS-PU3k/s640/shes+back+02.jpg" width="612" /></a>TonysVisionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12004608151032301174noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1254463358376059327.post-57498677552439643292015-11-17T08:58:00.002-08:002015-11-17T09:09:44.086-08:00Fall Morning<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrZLfNyrkrA-4NssoZfDMzuEdUfrbdPuq-oMIlSceBJj3COEaHr177lUZEDj-8B0HcrmHyeL0JDVaM5TI_UWHJW45RLvXBwTa_SaVfAc3ujHvojxHr43acCcWrx5c1ZQvbdXD6bIs_slg/s1600/DSC09861.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrZLfNyrkrA-4NssoZfDMzuEdUfrbdPuq-oMIlSceBJj3COEaHr177lUZEDj-8B0HcrmHyeL0JDVaM5TI_UWHJW45RLvXBwTa_SaVfAc3ujHvojxHr43acCcWrx5c1ZQvbdXD6bIs_slg/s320/DSC09861.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
I'd planned to work on a writing project - a little family history book, <i>From Anna Maria to Zea Lilliana</i>, - while wife and doggies were still snoozing cozily and quietly on this chilly fall morning. But my eyes kept drifting to the window framing a view of the garden, where the trees have been becoming more brilliant every day. Finally, when a shaft of sunlight illuminated the trunk of the canyon live oak, its branches stretching into the blue sky, I had to put the camera to work.<br />
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I'd intended one shot through the window, then back to work, but the morning pulled me outside to stumble around the damp pathways enjoying the miraculous way the leaves played with the sunlight.<br />
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Our garden is built on bones of stone and wood in a design esthetic that mixes Japanese with Arts and Crafts. There's also a touch of the Japanese esthetic of <i>wabi sabi</i> that celebrates aging natural materials and the passage of time. But mostly it is a bunch of plants pretty much left to their own devices.<br />
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And just so my Typospherian friends don't despair, here is my beloved Royal 10, which has been <br />
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living a life of luxury ever since I rescued it from a neighbor's trash can back in about 1967. Lately it has been busy in the sunshine out on the balcony, where it has been helping me keep up my Postcrossing activity. Its compact elite typeface is perfect for slapping messages onto postcards.<br />
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So much for this morning's writing project. Now it's time to roust out the snoozers, bring the place to life, and get on with our fall project of painting our bedroom and nailing down a new floor of solid, 3/4-inch red oak. Hilda has promised a crock pot stew to warm our bellies and refresh our souls after a day of home improvement yoga moves - bending, lifting, twisting, etc.<br />
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Onward.<br />
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<br />TonysVisionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12004608151032301174noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1254463358376059327.post-61726105544517092292015-10-13T08:46:00.001-07:002015-10-13T20:44:36.446-07:00A Letter to Granddaughter Zea about her GGGgrandmother, Anna Maria (Peters) Mindling<div>
October 10, 2015</div>
<div>
Cool, California</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
Dear Zea,<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Here's Grandpa Tony's shot at that homework assignment you asked help for a couple of months ago. You'd asked for a bit of information about our ancestors. Although I didn't see your email in time to get anything to you then in time for your assignment, your question did inspire this project. I've been interested in our family's history since way back when my dad, Leo, placed the Jacob and Carl Peters grandfather clock into my care - the tall clock that you have helped me wind the last time you visited.<br />
<br />
That clock has inspired me to accumulate many file drawers full of family records. But also many letters, photographs, and handed down treasures. As a scientist I kind of enjoy organizing data, so compiling a database of genealogical data - the raw facts of dates of births, marriages, and deaths - has come kind of naturally. But what I enjoy most are the hints at the stories - things that put us in touch with the people who, like us, have grown from childhood to adulthood, had brothers and sisters, and enjoyed reading, music, and art - the things that rounded out life just as they do for us today.<br />
<br />
So what you will find here, besides the names, dates, and relationships that are the core for any family history, is a narrative where we trace the story of the connection between you, Zea Lilliana Mindling-Werling, now 14, and your great-great-great-grandmother, Anna Maria (Peters) Mindling, when she was 12 years old 155 years ago back in 1860. Yikes - there we go with numbers and relationships already. Lets get on with the story.<br />
<br />
<i><b>Note: Clicking on any of the photos will bigify them.</b></i></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVmOuD4TgdXZSj3ctyCJEcxtJsLokZ9kDdb2vFQmU7Lg3QN1WZd4CjkeJ5Fo699fIsL2FfyVe8tt8bL-6u4UxmIDnxV_yFUGkmzEhGvozJxJoYF7sVoO5aFSCTOOI1VOCfvLYKrsAYDZE/s1600/steamboat+muskingham+1910.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="403" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVmOuD4TgdXZSj3ctyCJEcxtJsLokZ9kDdb2vFQmU7Lg3QN1WZd4CjkeJ5Fo699fIsL2FfyVe8tt8bL-6u4UxmIDnxV_yFUGkmzEhGvozJxJoYF7sVoO5aFSCTOOI1VOCfvLYKrsAYDZE/s640/steamboat+muskingham+1910.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A steamboat on the Muskingham River at Marietta, Ohio. See that gazebo on the riverside - do you suppose your GGGgrandmother Anna Maria may have hung there with her sister and other buddies - maybe even boyfriends while watching the moon reflect in the river?</td></tr>
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<h4>
Imagine that you have hopped into a time machine - you have set the dial for 1860 and pushed the "Go" button. </h4>
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Are you up
in your cute attic bedroom? Well, it has just disappeared – along with your
entire house – poof – and you have tumbled 12 feet or so to the ground.
Fortunately you have not been bruised too much, because not only is there no
303 Avery Street in 1850, but there is no Avery Street, just an open meadow
with tall waving prairie grass that cushioned your fall. Better peek carefully
up over the grass, because there could be Indians about.</div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgiM6J78k-sKW9cpJf-bZ4QZ6XM5jyDHkKVxGtLr8Ivx0hK33fB8sSal2kFMo5c1AOLFm73mFNBLiLIxTaRTldHyjEFr8BEjx7sScR3n8Hq2sTPcBC7NTwsA3rJYtRuJacoP8zExKH-xo/s1600/rogure+river+settlers+cabin+sepia-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgiM6J78k-sKW9cpJf-bZ4QZ6XM5jyDHkKVxGtLr8Ivx0hK33fB8sSal2kFMo5c1AOLFm73mFNBLiLIxTaRTldHyjEFr8BEjx7sScR3n8Hq2sTPcBC7NTwsA3rJYtRuJacoP8zExKH-xo/s320/rogure+river+settlers+cabin+sepia-1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Settlers cabin, Rogue River Valley - 1800's</td></tr>
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In 1860 the Rogue River Valley was just beginning to become
settled by white folks. They’d been arriving from the east in wagons along the
Applegate Trail for several years. The indigenous folks, the Shasta people,
were not at all happy about it and were still pushing back. But a mill had been
built down on Ashland Creek and was churning out boards to build churches,
hardware and grocery stores, homes and barns – the beginnings of the town of
Ashland.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijuqNyFWU9TplQkrZb7eMOHRlDWGy02OqcWFFqyYhgEBB2SoVRFU5DgD_15CAHPE4cBBefZ65v4VqFImEtRLQqzGWmD7WCdB8ubJwj92e0mWgU_I1-egF-h1tH-4q7T5K_2h5q-2q95ro/s1600/metze+express+1915.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="237" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijuqNyFWU9TplQkrZb7eMOHRlDWGy02OqcWFFqyYhgEBB2SoVRFU5DgD_15CAHPE4cBBefZ65v4VqFImEtRLQqzGWmD7WCdB8ubJwj92e0mWgU_I1-egF-h1tH-4q7T5K_2h5q-2q95ro/s320/metze+express+1915.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 12.8px;">Although this is a different Mindling family, the scene we<br />are imagining of Anna Maria riding to church in a wagon<br />with her family would have looked a lot like this.<br />(note that you can click on any of these images to enlarge them. Try it.)</span></td></tr>
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<h4>
It's early 1860 and an Ohio immigrant farm family is on their way to church ...</h4>
At about the same time that you were on the anxious lookout
for Indians, two sisters about your age might have been sitting behind their
parents in the family wagon trundling along a dirt road through the green hills
of southeastern Ohio on their way to church. Their Lutheran church was several
miles from their farm, so it would have been a significant outing. </div>
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Your
great-great-great-grandmother (GGGgrandmother) Anna Maria Peters, 12, and her
sister Elizabeth, 15, would have been in their best Sunday dresses, all frilly
and lacy. Their brother, Charles, was on the wagon seat next to them, or since
he was just five and perhaps to prevent squabbles he may have been up front
next to their mother, Mary. Their mother was holding their baby sister,
Margaret, who was just two, and was also due to have another baby in a few
months. It was a big family! Their father, Carl, was holding the reins. The
grandparents, Jacob and Katharina probably drove ahead of them in their buggy –
as the family elders they got to go in front and avoid the dust. They would
have been 76 and 69 years old, respectively. <o:p></o:p></div>
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On that long drive Carl may have been thinking about the
farm chores needed to be completed in the coming week. Or, perhaps because he
was watching his parents up ahead on the road, he was reminiscing with his wife
about how he, his father and mother, and some siblings emigrated from Germany
to America 27 years earlier in 1833 when he was just 16. The children had heard
his stories of that adventure many times, always asking, “More Daddy, tell us
more!”<o:p></o:p><br />
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<h3>
The story of the Peters family's journey from Germany to America ...</h3>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjltFzcmiYNlnsAexhl97xWSihddcC9xdrD7wN8Rj_VSRa8nQz6AMWUA7hcu7E-4C077erjxIk7eRr16qIGpo3k_oN24Acm_a5-jFxED8jSCSZQVaX5Bv9NjwOi9vATNDp1RTb4Y9rwzZ4/s1600/steamboat+on+rhein+sepia-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="252" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjltFzcmiYNlnsAexhl97xWSihddcC9xdrD7wN8Rj_VSRa8nQz6AMWUA7hcu7E-4C077erjxIk7eRr16qIGpo3k_oN24Acm_a5-jFxED8jSCSZQVaX5Bv9NjwOi9vATNDp1RTb4Y9rwzZ4/s400/steamboat+on+rhein+sepia-1.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A steamboat on the Rhine river. This is a 1900's excursion boat. Probably it<br />
was a smaller craft that carried the emigrant Peters family. But<br />
tthe towns, cathedrals, and castles would have looked much the same in 1833.</td></tr>
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Carl Peters, Anna Marie's father, and his family had lived in Durkheim, Germany. In 1833 rivers and railways were the most efficient ways to travel. So their journey began with a voyage up the Rhine River from Durkheim to Cologne by steamboat. During that trip Carl stood at the ship's railing
from dawn to dusk, marveling at fantastical castles and busy ports. In Paris
the noise and white clouds of escaping steam startled him as the family hurried
past a steam engine searching for their seat on the train that would take them
to the port of La Havre. There they boarded a sailing ship for the month’s
voyage to America.<br />
<o:p></o:p></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE6ek6joRybdJq50J0s3897OPLA1TSRMrF_OFEIpFcl3CLIohux4oqWwCBoq0lvadBMg8kNGC0eCXRoGRVzT9bm_Io1YcbehmXPND7k5bNfeRHn4k90qEU6rMyTVbu7kFTI9Ql8tfTK6Y/s1600/Map+Peters+Family+Bad+Durheim+to+Cologne+to+Paris+to+Le+Havre.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="312" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE6ek6joRybdJq50J0s3897OPLA1TSRMrF_OFEIpFcl3CLIohux4oqWwCBoq0lvadBMg8kNGC0eCXRoGRVzT9bm_Io1YcbehmXPND7k5bNfeRHn4k90qEU6rMyTVbu7kFTI9Ql8tfTK6Y/s640/Map+Peters+Family+Bad+Durheim+to+Cologne+to+Paris+to+Le+Havre.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Peters family journey in 1833 from Bad Durkheim up the Rhine River to Cologne, then via train through Paris to the sea port off La Havre, where they embarked for America</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU1_KJfPRMWKXiZUUrVUvFnNoJHk8CYT4gVmpljMkyLxwv7w2RiyjJH2p5lLr6Lmz9iaiHJXzsz0hkes41zWJv23aLMTPT65lRBGZIaRzj04g5DeAwEvepAFf50SvqVDC9hCONhw-psLM/s1600/Map+Peters+Family+Germany+to+Marietta+Ohio.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="278" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU1_KJfPRMWKXiZUUrVUvFnNoJHk8CYT4gVmpljMkyLxwv7w2RiyjJH2p5lLr6Lmz9iaiHJXzsz0hkes41zWJv23aLMTPT65lRBGZIaRzj04g5DeAwEvepAFf50SvqVDC9hCONhw-psLM/s640/Map+Peters+Family+Germany+to+Marietta+Ohio.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Ocean voyage via sail from La Havre, France, to Baltimore, Maryland, would have taken several weeks.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZGQ6vtnuuXHPfLpcenamLxnkk27LIsc5tcNGKh1t3U67E54j5s7SLlCEX-sOea_GjjoPZn2LtS2DGAHn3lBhpF_mvgozMtFK-rHYKmc9G9jf_jNwvA5puOwiYw3MqiOpFA8TnY4IeANI/s1600/Map+Peters+Family+Baltimore+to+Wheeling+to+Marietta.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="286" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZGQ6vtnuuXHPfLpcenamLxnkk27LIsc5tcNGKh1t3U67E54j5s7SLlCEX-sOea_GjjoPZn2LtS2DGAHn3lBhpF_mvgozMtFK-rHYKmc9G9jf_jNwvA5puOwiYw3MqiOpFA8TnY4IeANI/s640/Map+Peters+Family+Baltimore+to+Wheeling+to+Marietta.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The journey in search of farmland from Baltimore to Wheeling, West Virginia, would have followed the National Highway, AKA Cumberland Road. From Wheeling, the two brothers and 16-year-old Carl then hiked down the Ohio River, exploring as far as Marietta, Ohio.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDCbvVJUCAnPrSki4M-5MdRNe4xWzgYSMYD4xkQ8DkyADuaOGOcO7mVqjxu4vaEyzLZp3kC_XSzd7hNVV_A9KR5AK-FFtNJeaHinZiLYKWPy4lSbIuq6B7U2mJo5hWRm1bu_xNk3kwyeY/s1600/rivers+roads+canals+1840+enlarged.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDCbvVJUCAnPrSki4M-5MdRNe4xWzgYSMYD4xkQ8DkyADuaOGOcO7mVqjxu4vaEyzLZp3kC_XSzd7hNVV_A9KR5AK-FFtNJeaHinZiLYKWPy4lSbIuq6B7U2mJo5hWRm1bu_xNk3kwyeY/s640/rivers+roads+canals+1840+enlarged.jpg" width="570" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This map shows the Cumberland Road, and also gives a sense of the nation at the time of the Peters emigration.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Ohio River near Marietta, Ohio<br />
Painting by Henry Cheevers Pratt, mid-1800's</td></tr>
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<b>Father and son went on a six-day exploration down the Ohio River, looking for land where the family could settle and begin a farm ...</b><br />
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After landing in Baltimore, Maryland, the family travelled to Wheeling, West Virginia. They would have traveled on the <a href="http://www.eduborail.org/NPS-1/Image-1-NPS-1.aspx" target="_blank">Cumberland, ot National, Road</a>. There they met Jacob's brother, Charles, who had travelled to America at the same time. The brothers left their families in Wheeling, and with 16-year-old Carl, explored down the Ohio River looking for land where they could settle their families and begin their new lives in America.</div>
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After a five- or six-day journey down the Ohio River on foot they arrived at Marietta, Ohio. During that trip they could find no one who spoke German, so it was with relief to find that the woman whose husband ran the hotel in Marietta spoke it fluently. She was also able to direct them to land they could settle. Thus Jacob, his wife Katharina, and their children Carl, John, and Margaretta, eventually settled on about 100 acres in Watertown Township in Washington County. That farm was to remain in the family for at least 100 years.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Peters-Mindling farm about 1920</td></tr>
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<b>The children had remained silent</b> during their father's often-heard tale of the family's journey to America. It was a warm spring day, and they may have dozed a bit as the wagon slowly made its way up and down and around the hills of Ohio. The dusty road was overhung with hickory, black and white oak, and walnut trees, and a bright blue sky pierced through gaps in the cover of green leaves passing slowly by overhead. But when papa's tale told with his strong German accent paused for a moment, Anna Maria, who loved the stories, said, "Tell us more, Papa - please?"<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizbhXDHLUJBqVE6KZqzDpF5FEdvcH42nhyDUkodnZ7EGgX5-ZepLQ60dRoKS8O1snRf60gHrEtX7pM0jDsnyfWc9sfFPkEYQkyPaeD059x0GErWhzo1gra_veZVZI680QZRQQk9I7tX6k/s1600/Peters+Clock-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizbhXDHLUJBqVE6KZqzDpF5FEdvcH42nhyDUkodnZ7EGgX5-ZepLQ60dRoKS8O1snRf60gHrEtX7pM0jDsnyfWc9sfFPkEYQkyPaeD059x0GErWhzo1gra_veZVZI680QZRQQk9I7tX6k/s320/Peters+Clock-1.jpg" width="190" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Jacob Peters clock. The works<br />
were brought to America in 1833.<br />
The case was built by Jacob and<br />
his son Carl on the homestead farm<br />
in Washington County, Ohio. It<br />
resided on the farm for many years,<br />
then in the home of my Dad's Aunt<br />
Anna and her husband Will Jones<br />
in Beverly Ohio. On her death she<br />
had the clock shipped to my Dad in<br />
Novato, California. Grandma Hilda<br />
and I have been caretakers since<br />
the 1980's.</td></tr>
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But is was grandpa Jacob and grandma Katharina who picked up the tale later that evening, as they sat around the fire in a cozy room warmly lit by a kerosene lamp. They told how 27 years earlier they had chosen about 100 acres, balancing their savings against the quality of land they could afford. With help from neighbors and relatives, Jacob and the children's father Carl, who was then 16, turned the land into a farm. Trees were felled to open up fields for cultivation, while retaining a sizeable "woodlot". A home, barns, and a workshop were built, and a good well located near the house which was soon overhung with a grape arbor. A forge was set up in the workshop to repair the metal parts of farm equipment, and even used to manufacture parts on occasion.<br />
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With the family settled in, and some time available, one of the first projects Jacob and his son Carl undertook in the workshop was to build a case to house the works for a clock which had been brought all the way from Germany. Since the clock was run by a pair of weights, it had to be tall to allow the weights room enough to drop, allowing the clock to run for eight days before re-winding. The weights were made of tin, curved and soldered into a cylinder, and filled with scraps of metal from the forge. Apparently at first the weights were not heavy enough to keep the clock running and turn the chiming mechanism, as an additional few inches were added to each one, together with more rusted nuts and bolts and odd bits of metal.<br />
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Zea, you will remember helping me to wind that clock a couple of years ago. Why do you suppose the clock was so treasured that it was carried all the way to America and the lovely case then hand crafted with such great patience and effort? My theory is that in a way it was as important a tool for connecting with the world outside the home then as our smart phones, tablets, and computers are today. Time was how you knew when you had to leave to get to church on time, when the train would arrive bringing visitors of farm supplies and equipment, when friends were expected to call. Plus, it was very cool - an imposing sign that your home was settled and comfortable.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCCeG7R5YjAR-q9tvGuuwSM1qgdaw4KvEA_ftTvvErNWljdfPVaHsYmy9eZIjr5kf97OTOyZpwQ0rxTHakwNwdBl4iV9pGly09wkDJhyI7VnQFtjmsb5MDvetUDtiEST3jNRCCJX73O74/s1600/German+Officer+by+Jacob+Peters.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCCeG7R5YjAR-q9tvGuuwSM1qgdaw4KvEA_ftTvvErNWljdfPVaHsYmy9eZIjr5kf97OTOyZpwQ0rxTHakwNwdBl4iV9pGly09wkDJhyI7VnQFtjmsb5MDvetUDtiEST3jNRCCJX73O74/s320/German+Officer+by+Jacob+Peters.jpg" width="231" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><b>Drawing of a German officer, by Jacob Peters.</b><br />From the Peters family we get much of our urge to learn, make art, </span><br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">and make music. </span><span style="font-size: xx-small; text-align: start;">Jacob and his son Carl were both avid readers, musicians,<br />and craftsmen. </span><span style="font-size: xx-small;">The care and skill that Jacob and Carl put into</span><br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">crafting the case for the clock carried from Germany is one example.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">The family maintained a library, and several books have from it</span><br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">have survived to be handed down in our care. Jacob was also a </span><br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">musician, and we have a clarinet he once played, together with</span><br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">some beautifully drawn sheet music. Carl was well known in his </span><br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">community for the children's toys he made in his woodshop, and</span><br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">elegantly hand lettered aphorisms. NOTE - find Carl's paintings</span><br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">of soldiers.</span></td></tr>
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<b>Soon it was time for the children to go to bed</b>, but Anna Maria and her sister Elizabeth lay awake for some time, listening to and comforted by the muted voices of their parents and grandparents as they continued to talk about "the old days". There may have been tales about Carl's courtship with Anna Mary Henry, their marriage 13 years earlier in 1847, the births of their children, and the expected birth of another child.<br />
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But life was a bit harsh then - medical care was scarce, and drugs to treat infections not as available - and childhood mortality was high. Their first child, a daughter, Anna Catherine, had lived only three years. And as the family enjoyed their cozy Sunday evening in the spring of 1860, they could not know that Anna Maria's mother would die while delivering her fifth child, Margaret, in August of that year.<br />
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But despite the tragedies, the family lived a full and rich life, far from simply scratching out a living on hilly farmland. The family enjoyed music and books, and was known in the community for being among the early pioneers and for assisting their neighbors when needed. Carl remarried a second wife, Elizabeth Meister, in 1861. Unfortunately Elizabeth also died, in 1874, and Carl remarried a third time a year later. Working a farm required a partnership of a man and a woman, as well as the support of many children.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9IDHhJxuySolx0iu776I3o6Juu9b07LWQgHNVKOOjIcRVcvQjt6DXmqfeB8Yj-nTjYy3WA3B5z5_8AnoAVubjtIwl1Q-3CdwruTpCPRgWPDEI3bgBFlj9w8N1HxlZ8_SzVtc98p4-CAM/s1600/1896-xx-xx+carl+peters+and+wife+in+buggy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="232" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9IDHhJxuySolx0iu776I3o6Juu9b07LWQgHNVKOOjIcRVcvQjt6DXmqfeB8Yj-nTjYy3WA3B5z5_8AnoAVubjtIwl1Q-3CdwruTpCPRgWPDEI3bgBFlj9w8N1HxlZ8_SzVtc98p4-CAM/s320/1896-xx-xx+carl+peters+and+wife+in+buggy.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Carl Peters and his then wife, Anna (Starlin) with their<br />
horse and buggy in 1896</td></tr>
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<b>Now we continue to move</b> on from that Sunday afternoon and evening in 1860 with the Carl Peters family. In 1870 Anna Maria's sister, Elizabeth, married a young man, Nicholas, from the neighboring Mindling farm. The Mindlings had also emigrated from Germany, but that's a <a href="http://www.mace-b.com/family/mindli.htm" target="_blank">whole 'nother story</a>. And then in 1875 Anna Maria and Nicholas' brother, Jacob, are married. I love this part of the story - it reminds me of the great old movie, Seven Brides for Seven Brothers - a favorite of your grandma Jean's/<br />
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Anna Maria and Jacob Mindling remained on the farm to help with the labor and management, and in 1877 when Carl turned 60 he deeded the farm to them. Part of the arrangement was that Carl and his then wife, Anna Starlin, would continue to live on the farm and be provided with a horse and buggy. In his long retirement Carl Peters continued with his music and reading, and enjoyed making elegantly drawn mottos and wooden toys for his grandchildren.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtrgEXUndqieA5T-IrOYw8ZE5mqA1lID6_JRh5hBXqx1hNnCH4f13f_jGjNoIGSQ7BBGXLFmuC7R6kZyoXQhCPPALXjH-TGoty4gm4Rwxk5fFJF80dghOKgFzvbhiOAYHRv1cxwFubFq0/s1600/Carl+Peters+crop-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtrgEXUndqieA5T-IrOYw8ZE5mqA1lID6_JRh5hBXqx1hNnCH4f13f_jGjNoIGSQ7BBGXLFmuC7R6kZyoXQhCPPALXjH-TGoty4gm4Rwxk5fFJF80dghOKgFzvbhiOAYHRv1cxwFubFq0/s320/Carl+Peters+crop-2.jpg" width="225" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 12.8px;">Anna Maria's grandfather, Carl Peters, in</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12.8px;">1896. Zea's GGGgrandfather.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>When Carl Frederick Peters was born on<br />September 8, 1817, in Bad Durkheim, Rhineland-Palatinate,<br />Germany, his father Johan (Jacob) was 33 and his mother,<br />Katharina, was 25. Carl was marrried three times, and<br />had one son and five daughters between 1848and 1860.<br />He died on July 23, 1907, in Watertown, Ohio, having<br />lived a long life of 89 years.</i></span></td></tr>
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And there were quite a few grandchildren. My dad told me about them many years when my mom and dad sold ago their home so that they could travel in their trailer. That was when dad passed the Peters clock into my care. So I sat turned on a tape recorder and asked him to tell me the story of the clock. . In telling the story of where the clock came from and how he had come into possession of it, he also told me about all of the children who were born to Anna Maria and Jacob Mindling on that farm in Ohio. There were three girls and three boys, including my grandfather, and your Ggrandfather, John Mindling.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdK0abwosTUlG_LnaY1tbmCyHHWOjjZu6YnL_vRc4QNVnsXl97lkgp88bQuCMw8WZhyJs4_VJSFjNj5qsd9ZrwIu2uUap3XGKpy0WjWNHzWCL8i0ydntepLBR24DWPNA-LGzFixYACwpU/s1600/Ther+six+Mindling+children+August+1911.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="491" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdK0abwosTUlG_LnaY1tbmCyHHWOjjZu6YnL_vRc4QNVnsXl97lkgp88bQuCMw8WZhyJs4_VJSFjNj5qsd9ZrwIu2uUap3XGKpy0WjWNHzWCL8i0ydntepLBR24DWPNA-LGzFixYACwpU/s640/Ther+six+Mindling+children+August+1911.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Anna Maria and Jacob Mindling with their six children in August, 191</b>1. The annotation is by John's wife, Amertt Mindling's - bless her soul for passing on so much information like this on so many family photos! Her reference to "our Daddy", indicates her husband, and your GGgrandfather, John Mindling</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbaJytFitrtyD9nq0I8M7HpzeNcnj2_jGCJR596mwJiGHeWnspvZ1d5CwSqGsuzDerVnEWyIzEeAU7JeRGLLZLsQBj1R_oGVcmvyIQZ0jtecSgkjWaPP6tCOYKcluECeCWnVt-q98wOEg/s1600/mindling+50th+7-4-25+family+group.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbaJytFitrtyD9nq0I8M7HpzeNcnj2_jGCJR596mwJiGHeWnspvZ1d5CwSqGsuzDerVnEWyIzEeAU7JeRGLLZLsQBj1R_oGVcmvyIQZ0jtecSgkjWaPP6tCOYKcluECeCWnVt-q98wOEg/s640/mindling+50th+7-4-25+family+group.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>The Mindling family in 1925</b><br />
Your GGGgrandparents, Jacob and Anna Maria (Peters) Mindling sit in front of the man with the dark suit. Their son, and your GGgrandfather, John Mindling, stands second from the left. His wife, Amertt, is to his left. Their son Leo, your Ggrandfather, is sitting on the ground at the far right. Taken at Jacob and Anna Maria's 50th anniversary celebration, July 4th, 1925.</td></tr>
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July 4<sup>th</sup>, 1925, was a big day on the farm for the
Mindling family. By then the children had moved away and started their own
families or professions. But all six children returned to the farm with their
families for the celebration of Anna Maria’s and Jacob’s 50<sup>th</sup>
wedding anniversary. It was quite a gang, and must have been a wonderful party.
Anna Maria, who we first met as that 13
year-old girl riding in the wagon with her family, is now 73 years old. In the
family photo taken that day she sits surrounded by her children, grandchildren,
and a great grandchild. Among her six children in the photo is your
GGgrandfather, John. <o:p></o:p><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguAsu30GzHTtuj6lU0MDhgJQHe8yFpTbE78mgFctEF-cTjr2MwOyC7ofDOUqc80Zgr2tgx7Ta9TSm4jgYqv2kMFbSrvE22ZAmdCLUV6hPfga-L6FaANly1xFaUv1CFBa1WaaTr1rwblcQ/s1600/1910-xx-xx+amertt+buzza+jacob+doing+laundry.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="140" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguAsu30GzHTtuj6lU0MDhgJQHe8yFpTbE78mgFctEF-cTjr2MwOyC7ofDOUqc80Zgr2tgx7Ta9TSm4jgYqv2kMFbSrvE22ZAmdCLUV6hPfga-L6FaANly1xFaUv1CFBa1WaaTr1rwblcQ/s200/1910-xx-xx+amertt+buzza+jacob+doing+laundry.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Amertt Mindling shares a laugh<br />
with Anna Maria and Jacob Mindling<br />
while doing laundry on the Peters-<br />
Mindling farm</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSw69rd9zONYdMm0kHCHRrW8QxQtiPROeapk361lhyphenhyphenBSGFmZ1Gfs6BKfl-N1R7FVnEmFxtwJXYI7LxV3rmOFGvFLP26MrdUs-p_SVV2NnDO_OcJOP_FFEqAvF-nfsL0i5tbuRTtobE8nM/s1600/john+mindling+1920.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSw69rd9zONYdMm0kHCHRrW8QxQtiPROeapk361lhyphenhyphenBSGFmZ1Gfs6BKfl-N1R7FVnEmFxtwJXYI7LxV3rmOFGvFLP26MrdUs-p_SVV2NnDO_OcJOP_FFEqAvF-nfsL0i5tbuRTtobE8nM/s400/john+mindling+1920.jpg" width="247" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i style="text-align: start;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">When John Lewis Mindling was born<br />on January 18, 1883, in Washington County, Ohio,<br />his father, Jacob, was 30 and his mother, Anna Maria,<br />was 29. He married Selma Amertt Ward<br />on March 16, 1909. They had two children<br />during their marriage. He died on October 9, 1965,<br />in Santa Rosa, California, at the age of 82.</span></i></td></tr>
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John and Amertt’s children at the celebration were Helen,
14, and your Ggrandfather, Leo, who was 16 at the time. They had traveled from
Washington DC, where John was the secretary for a government railroad board. He
had risen to a pretty high position through education and studiously applying
himself to self-study. He was so proud of his accomplishment with Gregg
shorthand, that he made it his son Leo’s middle name!<o:p></o:p><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLY6ZgudTVLF4e2hDWaAiq2SwuFWhIMTdJTj9VIMmm0tV_mNvFZrLzdNvpq9tWnD712b0QAjnfGxjymCMFiuTX-tcI-0QtyEDQ3kAOJOIbVXZpD9kbRV-ZcnoiUALuR-_Rqt6mW_T8764/s1600/mindling+family+at+farm+1912.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="136" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLY6ZgudTVLF4e2hDWaAiq2SwuFWhIMTdJTj9VIMmm0tV_mNvFZrLzdNvpq9tWnD712b0QAjnfGxjymCMFiuTX-tcI-0QtyEDQ3kAOJOIbVXZpD9kbRV-ZcnoiUALuR-_Rqt6mW_T8764/s200/mindling+family+at+farm+1912.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A bit of relaxation during<br />
a visit to the farm in 1912.<br />
On the left are your GGgrandparents,<br />
Amertt and John Mindling<br />
then John's sister, Anna, <br />
and their parents, Anna Maria <br />
and Jacob Mindling.</td></tr>
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Leo and my mother (your Ggrandmother) were married in June,
1939. There is a wonderful story about their courtship which I will tell you
someday, that involves a telegram, long-distance telephone call (a big deal in
those days), another grandfather clock, flowers, and … well, that will wait
until later.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">John and Amertt Mindling in about 1938 at Niagara Falls</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tessie Mindling, Zea's Ggrandmother, in 1938</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc669V6jiODtXlGwC8TaWJOUHQLJV6SonnkGJKP01QRotZCplDg0s3DabkQDqTIpWqBJOmhVy_SHRgVM5rF6P7_cFd5EZ6wmp3CLjT18jOJbxygFprwp44OeDVsIJzm0HwHTlNwpXqpjU/s1600/Tessie+labor+day+1938+Shenandoa+Pkwy-phtoshp.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="430" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc669V6jiODtXlGwC8TaWJOUHQLJV6SonnkGJKP01QRotZCplDg0s3DabkQDqTIpWqBJOmhVy_SHRgVM5rF6P7_cFd5EZ6wmp3CLjT18jOJbxygFprwp44OeDVsIJzm0HwHTlNwpXqpjU/s640/Tessie+labor+day+1938+Shenandoa+Pkwy-phtoshp.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tessie Mindling in 1938 on the Shenandoah Parkway, Virginia<br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #36322d; font-family: 'Source Sans Pro', 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, sans-serif; text-align: start;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">When Theresa Natalie Tallitsch was born on October 30, 1914, in Chicago, Illinois, her father, Sebastian, was 24 and her mother, Elizabeth, was 20. She married Leo Gregg Mindling on June 3, 1939, in her hometown. They had two children during their marriage. She died on February 15, 1995, in Auburn, California, at the age of 80</span></i><span style="font-size: 24px;">.</span></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Leo Mindling in 1928, age 16.<br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #36322d; font-family: 'Source Sans Pro', 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, sans-serif; text-align: start;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">When Leo Gregg Mindling was born on March 26, 1912, in Richmond, Indiana, his father, John, was 29 and his mother, Selma, was 21. He married Theresa Natalie Tallitsch on June 3, 1939, in Chicago, Illinois. They had two children during their marriage. He died on May 14, 2001, in California, at the age of 89.</span></i></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tony Mindling, 1969<br />
<i>When Anthony Leo Mindling was born on August 23, 1940, in San Francisco, California, his father, Leo, was 28 and his mother, Theresa, was 25. He married Jean Hughson Howard and they had two children together. He then married Hilda Ann Torkelson on April 11, 1981, in Susanville, California. He has one brother.</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Grandma Jean in 1969</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Grandpa Tony and Jean Mindling, with Eric and Ian, 1969</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Eric at Drakes Bay, California, 1975<br />
<i style="font-size: medium; text-align: start;">When Eric Sebastian Mindling was born on September 13, 1968, in Reno, Nevada, his father, Anthony, was 28 and his mother, Jean, was 23. He married Rachel Werling on October 1, 1996, in Phoenix, Arizona. They had two children during their marriage. </i></td></tr>
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Those two children, as you know, included Sonora Theresa
Mindling-Werling, born in Phoenix, Arizona, on September 17, 1996, and
yourself, born in Oaxaca, Mexico, October 9, 2001.<o:p></o:p></div>
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So here you are, 14 years old and safely back in your Attic,
155 years after that day when your 12-year-old GGGgrandmother, Anna Maria Peters, was riding down that dusty
road in Ohio next to her sister. <o:p></o:p><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ1rvmCdldipEYWSWD6RQKgvlklH_6mKvZL6KLANBh8G4XAC6lB7Vo_T6RgkWb3Mm1mKIoC6zyvYQBdYukod4Lvuz3hJB-7F0fXxD-UiHveACKXRHl8EyHDv3R47lzBAXLyWE0UaqpAe4/s1600/Zea.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="494" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ1rvmCdldipEYWSWD6RQKgvlklH_6mKvZL6KLANBh8G4XAC6lB7Vo_T6RgkWb3Mm1mKIoC6zyvYQBdYukod4Lvuz3hJB-7F0fXxD-UiHveACKXRHl8EyHDv3R47lzBAXLyWE0UaqpAe4/s640/Zea.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Zea Lilliana Mindling-Werling</td></tr>
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Someday you may be be someone’s GGGgrandmother –
imagine that!<o:p></o:p></div>
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TonysVisionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12004608151032301174noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1254463358376059327.post-37185877649104974212015-09-03T22:31:00.000-07:002015-09-03T22:35:24.134-07:00Sailing Polywog for the First Time<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoQuvWfGRElmcHwfV_UK36PX6scaLYfhDSDi9sc-AcJpRTa1ln52Ydx8Fh5MrawNIuPHDHpQ0L03NYQiqz9tfWeODpKNhG8dnq6tByDF6pVcnB_b8KBh36Lob-g5jBIK6LDWi1K7z4TAI/s1600/_DSC8490.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoQuvWfGRElmcHwfV_UK36PX6scaLYfhDSDi9sc-AcJpRTa1ln52Ydx8Fh5MrawNIuPHDHpQ0L03NYQiqz9tfWeODpKNhG8dnq6tByDF6pVcnB_b8KBh36Lob-g5jBIK6LDWi1K7z4TAI/s320/_DSC8490.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Polywog is a 17-foot,
swing-keel trailerable daysailer with a little cuddy and bunks which puts it
into the class of small sailboats called “Pocket Cruisers”. Which means something like boats
capable of poking around coastal waters and nipping into cozy coves for the
night. She arrived in our driveway within about 24 hours of a brain explosion
in early August on the order of, "Goddamit, I'm turning 75 and if I'm
going to realize the dream of a real sailboat, so if not now when, ask me -
huh?!! And anyhow, it's my birthday, so ..." I was very fortunate in
that a Holder 17 was among the two or three boats on Craigs List as I
feverishly perused it one night in bed with the laptop. it turns out they are well-made
and well-respected boats, with a good online following.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">When I went to see it
the next day I was surprised at how roomy and comfortable-looking the cockpit
was. The boat was in immaculate condition - not a project boat as most that old
(built by Hobie in the early 1980's) could most likely be. The owner had purchased
her earlier this year with the idea of teaching himself to sail and then going
around the world. But he'd recently inherited two other boats, and storage was
becoming an issue, thus the Craigs List ad. But in the short time he had her he
had polished the decades of oxidation from the nearly immaculate hull, bought a
new 6-horse outboard (4-cylcle, reverse gear, and capable of charging an
on-board batttery), and made other improvements. I knew she was perfect. I
handed him 25 hundred dollar bills and pulled her home that day. She became
"Polywog" based on her short and fat build, and as a remembrance of
the fun my wife, Hilda, and I have had this spring and summer raising a bevy of polywogs
in our fountain.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The first sailing of "Polywog" was a complete success, despite some previous misgivings. Although I had
raised the mast and fully rigged the boat once on the driveway, I had concerns
about whether I would have the strength and energy to get it rigged and carry
out all the other launching chores, and still have something left to enjoy the sail. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Mostly I was hopeful
that my wiffe would enjoy the day. To say she was less than fully "on
board" with my sudden purchase would be an undersatement. Although I had
involved her with things done over the last weeks to improve the boat, and she
had shown moments of positive interest, there was an explosion last week on the order of,
"You are spending all your time on that boat and taking time away from
help I need with things I want to do". So i was kinda sweating out how the
day would go, and determined to stay calm, happy, and uncranky as I sorted out
the rigging and launching.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">We'd planned to leave
11-ish for Lake Englebright, a reservoir built to capture
sediment back in the hydraulic gold mining days, now managed by the Corps of
Engineers as a recreation lake, and kept brim full year round. We were
fortunate with the weather, which has been cooling from the near 100's to the
mere mid- to upper-80's. This helped to drop the anxiety meter one notch.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Despite long to-do lists
fully checked off, our outings always require time-consuming chores at
the last minute, chores which often could have been done earlier, but somehow not
thought of until the final throes of preparation. This time it was gassing up
the truck, getting some deli sandwiches, icing the ice chest, and hooking up.
We left about noon.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">You can click on this and the other images to bigify them.</td></tr>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">It's about an hour and
a half to Lake Englebright, on the map about 7 miles NW of Grass Valley.
Despite its nearness, somehow we had never explored it, and the turn to the
launch ramp, after a long twisty road, came suddenly. Rigging took nearly two
hours in the hot afternoon sun, and I was beginning to wonder if it was worth
it. And Hilda had apparently disappeared into the truck after at first seeming
interested in helping. Uh-oh - I assumed she was sitting there fuming. But it
turned out she had spent a long time chasing down a handful of pills which had
left her little pillbox, and were making there colorful way rolling and
bouncing happily down the ramp toward the lake. Once they were corralled she
had to chase down our day-use ticket which had blown from the dashboard in the
gusty winds and of course ending up beneath the truck.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Finally we backed her
into the water, Hilda following along the pier clinging to a mooring line. We were
both excited to see Polywog afloat after her interminable stay on the driveway
while we had waited on a window in the calendar between doctor, dentist,
personal maintenance, and work issues. Hilda parked the trailer, hit the
restroom, and made her way down some steep steps and the ramp while I arranged
the boat on the dock for our getaway. There was a moment of panic as I worked
her around the dock to a better position when the winds caught her, I made a
grab for the deck, and feeling the force of the wind and momentum thought for a
moment that I would be stretched further and further between boat and dock,
leading to an inevitable dunking. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">But all went well,
Hilda stepped easily aboard, and we were soon motoring out of the marina past a
shanty town of a variety of houseboats. With the wind behind us we shut down
the motor, raised the main, and soon the joy of the boat began to come over us.
Sitting on the comfy bench cushions we poured iced tea and snacked while we
slipped past a foothill shoreline of lovely oaks and gray pines. The long,
narrow lake has about 200 boat-in only campsites along the shore and tucked
away in little coves. At some point we worked out the timing, and realized that
if we turned around then we wouldn't be home until 8 pm. And then we kept
going, grinning the while. Finally the cliffs closed in and we set the jib, headed back to the marina, and began to learn how to work Polywog to windward. The motor was
a huge drag, nearly stalling us on comeabouts, and it took me awhile to figure out how to raise is to catch the notch which would hold it out of the water. Finally It
caught, and we sailed on, delaying starting the motor despite the dying breeze,
both enjoying the peace of quietly slipping through the water as the sun
slipped behind the hills. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Time for some iced tea and snacks</td></tr>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 9.5pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Finally the wind died
completely and we slowly motored into the marina, drifting up to the pier for a
perfect landing, cranked up the keel (some 200 turns on the windlass), got the
boat onto the trailer on the second try (the keel needs to slip into a narrow
"U" channel). Happy and relaxed, we spent an hour unrigging, watching
deer, and noticing the brilliant stars and the milky way. Thank goodness for
the launch area lights. We were home and in bed about midnight, happily
chatting about the fun day. Now we are looking forward to other outings, Tahoe
most likely, and even perhaps the Bay once we learn and get used to Polywogs
wiles. And mostly looking forward to sharing her roomy cockpit with kids and
grandkids. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On the relaxing downwind leg</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hilda searches for the best jib setting as we learn to work Polywog to windward</td></tr>
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TonysVisionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12004608151032301174noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1254463358376059327.post-4266374638839310352015-01-11T09:00:00.000-08:002015-01-11T09:00:14.499-08:00The Glade of Compiègne<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">The little stereoptican card that inspired a<br />little mystery fun and opened the door to<br />some historical research.</span></td></tr>
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<span style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 13.3333330154419px;">Thanks to input from Typospherian friends, the big picture of "who, what, when and where" related to t</span><span style="font-size: 13.6000003814697px;">he Glade of Compiègne</span><span style="font-size: 13.3333330154419px;"> has emerged from this </span><a href="http://tonymindling.blogspot.com/2015/01/the-tiny-typewriter-photo-and-great-war.html" style="font-size: 13.3333330154419px;" target="_blank">little photograph</a><span style="font-size: 13.3333330154419px;">. </span><a href="http://badonoer.blogspot.com/" style="font-size: 13.3333330154419px;" target="_blank">Robert G</a><span style="font-size: 13.3333330154419px;"> suggested the "when", and </span><a href="http://modernidadyobsolescencia.blogspot.com/" style="font-size: 13.3333330154419px;" target="_blank">Miguel</a><span style="font-size: 13.3333330154419px;"> provided some translation and a hint at the "what". </span><a href="http://writingball.blogspot.com/" style="font-size: 13.3333330154419px;" target="_blank">Richard P</a><span style="font-size: 13.3333330154419px;"> crawled from the trenches of the Typewriter Insurgency long enough to identify the source of the image and a bit more of the circumstance, and finally </span><a href="http://oztypewriter.blogspot.com/" style="font-size: 13.3333330154419px;" target="_blank">Robert Messenger </a><span style="font-size: 13.3333330154419px;">topped it all off (as usual) by identifying William F. Shirer as the war correspondent pictured facing the camera. That was enough to get me started on some enjoyable research into the story of the </span></span><span style="font-size: 14px; text-align: center;">Glade of Compiègne</span><span style="font-size: 13.3333330154419px; text-align: center;">. </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfMYPPQR5zup1ZuUt1A1r8CPHMbHzk49I7gkpOUvJRxUdF5rACPVzsrAmll7lAc143_t_AGuPJmw1RQBq84t8Klz_SWcNvZ6D-upokdPWr5LydPEHAFaLxVFgi3Mf2Xdt4BBY4d_tNIaA/s1600/Ferdinand_Foch_by_Melcy,_1921.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfMYPPQR5zup1ZuUt1A1r8CPHMbHzk49I7gkpOUvJRxUdF5rACPVzsrAmll7lAc143_t_AGuPJmw1RQBq84t8Klz_SWcNvZ6D-upokdPWr5LydPEHAFaLxVFgi3Mf2Xdt4BBY4d_tNIaA/s1600/Ferdinand_Foch_by_Melcy,_1921.png" height="200" width="159" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">General Foch in 1921. <span style="background-color: white; color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22.3999996185303px; text-align: start;"> </span></td></tr>
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<h2>
<span style="font-size: 13.3333330154419px; text-align: center;"><br /></span></h2>
<h2>
<span style="font-size: 13.3333330154419px; text-align: center;">The Short Story</span></h2>
<span style="font-size: 13.3333330154419px; text-align: center;">In short, the glade is located where railroad tracks once met deep in a forest near the town of </span><span style="font-size: 14px; text-align: center;">Compiègne, about 50 miles northeast of Paris. The site became memorialized by the French after WWI as the location of the </span><span style="font-size: 14px; text-align: center;">signing of the armistice ending the war in November 1918. </span><span style="font-size: 14px; text-align: center;">French General Ferdinand Foch is credited with the military defeat leading to the German request for the armistice. The signing took place in Foch's private railway carriage, which eventually became part of the memorial, housed in the building shown behind Shirer in the photo in my <a href="http://tonymindling.blogspot.com/2015/01/the-tiny-typewriter-photo-and-great-war.html" target="_blank">previous post</a>. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14px; text-align: center;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 14px; text-align: center;">Twenty two years later the German army raced across France essentially unopposed and occupied Paris. It was France's turn to ask for an armistice, and Hitler took dramatic satisfaction in demolishing a wall of the memorial building, moving the car a few yards to the same location it had occupied in 1918, then sitting in the same seat that Foch had used as the terms of the armistice were read to the demoralized French representatives. Shirer observed the proceedings and made a dramatic radio broadcast, somehow not only scooping the other news services by several hours, but the German broadcast of the event as well, to the fury of the German high command.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU-WuFksXG53kvltJCkOjrQEUtoJaApXRUpSgyH7jGI34zY3rpMC1VJI2cJ3f0Tl7TbruViwYsenSgoEeuFPfnOdqfOfXc-FHa6L6_IV8iUZ8QAxPmo5tOHFUVuXaJQJjUznul91Gjp4Q/s1600/Waffenstillstand_gr.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU-WuFksXG53kvltJCkOjrQEUtoJaApXRUpSgyH7jGI34zY3rpMC1VJI2cJ3f0Tl7TbruViwYsenSgoEeuFPfnOdqfOfXc-FHa6L6_IV8iUZ8QAxPmo5tOHFUVuXaJQJjUznul91Gjp4Q/s1600/Waffenstillstand_gr.jpg" height="420" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">November 11, 1918 - German representatives arrive in Marshal Foch's private railway carriage parked deep in the forest of Compiègne to accept the terms of the armistice ending WWI</span></td></tr>
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</span><br />
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<h2>
The Rest of the Story</h2>
<h3>
Amistice of 11 November, 1918</h3>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQl8sjDptmXo3LUSozxmrOJi_U3Wq3v8aFkS-ptnKTAum8ZtSnwBxTgzkS9USzeN-t6nWDo3jp-AnWbwJOULsThlOSJYZr5GR1zKlk9ZgaZTvSY-IY9LKOqxPIVgH8dr22jCbBjt7Wm2s/s1600/Armisticetrain_(slight_crop).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQl8sjDptmXo3LUSozxmrOJi_U3Wq3v8aFkS-ptnKTAum8ZtSnwBxTgzkS9USzeN-t6nWDo3jp-AnWbwJOULsThlOSJYZr5GR1zKlk9ZgaZTvSY-IY9LKOqxPIVgH8dr22jCbBjt7Wm2s/s1600/Armisticetrain_(slight_crop).jpg" height="400" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Marshal Foch stands withother French officers and representatives<br />in front of his private railway carriage just prior to the<br />signing of the armistice ending the hostilities of WWI</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: 13.3333330154419px; text-align: center;">Despite the ravages to families here in the USA as our soldiers return damaged in one way or another from the wars in the Middle East, it can be difficult for us to imagine the strong feelings of those who have experienced war within their own country's boundaries. So high were the feelings of the French as a result of WWI, that <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ferdinand_Foch" target="_blank">French Marshal Ferdinand Foch</a> had his private train, which was to be used for the signing of the armistice ending the war, placed in a secret and secluded glade within the Forest of Compiegne, lest locals attack the German representatives to the signing. Foch's train wold be met there by another French train bringing the German representatives to the signing site.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: #f9f9f9; color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif; line-height: 17.3185615539551px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Logo of Compagnie Internationale<br />des Wagons-Lits</span></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: 13.3333330154419px; text-align: center;">Foch's private railway carriage, later to be known as the "</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #252525; font-size: 14px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>Compiègne Wagon</i></span></span><span style="font-size: 13.3333330154419px; text-align: center;">", had been a dining car operated by the </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #252525; font-family: inherit; font-size: 14px;"><i><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Compagnie_Internationale_des_Wagons-Lits" target="_blank">Compagnie internationale des wagons-lits</a></i></span><i style="background-color: white; color: #252525; font-family: inherit; font-size: 14px;">, </i><span style="background-color: white; color: #252525; font-size: 14px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">the historical operator of the Orient Express. It had been converted into an office for his use between October 1918 and September 1919, when it was put back into regular service. </span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #252525; font-size: 14px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">However it was soon donated as a museum piece, and was eventually housed within a building, the <i>Clairiere de l'Armistice</i></span><span style="font-family: sans-serif;">,</span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #252525; font-size: 14px;"> adjacent to the location of the armistice signing at </span></span><span style="font-size: 13px; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 14px;">Compiègne</span>. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 13px; text-align: center;">The site became a memorial to the defeat of Germany, and included a statue of Foch, the building housing the railway carriage, the </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #252525; font-size: 10.5pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Alsace-Lorraine Memorial, and a granite block in the center of a circular concrete slab marking the actual location of and commemorating the signing of the WWI armistice.</span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJYjsH7ugN9MWjIq5c3aJHR_vwSnoTn_HVFWTtcxrjYUrTSFwz8xbiWnfQpgylG4hn1f3v0EAcEt3WKqwZeluUAV3-lpqwAKALpq6MNfw2DYblbAfhCBh15hI5MLGLcfMc_CfRajFnNSw/s1600/the+two+trains.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJYjsH7ugN9MWjIq5c3aJHR_vwSnoTn_HVFWTtcxrjYUrTSFwz8xbiWnfQpgylG4hn1f3v0EAcEt3WKqwZeluUAV3-lpqwAKALpq6MNfw2DYblbAfhCBh15hI5MLGLcfMc_CfRajFnNSw/s1600/the+two+trains.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">German representatives to the signing were carried <a href="http://www.hellfirecorner.co.uk/clairiere/clairiere.htm" target="_blank">overnight on a French train</a>, which arrived at dawn at the glade. One can imagine the crunch of boots in the snow and the icy breaths as the German officers with spiked helmets walked to Foch's carriage in the adjacent train, while the steam engines hissed and chuffed.</td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #252525; font-size: 10.5pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">The final treaty drawn up, known as the Treaty of Versailles, was a disappointment to Foch. Because Germany was allowed to remain a united country, Foch declared, "This is not a peace. It is an armistice for 20 years". The second world war began <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ferdinand_Foch" target="_blank">20 years and 65 days late</a>r.</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #252525; font-size: 10.5pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Armistice of June 22, 1940 </span></span></h3>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJFcWM874eMKFSxwC4UO-RmrkMK5Abf6PxyZJ20Et1L9rT2CE5YaofjHvyFJwqe9gJlzplPhrMNyB87ZkstFYbhnmdxzPbllEAaDFLGBJBZwGezOVHFptMIIQxzXTiGZvqTz-uGMN0YtQ/s1600/William_Shirer_at_Compi%C3%A8gne_France_1940_06_22.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJFcWM874eMKFSxwC4UO-RmrkMK5Abf6PxyZJ20Et1L9rT2CE5YaofjHvyFJwqe9gJlzplPhrMNyB87ZkstFYbhnmdxzPbllEAaDFLGBJBZwGezOVHFptMIIQxzXTiGZvqTz-uGMN0YtQ/s1600/William_Shirer_at_Compi%C3%A8gne_France_1940_06_22.jpg" height="370" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">William L. Shirer (left center) and other war correspondents on <br />June 19, 1940, in the memorial glade in Compiègne. The<br />building in the background houses the railcar used<br />for the signing of the 1918 armistice, which is<br />about to be pulled by Hitler's troops for use in<br />signing the June 1940 armistice.</span></td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #252525; font-size: 10.5pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">William L. Shirer, a war correspondent for CBS radio, arrived in Paris on June 17, 1940. In his book, <i>Berlin Diary</i>, Shirer describes a city deserted on the otherwise lovely June day, "which, if there had been peace, would have been spent by the people going to the races at Lonchamp or the tennis at Roland Garros, or idling along the boulevards under the trees, or on the cool terraces of a cafe". But the Germans had entered the city a few days before, after sweeping nearly unopposed across France, and it was "utterly deserted, the stores closed, the shutters down tight over all the windows." Parisians had fled in panic at the approach of the Germans, choking the roads leading from the city. A huge swastika floated from he Eiffel Tower.</span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjIXFfNBr4p94mqVM0uZKc9VVjAwgWazYFpH1m3tqdEDXwfz2IGOD5ZwydUSOoOeK3_zT4LilWv9FweG6ohIzv5huJlHxJR5QD9-G87XMbuCsldeVer8p3jeg-79VoWkugAmRXboe-BL8/s1600/Carriage+being+removed+from+building-edit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjIXFfNBr4p94mqVM0uZKc9VVjAwgWazYFpH1m3tqdEDXwfz2IGOD5ZwydUSOoOeK3_zT4LilWv9FweG6ohIzv5huJlHxJR5QD9-G87XMbuCsldeVer8p3jeg-79VoWkugAmRXboe-BL8/s1600/Carriage+being+removed+from+building-edit.jpg" height="283" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">The <i style="background-color: white; color: #252525; text-align: start;">Compiègne Wagon </i><span style="background-color: white; color: #252525; text-align: start;">being removed from the</span><i style="background-color: white; color: #252525; text-align: start;">Clairiere de l'Armistice</i><span style="background-color: white; color: #252525; text-align: start;"> on June 19, 1940.</span></span></td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #252525; font-size: 10.5pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">But the arriving German soldiers turned out to be not rapists, but generally polite, acting as tourists with cameras around their necks, and even taking off their caps at the tomb of the unknown soldier. Germany encouraged and assisted foreign war correspondents, eager that their exploits be reported to the world. So on June 19, Shirer and other correspondents were taken to </span></span><span style="font-size: 14px; text-align: center;">Compiègne - an armistice between France and Germany was to be signed in the same place as the signing of the 1918 armistice. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 14px; text-align: center;">My view of the timing of events is a bit murky, based on comparing Shirer's book to the photograph. He says that when he arrived at </span><span style="font-size: 14px; text-align: center;">Compiègne at 6:00 PM on June 19, "German army engineers were feverishly engaged in tearing out the wall of the museum where Foch's private car in which the 1918 sarmistice was signed had been preserved ... before we left, the engineers, working with pneumatec drills had demolshed the wall and hauled the car out of its shelter". And yet the photograph of him typing does not show the wall as having been demolished. On the other hand, there are differences in the appearance of the building from the photo showing the car emerging. Perhaps we are looking at different ends of the same structure. Shirer also puts the date of the signing at June 21, whereas all other sources use June 22, 1940.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 14px; text-align: center;">At any rate, by June 22, 1940, the famous railway carriage, now to become even more renowned, had been removed from its museum and placed on the spot where the WWI armistice had been signed in 1918. Hitler arrived in the afternoon with others of the high command to stomp around, looking with scorn at the various monuments and memorials. The scene was <a href="https://soundcloud.com/authorstevewick/historic-ww-ii-radio-broadcast" target="_blank">reported by radi</a>o by Shirer that evening, and a transcript may be found at <a href="http://www.eyewitnesstohistory.com/francesurrenders.htm">http://www.eyewitnesstohistory.com/francesurrenders.htm</a>. Shirer's </span><span style="font-size: 14px; text-align: center;">dramatic radio broadcast somehow not only scooped the other news services by several hours, but the German broadcast of the event as well, to the fury of the German high command. </span><span style="font-size: 14px; text-align: center;">Following the signing the railroad car was moved to Berlin where it was eventually destroyed. Hitler also had all the monuments and memorials at the glade destroyed, with the exception of the statue of Foch.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVJwwcj3DgyV_ThMTvNThTyCe6OAs_VOYgr9LvYxVuMcQP6L5-fmUEYfIoinKWpPPIpv_DS3VMc4hf_a2eoU6cyKICFkFEHTxz5B8ChTHgbhaYyiqz8DlzDt8nwnEhk96DAiUIwcioVkI/s1600/797px-Bundesarchiv_Bild_183-M1112-500,_Waffenstillstand_von_Compi%C3%A8gne,_Hitler,_G%C3%B6ring.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVJwwcj3DgyV_ThMTvNThTyCe6OAs_VOYgr9LvYxVuMcQP6L5-fmUEYfIoinKWpPPIpv_DS3VMc4hf_a2eoU6cyKICFkFEHTxz5B8ChTHgbhaYyiqz8DlzDt8nwnEhk96DAiUIwcioVkI/s1600/797px-Bundesarchiv_Bild_183-M1112-500,_Waffenstillstand_von_Compi%C3%A8gne,_Hitler,_G%C3%B6ring.jpg" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: #f9f9f9; color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 17.3185615539551px; text-align: left;">Left to right: </span><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Joachim_von_Ribbentrop" style="background: none rgb(249, 249, 249); color: #0b0080; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 17.3185615539551px; text-align: left; text-decoration: none;" title="Joachim von Ribbentrop">Joachim von Ribbentrop</a><span style="background-color: #f9f9f9; color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 17.3185615539551px; text-align: left;">, </span><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Walther_von_Brauchitsch" style="background: none rgb(249, 249, 249); color: #0b0080; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 17.3185615539551px; text-align: left; text-decoration: none;" title="Walther von Brauchitsch">Walther von Brauchitsch</a><span style="background-color: #f9f9f9; color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 17.3185615539551px; text-align: left;">,</span><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hermann_G%C3%B6ring" style="background: none rgb(249, 249, 249); color: #0b0080; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 17.3185615539551px; text-align: left; text-decoration: none;" title="Hermann Göring">Hermann Göring</a><span style="background-color: #f9f9f9; color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 17.3185615539551px; text-align: left;">, </span><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rudolf_Hess" style="background: none rgb(249, 249, 249); color: #0b0080; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 17.3185615539551px; text-align: left; text-decoration: none;" title="Rudolf Hess">Rudolf Hess</a><span style="background-color: #f9f9f9; color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 17.3185615539551px; text-align: left;">, </span><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Adolf_Hitler" style="background: none rgb(249, 249, 249); color: #0b0080; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 17.3185615539551px; text-align: left; text-decoration: none;" title="Adolf Hitler">Adolf Hitler</a><span style="background-color: #f9f9f9; color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 17.3185615539551px; text-align: left;">, and </span><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Walther_von_Brauchitsch" style="background: none rgb(249, 249, 249); color: #0b0080; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 17.3185615539551px; text-align: left; text-decoration: none;" title="Walther von Brauchitsch">Walther von Brauchitsch</a><span style="background-color: #f9f9f9; color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 17.3185615539551px; text-align: left;"> in front of the Armistice carriage</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVFliCUAEZoUAq9_l3GGHPfoWy6ToAEPbeqwWXITmqRPqAiRMNxm_W0-ZFgvudJIg34bwqsHnZT-qxf3ZwP71bKZIOJU7cOOu5Q5slfAkY1LajQOQpL5tKvjH8iumUNwWhVFzBoRnyI_E/s1600/Rethondes_Wagon_juste_avant_la_signature_de_l'armistice_le_22_juin_1940-cropped.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVFliCUAEZoUAq9_l3GGHPfoWy6ToAEPbeqwWXITmqRPqAiRMNxm_W0-ZFgvudJIg34bwqsHnZT-qxf3ZwP71bKZIOJU7cOOu5Q5slfAkY1LajQOQpL5tKvjH8iumUNwWhVFzBoRnyI_E/s1600/Rethondes_Wagon_juste_avant_la_signature_de_l'armistice_le_22_juin_1940-cropped.jpg" height="520" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: #f9f9f9; color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 17.3185615539551px; text-align: left;">Hitler at the <i>Wagen von Compiègne</i></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6jFKgHKHTmeroT88n5oEztHye1DXlVFPH66-ap574iFFuXCoLUPeWPBbaZMeYkoK9NQz2iCdz5BAmoGGdp1zEeAhmpI0eHl9oPYsWT-SuqfrJxhhU1K_Y5OavyOHlaxyeFdJbs_lRnYM/s1600/Hitler_and_german-nazi_officers_staring_at_french_marechal_foch_statue_june25_1940.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6jFKgHKHTmeroT88n5oEztHye1DXlVFPH66-ap574iFFuXCoLUPeWPBbaZMeYkoK9NQz2iCdz5BAmoGGdp1zEeAhmpI0eHl9oPYsWT-SuqfrJxhhU1K_Y5OavyOHlaxyeFdJbs_lRnYM/s1600/Hitler_and_german-nazi_officers_staring_at_french_marechal_foch_statue_june25_1940.png" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a class="mw-redirect" href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hitler" style="background: none rgb(249, 249, 249); color: #0b0080; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 17.3185615539551px; text-align: left; text-decoration: none;" title="Hitler">Hitler</a><span style="background-color: #f9f9f9; color: #252525; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 17.3185615539551px; text-align: left;"> (hand on hip) looking at the statue of Foch before signing the armistice at Compiègne, France (22 June 1940)</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: 14px; text-align: center;">After WWII</span></h3>
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<span style="font-size: 14px; text-align: center;">The glade of the Compiègne memorial was eventually restored by France after the end of WWII. An identical Compagnie des Wagon-Lits carriage, no. 2439, built in 1913 in the same batch as the original and present in 1918, was renumbered no. 2419D (the number of Foch's original railway carriage), and installed in a new </span><i style="background-color: white; color: #252525; font-size: 14px;">Clairiere de l'Armistice</i><span style="font-size: 14px; text-align: center;">.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmo9Td0U01d5yLHGvzX3VgrRyCzqZV9DC8_SM4jkKHmAaM5f8gQFTHOwBQYhhZ2O2KakbnFPyvWeKd3OkXgWpxkmvC4jWBb4L2aoVwvxanwD7iN5GJNSKZ9PFm8ksoAgNhwcjFZljvdgM/s1600/Glade+of+the+Armistice-2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmo9Td0U01d5yLHGvzX3VgrRyCzqZV9DC8_SM4jkKHmAaM5f8gQFTHOwBQYhhZ2O2KakbnFPyvWeKd3OkXgWpxkmvC4jWBb4L2aoVwvxanwD7iN5GJNSKZ9PFm8ksoAgNhwcjFZljvdgM/s1600/Glade+of+the+Armistice-2.JPG" height="362" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Marshal Foch statue</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgySWTXrLSM9Rb2l1VQu5Ai3x9HDxONR9RIAowakd2huK_PQwG7qK9Xdopy2bfi_yECEM-xeMOsCCXVSweESP-c8-C67MQcTwgyFjyGF5KfiXOqYllN91H5C7GV9YUNMNh4VPKgG7WTh4/s1600/Glade+of+the+Armistice-1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgySWTXrLSM9Rb2l1VQu5Ai3x9HDxONR9RIAowakd2huK_PQwG7qK9Xdopy2bfi_yECEM-xeMOsCCXVSweESP-c8-C67MQcTwgyFjyGF5KfiXOqYllN91H5C7GV9YUNMNh4VPKgG7WTh4/s1600/Glade+of+the+Armistice-1.JPG" height="638" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A granite memorial marks the exact location of both armistice signings.<br />
The building in the background is a museum housing a replica of the original railcar.</td></tr>
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TonysVisionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12004608151032301174noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1254463358376059327.post-18256744028377130992015-01-07T22:20:00.000-08:002015-01-07T22:31:30.142-08:00The Mystery of the Tiny Typewriter Photo<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha3QJyufTtN0WvffGfxU8NInms8NtWZDYg51K959zaNns99VBoZmG5RmLTdluLUIzIARgysTVZlnqFvMeKxVgf_BF2x-GF_6mKP_2keAf2Vq_zqyBWHopV5jsPYn-4_FoQn56ihRnStkU/s1600/_DSC7183.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha3QJyufTtN0WvffGfxU8NInms8NtWZDYg51K959zaNns99VBoZmG5RmLTdluLUIzIARgysTVZlnqFvMeKxVgf_BF2x-GF_6mKP_2keAf2Vq_zqyBWHopV5jsPYn-4_FoQn56ihRnStkU/s1600/_DSC7183.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a>I need a little help. My usual eBay search - "typewriter" - recently turned up this small stereoptican card. Besides the fact that it shows two men typing, what is going on here that inspired documentation of the scene?<br />
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The images are maybe two inches square. but an enlargement shows quite a bit of detail...<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM8MHB6RGUfAhd5jvHz-qxdw-A1OEFQ5ozqZSDsOhvh6B1tI9og9gtojXppsPb4ftkIme1715IXtwarCZeN_8I0LRcodS5bDoxh13KPUtBeSa1kJaRtsb8MLfQV0PocpLqnYZzYtEvz40/s1600/_DSC7180.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM8MHB6RGUfAhd5jvHz-qxdw-A1OEFQ5ozqZSDsOhvh6B1tI9og9gtojXppsPb4ftkIme1715IXtwarCZeN_8I0LRcodS5bDoxh13KPUtBeSa1kJaRtsb8MLfQV0PocpLqnYZzYtEvz40/s1600/_DSC7180.jpg" height="592" width="640" /></a></div>
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The back of the card probably also provides some detail - as long as you are not language-challenged as I am ...<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6ijbcrAMB2AqgdZwRwUr-PP2_eCuEfUjsexld2DsJsBfZBg6BDuFXh29_ePB0GBM3vRxtqz5gvRsdP7sY6hIfKpVR3LLl39yVlN4JI7OtuwduLMJblDHdypT2A4URwmJXzlBbL8bmDMg/s1600/_DSC7182.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6ijbcrAMB2AqgdZwRwUr-PP2_eCuEfUjsexld2DsJsBfZBg6BDuFXh29_ePB0GBM3vRxtqz5gvRsdP7sY6hIfKpVR3LLl39yVlN4JI7OtuwduLMJblDHdypT2A4URwmJXzlBbL8bmDMg/s1600/_DSC7182.jpg" height="292" width="640" /></a></div>
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I'm hoping there are typospherians that will take a shot at identifying the typewriters, and also some sleuths who might help me with the where, when, and what of the photo.TonysVisionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12004608151032301174noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1254463358376059327.post-19169481480404995522014-12-30T11:47:00.001-08:002014-12-30T11:47:23.810-08:00On the "Selfie"<h2>
It's been around for a while. </h2>
Holding the camera out at arm's length and clicking is fun and quick. But with a bit more effort the self portrait can be taken up a notch ...<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGrcKPxm9K4nLQyXQ9USRwFkhDTxjrIdMIul17A2qP9EwapxX310l0NwgWXb4_GEPl39zzC2JlYn-kbyAbRUZnKNNBwG6eTlD8Y_Zfflfpia7ZgCy-dqkhSZ9LdDKVu56wNcxxaDbm8pQ/s1600/selfie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGrcKPxm9K4nLQyXQ9USRwFkhDTxjrIdMIul17A2qP9EwapxX310l0NwgWXb4_GEPl39zzC2JlYn-kbyAbRUZnKNNBwG6eTlD8Y_Zfflfpia7ZgCy-dqkhSZ9LdDKVu56wNcxxaDbm8pQ/s1600/selfie.jpg" /></a></div>
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Galen Rowell's work was always on an impressively high level (so to speak). For more, see <a href="http://mountainlight.com/">mountainlight.com</a>. </div>
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To bring us down to earth, here's the author enjoying a few favorite pursuits (cool-weather hiking, photography, and eating), all caught in one shot:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKnYFK2zI95itRutK68UtZ8MxHFlSLQlDOw1G_seRrZ7Y_p9dDgmQFmSDw2x_CTAmhMgcHug3N6aEHa4HKAqPSg_hkC-Z8Z0nMqIRrCB3bsU3Vzo4rcRQx5ZC4sKgYMw92Awu-FF53zN8/s1600/Capture.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKnYFK2zI95itRutK68UtZ8MxHFlSLQlDOw1G_seRrZ7Y_p9dDgmQFmSDw2x_CTAmhMgcHug3N6aEHa4HKAqPSg_hkC-Z8Z0nMqIRrCB3bsU3Vzo4rcRQx5ZC4sKgYMw92Awu-FF53zN8/s1600/Capture.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />TonysVisionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12004608151032301174noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1254463358376059327.post-57911224817421820512014-12-13T12:03:00.000-08:002014-12-13T12:06:29.611-08:00A Trio of Teutonic Typers - Part III<h2>
Torpedo 18B Typewriter</h2>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFrY1xSY6SroMFyfC0QSp6-K5CC74oFx3EVrCb6q2hPc1YXB_gWO946-5Se71-AUD5FyxX4eZTPg5kW-kdPeGFnugCnnwi_1frdsts9GRkPL0xlk69DmA_V1KTtb6mHiaDpP-GwrWUQtI/s1600/_DSC6630.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFrY1xSY6SroMFyfC0QSp6-K5CC74oFx3EVrCb6q2hPc1YXB_gWO946-5Se71-AUD5FyxX4eZTPg5kW-kdPeGFnugCnnwi_1frdsts9GRkPL0xlk69DmA_V1KTtb6mHiaDpP-GwrWUQtI/s1600/_DSC6630.jpg" height="276" width="320" /></a>We come to the third and last of the results of my September typewriter acquisition binge. And possibly the best one. <a href="http://www.blogger.com/profile/06849313715621355838" rel="nofollow" style="background-color: white; color: #6699cc; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 18.8999996185303px; text-decoration: none;">ZetiX</a> was spot on with his x-ray vision identifying the contents of that gray case on the left being a Torpedo Model 18B. <a href="http://oztypewriter.blogspot.com/2012/02/torpedo-typewriters.html" target="_blank">Robert Messenger</a> provides an excellent presentation of the evolution of the brand, which originated from a typewriter factory near Frankfurt in 1907. Mr.Messenger refers to the Model 18 as "Magnificent" and "<span style="background-color: white; color: #545454; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: x-small; line-height: 18.2000007629395px;">Of all the interesting </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #545454; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: x-small; font-weight: bold; line-height: 18.2000007629395px;">typewriters</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #545454; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: x-small; line-height: 18.2000007629395px;"> I own, the </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #545454; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: x-small; font-weight: bold; line-height: 18.2000007629395px;">Torpedo</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #545454; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: x-small; line-height: 18.2000007629395px;"> 18 is my favorite writing machine for its light and precise action</span>".<br />
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Well, I would agree, and at least in part because it is so similar to my venerable high school Olympia SM-3, as I explain below.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV580kuva-_qdnhQPo_pz9INIconDSnay2sktZ2TPm3XoYnTi2kPZwT7ujZVK_uaPid9ug66L3zjAwHIwZE8bzPQ2sHnOFwmXStu-PPIklM7Vnvxu51zpiPpKmh8rALVca94KjX0TEe9U/s1600/Torpedo+18B-6915.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV580kuva-_qdnhQPo_pz9INIconDSnay2sktZ2TPm3XoYnTi2kPZwT7ujZVK_uaPid9ug66L3zjAwHIwZE8bzPQ2sHnOFwmXStu-PPIklM7Vnvxu51zpiPpKmh8rALVca94KjX0TEe9U/s1600/Torpedo+18B-6915.jpg" height="504" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">1961 Torpedo Model 18B</td></tr>
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Isn't that a lovely thing? It took me longer than it ought to type out the following, as I would stop so frequently to pet it or just stare and admire.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSszdds_DPb-mMZIH9jQgQdEhfyyurlBQjSjGOcm5eo5wYycA8wnLzkuYqn2VmxqXU0aTjhOM0vxTzEdsi2FBeTz8b4MIyfpaAuVg40XnkyWhbXVvvMBFOBwtF4GzUOYvlm1-2j4y6zfw/s1600/Torpedo+text.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSszdds_DPb-mMZIH9jQgQdEhfyyurlBQjSjGOcm5eo5wYycA8wnLzkuYqn2VmxqXU0aTjhOM0vxTzEdsi2FBeTz8b4MIyfpaAuVg40XnkyWhbXVvvMBFOBwtF4GzUOYvlm1-2j4y6zfw/s1600/Torpedo+text.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The font is similar to, if not the same as Olympia Script No. 75 as shown in the 1964 NOMDA Blue Book on <a href="http://munk.org/typecast/2011/04/23/1964-nomda-blue-book-olympia-font-styles/" target="_blank">Ted Monk's page</a>.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixYsIzrP17JW1aszOH4rA7uHlW4MJo-1lIMokUxWo07OY0rov_fXqz1plyrGPswMFDXkNF4CgwotQ5W1JwrR4zaPyoG5jva3IIqGgzfth7jVX6TeCOipz8YplFjh1Dvjkqw0PLpyF0kc8/s1600/Torpedo+18B-6914.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixYsIzrP17JW1aszOH4rA7uHlW4MJo-1lIMokUxWo07OY0rov_fXqz1plyrGPswMFDXkNF4CgwotQ5W1JwrR4zaPyoG5jva3IIqGgzfth7jVX6TeCOipz8YplFjh1Dvjkqw0PLpyF0kc8/s1600/Torpedo+18B-6914.jpg" height="640" width="618" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Of course it has that paper support that extends to double as an end-of-page gauge. And basket shift and the numeral "1"!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi05UB3vn8QApfZdHYAwbzZ-Iy9bE0yrBiaRlLNowTIHShdGUJK2DhvDNyGTF5D2c8Vy3Y60W60Bczz3wif45Kr3VjvyD9JqWlpJxg3rjan3dGDH6YGPWtZASMVhNBYCjyS8lcVmADBO4c/s1600/Torpedo+18B-6917.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi05UB3vn8QApfZdHYAwbzZ-Iy9bE0yrBiaRlLNowTIHShdGUJK2DhvDNyGTF5D2c8Vy3Y60W60Bczz3wif45Kr3VjvyD9JqWlpJxg3rjan3dGDH6YGPWtZASMVhNBYCjyS8lcVmADBO4c/s1600/Torpedo+18B-6917.jpg" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shiny precision</td></tr>
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This one lives in the office as a daily user. I think if I continue collecting in this direction, there may be a typewriter traffic condition here.<br />
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TonysVisionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12004608151032301174noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1254463358376059327.post-55762974132483018462014-12-12T21:37:00.000-08:002014-12-12T21:37:23.888-08:00Paddling the Rivers of the Mendocino Coast<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhASNSW0Nh9xKt7tvG2hbNmhN_cP13h1irY-5CPpgTNXBsWtPwxPbB7urkA_vyMno_sPMB39RKuOCM4oS5TggE5pe0TLU6IIhgyqs64kiJ_ScRKXay89MaQUXVWftuAgB4-h2DM6ZnJWto/s1600/california_location+of+ft+bragg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhASNSW0Nh9xKt7tvG2hbNmhN_cP13h1irY-5CPpgTNXBsWtPwxPbB7urkA_vyMno_sPMB39RKuOCM4oS5TggE5pe0TLU6IIhgyqs64kiJ_ScRKXay89MaQUXVWftuAgB4-h2DM6ZnJWto/s1600/california_location+of+ft+bragg.jpg" height="320" width="270" /></a></div>
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Three fine paddling destinations enter the Pacific Ocean along the Mendocino Coast. Thanks to Sierra Club trip leaders Larry and Shelly, who organized this outing, a small group of us were able to enjoy them all during a well-organized outing in November, 2014.<br />
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Strictly, these rivers, the Noyo, Big, and Albion, are semi-mature, tide dominated, drowned valley estuaries. Meaning that their winding meanders originally formed as they flowed across a level coastal plain, since uplifted to form the mountains and seacoast terraces that characterize the present day Mendocino Coast.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Russian Gulch</span></h2>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb3Z_m6OKHwaWh5otGty63XsjcJocR67_Y_G-KPgofhR6hCqB0KNQW4VOFOziboFByMSXCEyLFqTrI8p7lyVLZeIl6Zl8Obsl1pQD5xlPyA6IgvqErTQew-pJ7V6ljO6TdUU_O_sd2ZMs/s1600/_DSC0741.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb3Z_m6OKHwaWh5otGty63XsjcJocR67_Y_G-KPgofhR6hCqB0KNQW4VOFOziboFByMSXCEyLFqTrI8p7lyVLZeIl6Zl8Obsl1pQD5xlPyA6IgvqErTQew-pJ7V6ljO6TdUU_O_sd2ZMs/s1600/_DSC0741.jpg" height="400" width="265" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Russian Gulch</td></tr>
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Russian Gulch State park contains the essence of the Mendocino Coast within its boundaries that stretch from bluffs with views of a huge sink hole, rock arches, and booming Pacific rollers, to a narrow canyon filled with overhanging redwoods, quiet birdsong, ferns, and a delicate waterfall.</div>
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During time off from paddling, I lingered with our little motor home on the bluffs here. I walked, read, and hibernated through one restorative drizzly day. Later in the week when the sky was clear I photographed the magic hours in the morning and evening. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj4HHLzAPSyHqNw1GcNEoTh8gLZB627sS8jv4I4RqwkbYoYs-YUaAcshwuqB45SGvE16utebR4ua_Ikus68UfX0GwVpxPZqbnX79a_mm-XKncF7LgO-_hAZXJk4Rw_wweHrpEdmPoPGpU/s1600/20120524-_1040323.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjj4HHLzAPSyHqNw1GcNEoTh8gLZB627sS8jv4I4RqwkbYoYs-YUaAcshwuqB45SGvE16utebR4ua_Ikus68UfX0GwVpxPZqbnX79a_mm-XKncF7LgO-_hAZXJk4Rw_wweHrpEdmPoPGpU/s1600/20120524-_1040323.jpg" height="400" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The waterfall at Russian Gulch SP</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4KLQWdLk94m32EKV88jygDo6UzGt1akiJt9zr4RHJcw0o38Jljo5uxesa8DT6JOC69DyawnzAjPK4VykRxaXvR0bMiijf9PXTOwnLD0-ljIKpr-xHKktvrBSao4OhXc7R6Lg8t8ZFW40/s1600/_DSC0684.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4KLQWdLk94m32EKV88jygDo6UzGt1akiJt9zr4RHJcw0o38Jljo5uxesa8DT6JOC69DyawnzAjPK4VykRxaXvR0bMiijf9PXTOwnLD0-ljIKpr-xHKktvrBSao4OhXc7R6Lg8t8ZFW40/s1600/_DSC0684.jpg" height="424" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Boom!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDjyTDvmerPDuooJ83Y6WZ9bJjq5hF5DVsWNYTut8xbOAiGspP_NOCH-XEiaHmLlUGBBu_UMhjKZReS0cieCzaUE-j7psAWEl-_nupKhOt_OafsrdBEYeuQnfAv5hIJdsvABDpvatThzw/s1600/_DSC0770.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDjyTDvmerPDuooJ83Y6WZ9bJjq5hF5DVsWNYTut8xbOAiGspP_NOCH-XEiaHmLlUGBBu_UMhjKZReS0cieCzaUE-j7psAWEl-_nupKhOt_OafsrdBEYeuQnfAv5hIJdsvABDpvatThzw/s1600/_DSC0770.jpg" height="424" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The "Magic Hour"<br />
<i>The best light happens when other people are eating</i> - Galen Rowel</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNonanjAG654wddgof9_FjuBWl6lM42MlcnfxfwThaZ08WSlE-CrR1FAXC51_rbp8aDi-lN3pgTLMYNW24_lvHe5xGcHkj_EIIVYPGlP73sw05K0uKt8YzXzSjGgFDBsxt_fL6iIokwd4/s1600/_DSC0884.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNonanjAG654wddgof9_FjuBWl6lM42MlcnfxfwThaZ08WSlE-CrR1FAXC51_rbp8aDi-lN3pgTLMYNW24_lvHe5xGcHkj_EIIVYPGlP73sw05K0uKt8YzXzSjGgFDBsxt_fL6iIokwd4/s1600/_DSC0884.jpg" height="424" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Backlight on waves and early morning mist</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc8zOpgjAktU83UniP99DHqVztUqNd8767jMmNnrtgVLFcgT5FGOj7X5ZdPvB5Echm_mVTN029SWx4F1ZedRjaJ5gWwwBTnbDq-l4Sb2FyltnEgd6ameop8uVSeGSnX8OEknj-1ubfGDg/s1600/_DSC0790.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc8zOpgjAktU83UniP99DHqVztUqNd8767jMmNnrtgVLFcgT5FGOj7X5ZdPvB5Echm_mVTN029SWx4F1ZedRjaJ5gWwwBTnbDq-l4Sb2FyltnEgd6ameop8uVSeGSnX8OEknj-1ubfGDg/s1600/_DSC0790.jpg" height="424" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Its best to watch your feet when walking the bluff-edge paths; both to avoid a stumble as well as to see the beauty underfoot.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Early morning light at Russian Gulch<br />
<i style="color: #aaaaaa; font-family: verdana, helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">“Twice each day the cool, blue light of night interacts with the warm tones of daylight. Luckily for color photographers, these events, though predictable, are not consistent. For a full hour at either end of the day colors of light mix together in endless combinations, as if someone in the sky were shaking a kaleidoscope.”---- Galen Rowell (1940-2002)</span></i></td></tr>
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<h2>
The Rivers</h2>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkaR6nK7mRz4LSMND06ooDy-4LZB4tu1ikm5K-_8rX8OjFQBnYLxH7zvmiYsRDB6KkEQpqYjMMLvNETnyFfs6Cg3AIcio-5GQ858zkD36M4WjdAqVIMYTq8xxzMc_ZpxzSiSdddYjry1c/s1600/Map+of+Rivers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkaR6nK7mRz4LSMND06ooDy-4LZB4tu1ikm5K-_8rX8OjFQBnYLxH7zvmiYsRDB6KkEQpqYjMMLvNETnyFfs6Cg3AIcio-5GQ858zkD36M4WjdAqVIMYTq8xxzMc_ZpxzSiSdddYjry1c/s1600/Map+of+Rivers.jpg" height="406" width="640" /></a></div>
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These rivers once provided pathways for moving harvested redwoods from their primeval forests to the seacoast where they were loaded onto sailing vessels. Towns grew up at the river mouths, which exist now as destinations for those that come to enjoy this lovely area. The old pilings in the rivers, once used as wharves during the lumber trade, are now rotting, and serve as perches for the great blue herons, kingfishers, and egrets. Curious seals poke their heads from the water, and river otters enjoy their meals seemingly unconcerned as paddlers drift by.<br />
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The tides flow in, and the tides flow out. And if you can catch them just right, as we did for three days in a row on the Noyo, Big, and Albion Rivers, paddling through these lovely canyons and enjoying their wildlife is all that more fun.<br />
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<h2>
Big River</h2>
Aptly named, this estuary can be paddled for at least seven miles inland from where it enters the ocean just south of the town of Mendocino. I always like to check in with the folks at Catch-A-Canoe, where colorful watercraft that can be rented for paddling and even sailing the river line the pier below the humble but cozy building that clings to the cliffs at the river mouth. If I've forgotten anything from a windbreaker to paddles they can provide them. But usually I just quiz them on the tide schedule. It is surprising how even a small current flowing against you can make it feel as if your canoe or kayak is dragging an anchor, or how delightful and encouraging a little helpful push can be when returning, tired and paddling against the wind that always comes in from the ocean later in the day.<br />
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The launching point is on the opposite, north shore, where a road from the north end of the Highway 1 bridge leads across a bar to a gently sloping ramp. The tide was coming in quickly and rising fast - we had to continually pull our boats up as folks were getting sorted out, to keep them from drifting away.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit7jLKnsQT2dwhiMBOSjdZePwiYf-lautvvRdyeyn6ttzKpHYPhXwaJ55xBMseE9atem1ULWomh70MNBGbxMwswLw-K7DmielW2s2PhDbZt79OI3FPIhDL6dnNgTBHYlFqR-o2lTVafjk/s1600/_1100064.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit7jLKnsQT2dwhiMBOSjdZePwiYf-lautvvRdyeyn6ttzKpHYPhXwaJ55xBMseE9atem1ULWomh70MNBGbxMwswLw-K7DmielW2s2PhDbZt79OI3FPIhDL6dnNgTBHYlFqR-o2lTVafjk/s1600/_1100064.jpg" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The put-in at Big River is one of my happy places. I first paddled here with my sons in the late 1970's. My wife and I have paddled its length in a Coleman, and later in our pretty red We-No-Nah several times, always coming back from the adventure in that mellow and refreshed mood that follows a bit of an outdoor workout.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9VYY-UMHG34Glz5-h4wBZgYEbnV7sXJm3msm9kZBmB9cvl5Egi1sObHIYTCnDxwAJusmY-UP1ypFxD9w2XL4zF0BX5W3ERqMmKIPkJEyxTNhyGFujXCx7BIJaK_zk-rrmHwp61Xk3_uU/s1600/_1100035.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9VYY-UMHG34Glz5-h4wBZgYEbnV7sXJm3msm9kZBmB9cvl5Egi1sObHIYTCnDxwAJusmY-UP1ypFxD9w2XL4zF0BX5W3ERqMmKIPkJEyxTNhyGFujXCx7BIJaK_zk-rrmHwp61Xk3_uU/s1600/_1100035.jpg" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Great blue heron at ease</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiToSvlQ2GszgIiDqsTjNjvDtrFPrQy-z57y7oKVacjAhf_ApHYPkRk8-qelx-IHoDR9EnUIRWNJtvGTwP5id2B5K-Nyd7ywtlp0nOZen2q1nWphxV_FE-Vb0Nj4K9zMwnW-T7W2XvJFUA/s1600/_1090993.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiToSvlQ2GszgIiDqsTjNjvDtrFPrQy-z57y7oKVacjAhf_ApHYPkRk8-qelx-IHoDR9EnUIRWNJtvGTwP5id2B5K-Nyd7ywtlp0nOZen2q1nWphxV_FE-Vb0Nj4K9zMwnW-T7W2XvJFUA/s1600/_1090993.jpg" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Always fun to sneak around the obstacles on the river's edge. As you can see, the tide was quite high. We caught the tides perfectly on all three days - going upstream with the rise and out with the ebb.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDHIDdgW71XNep1GMD3XLWppU8uKsIq2M0k8FZayqUK1iD6xnQIZhgWVJ7zzaguXpPvPgAwV8aGd3nCKKoiAebJPQYyuJ21eQGrCrhDWXug2ndknbWC2sIm9uvgwMwIbtXIrtt1OQX7Gw/s1600/_1100004.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDHIDdgW71XNep1GMD3XLWppU8uKsIq2M0k8FZayqUK1iD6xnQIZhgWVJ7zzaguXpPvPgAwV8aGd3nCKKoiAebJPQYyuJ21eQGrCrhDWXug2ndknbWC2sIm9uvgwMwIbtXIrtt1OQX7Gw/s1600/_1100004.jpg" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Happiness on the water</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUeq3qbdWkJQKfTWsOBqwhnQ82sZPsnU5_Gchic8NX2IPrRo12_SfXRSA5DekxRw9irWOT89A9fiIJVE1-dJEwcZxg3oRHNOlJMe4dJNZjeF2ilaa_Ct2DryqmihIIQBXeHpgGOc-ZDyM/s1600/_1100026.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUeq3qbdWkJQKfTWsOBqwhnQ82sZPsnU5_Gchic8NX2IPrRo12_SfXRSA5DekxRw9irWOT89A9fiIJVE1-dJEwcZxg3oRHNOlJMe4dJNZjeF2ilaa_Ct2DryqmihIIQBXeHpgGOc-ZDyM/s1600/_1100026.jpg" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Heading back down river. We were fortunate not only to have the tide with us, but only light winds from the west as well.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI2VUjAV_MqRjVKqe-j6FGc62GS1wCEVRelEoA-wCBhiHPFFXPHAkYXFWkYBPNdg8R9t41mKgPjzzhtVCeMKgn_z_TyS3PmBEb8bMzLhYittKgiBnxvA1dVJwIKuSEltJKvq6xeW1P8n4/s1600/_1090989.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI2VUjAV_MqRjVKqe-j6FGc62GS1wCEVRelEoA-wCBhiHPFFXPHAkYXFWkYBPNdg8R9t41mKgPjzzhtVCeMKgn_z_TyS3PmBEb8bMzLhYittKgiBnxvA1dVJwIKuSEltJKvq6xeW1P8n4/s1600/_1090989.jpg" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Big River road was probably originally put in as a logging road.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiR3Ybps93FgNMKiWzSD5NoWc3oOGq5nlvJ8Tr_hB9UuaZH9Ra1y9tB5a2WsLTZePEYKj6jK4oiMMkKEhmcBgtILqYqo2KeUezjECyd8LkWb2numw8FyJSd5d-LIie3sWwUoesAm3i1Jg/s1600/_1100048.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiR3Ybps93FgNMKiWzSD5NoWc3oOGq5nlvJ8Tr_hB9UuaZH9Ra1y9tB5a2WsLTZePEYKj6jK4oiMMkKEhmcBgtILqYqo2KeUezjECyd8LkWb2numw8FyJSd5d-LIie3sWwUoesAm3i1Jg/s1600/_1100048.jpg" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A river otter looked up from a snack - then continued with his meal.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHyQ6tz-cDM4LH4QiV89xtVRjO9d9t1umBOrRc1RxYsSFrrnJLgjhrZlKFU6t451aiLc6szN0NgW4m6g9m5lutLVrUP7eLKYh2PhcUQN-oztGY0X8KEVlH1EvMCyJkm38ZQxQCWFhfwec/s1600/_1100057.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHyQ6tz-cDM4LH4QiV89xtVRjO9d9t1umBOrRc1RxYsSFrrnJLgjhrZlKFU6t451aiLc6szN0NgW4m6g9m5lutLVrUP7eLKYh2PhcUQN-oztGY0X8KEVlH1EvMCyJkm38ZQxQCWFhfwec/s1600/_1100057.jpg" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A curious river otter</td></tr>
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<h2>
The Albion River</h2>
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The launching point is from the Schooner's Landing Marina at the end of Albion River North Side Road. There is a $5 fee. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSEDOp5E92KXdHwmFPqh9Y6BqCPlhFoBJ0VGLgJ1K7ijSraTSx1PHpXbptNWPgxgvCM2L90fyMIV_WBjrdlFET-hrjrfg7TrQrjKwiG0Ytx1G5CsV8FvweECV7mXCCH35sWh-4lWDI8Oc/s1600/_1100074.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSEDOp5E92KXdHwmFPqh9Y6BqCPlhFoBJ0VGLgJ1K7ijSraTSx1PHpXbptNWPgxgvCM2L90fyMIV_WBjrdlFET-hrjrfg7TrQrjKwiG0Ytx1G5CsV8FvweECV7mXCCH35sWh-4lWDI8Oc/s1600/_1100074.jpg" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Floating weekend cottages on the Albion River</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiESbkqOScMpRKpIwApJ5-iYLF8sZ0erbIxgGHhpVA31prys9sAh1g4HspDmU8WbgCplo1h3a2gpk5luiZtk8Pdfm0BoPbU79uD875lgaOfVqhkk-o3ts2evibk_BaVIo41as0E6Zp1ny4/s1600/_1100079.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiESbkqOScMpRKpIwApJ5-iYLF8sZ0erbIxgGHhpVA31prys9sAh1g4HspDmU8WbgCplo1h3a2gpk5luiZtk8Pdfm0BoPbU79uD875lgaOfVqhkk-o3ts2evibk_BaVIo41as0E6Zp1ny4/s1600/_1100079.jpg" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Afternoon light on the Albion</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyavu_g4QqlarMp7CZZ41Z5BhTeBE8R1Bxs4JcAEG1-gDwlg9n0rdPf8DRZMnblL1KRwIM0ZgDQ_VtJ63jTqppix6hilWXYm0ukgIJXu3_ATklScd8WnVL3QqchOP57y-yEV30cK8v_7U/s1600/_1100078.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyavu_g4QqlarMp7CZZ41Z5BhTeBE8R1Bxs4JcAEG1-gDwlg9n0rdPf8DRZMnblL1KRwIM0ZgDQ_VtJ63jTqppix6hilWXYm0ukgIJXu3_ATklScd8WnVL3QqchOP57y-yEV30cK8v_7U/s1600/_1100078.jpg" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lunch stop on the Albion</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizyh4BZqdSdbXc6v7mpR_0pDr0YXctnPywy90DyCFNMTEmgXz21aK__1jRMHsTQYOn1oiP9VvdL5nKNZf6r4VwdUws7WOeWNEQXke01HXcOT5FbJL2726wI9nGtJ2Vh7Z0HOsN2GTdJHI/s1600/_1100089.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizyh4BZqdSdbXc6v7mpR_0pDr0YXctnPywy90DyCFNMTEmgXz21aK__1jRMHsTQYOn1oiP9VvdL5nKNZf6r4VwdUws7WOeWNEQXke01HXcOT5FbJL2726wI9nGtJ2Vh7Z0HOsN2GTdJHI/s1600/_1100089.jpg" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We chatted up the owner of this floating home. He built it and has lived there since the 1970's. A mellow fellow, says he likes watching the light and the critters.</td></tr>
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The Noyo River</h2>
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The smallest of the estuaries we paddled, the mouth of the Noyo forms the areas largest harbor, with hundreds of fishing and pleasure boats moored in it. We launched from a public ramp along South River Road.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpQX9YO4ZOp9YPI-fI0iTXk_5qYs_uwiS1TcZ2X_Z7Dy-aBTfrZFjLTYb_CXPHTTkNLA5O-CkjuPYVzjcdiFLXOU_wSuQcSwfGWQYHFUyYfMMEO1cPUW-MF7x0k2ZSvQasEE0PpKMxX1Q/s1600/00005.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpQX9YO4ZOp9YPI-fI0iTXk_5qYs_uwiS1TcZ2X_Z7Dy-aBTfrZFjLTYb_CXPHTTkNLA5O-CkjuPYVzjcdiFLXOU_wSuQcSwfGWQYHFUyYfMMEO1cPUW-MF7x0k2ZSvQasEE0PpKMxX1Q/s1600/00005.jpg" height="360" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">As a long-time fishing harbor, the upper reaches of the marina house some picturesque hulks.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmjNkqquT_oCmUtQEcMH1QLdaLfuq_d_T5acKtZH9fTQkZZfWPi3PdgkmQ4e7BQJtIIhQCoccpzRlkAsh7U-9d06wZ0KMrGL_7Gjy2vlR9yKF6RX3S8EmEa9f2ENO0B0Xx3w73lIxQSOQ/s1600/_1100093.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmjNkqquT_oCmUtQEcMH1QLdaLfuq_d_T5acKtZH9fTQkZZfWPi3PdgkmQ4e7BQJtIIhQCoccpzRlkAsh7U-9d06wZ0KMrGL_7Gjy2vlR9yKF6RX3S8EmEa9f2ENO0B0Xx3w73lIxQSOQ/s1600/_1100093.jpg" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Launching was observed by a lone swan<br /></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHa2pK7hApTfnhv_KQxZ2K1XTCydsShLdjf7bwE5C1KAUbNpv2wZSLpKwQmt_cIStwKq7cYcT1-QFs6TpAbJAzXEuaGK0tuHI4rSTlNlQ1RN0ed4y3KBAv6XyYm76zrE4gSKnW3AIlS4c/s1600/_1100096.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHa2pK7hApTfnhv_KQxZ2K1XTCydsShLdjf7bwE5C1KAUbNpv2wZSLpKwQmt_cIStwKq7cYcT1-QFs6TpAbJAzXEuaGK0tuHI4rSTlNlQ1RN0ed4y3KBAv6XyYm76zrE4gSKnW3AIlS4c/s1600/_1100096.jpg" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Happy paddlers. Author in blue life jacket.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Paddling the Noyo. the high tide allowed us to paddle further than any of us had been able to go before.</td></tr>
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TonysVisionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12004608151032301174noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1254463358376059327.post-36455378335612849002014-12-10T21:45:00.000-08:002014-12-10T21:45:23.547-08:00A Trio of Teutonic typers - Part IIIt was back in the middle of October that I began to document a September binge which resulted in the acquisition of three typewriters. A binge with its focus on German typewriters of the 1960's and earlier. This is consistent with my typewriter roots, as not only was my high school typer a 1957 Olympia SM3, but most of my grandparents originated in Germany as well. All solid, reliable, and pleasant to spend time with.<br />
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Part I focused on an <a href="http://tonymindling.blogspot.com/2014/10/a-trio-of-teutonic-typers-part-i.html" target="_blank">Adler J3:</a><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFi3QGXAtR-WFnGkSaQoKMVRYupDyi7b9jMcw0pSb0MrlgAkFBbT_jjMR1RHdgSHtG44VvdM-S69EiD7EySyMMmxBamS2pXVD631i6SyyMAndSjfLC6pKN4-Oxro6l9GLwwV1ggoQC-ks/s1600/Adler+J3-6901.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFi3QGXAtR-WFnGkSaQoKMVRYupDyi7b9jMcw0pSb0MrlgAkFBbT_jjMR1RHdgSHtG44VvdM-S69EiD7EySyMMmxBamS2pXVD631i6SyyMAndSjfLC6pKN4-Oxro6l9GLwwV1ggoQC-ks/s1600/Adler+J3-6901.jpg" height="269" width="320" /></a></div>
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<b><span style="color: #0b5394;">Part II will cover this Optima Super</span></b></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Protruding from the base of the typewriter is the release for the spring-loaded ribbon cover.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My thumb covers the left-hand case release lever; its mate is opposite on the right. Above the case release levers is another pair of levers that release the ribbon cover, allowing it to be completely removed.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The paper support can be extended making a gauge to help you stop at the bottom of page margin. </td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The key with the plus sign sets tabs. The odd blue lever below and to its left is the key de-jammer.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0JJC_3ab2c_1UeJtNO_HqpgoeWDDXt1NfOQ139itXS99nNq3NGISGmyCS333smXpJMITD_NvNAhG7qqad9bOnY6nf9Sr-Epf3AewgktFnVd8ZornDlp0srGXqOF1S9fme-UAY3IcStek/s1600/_DSC6630.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0JJC_3ab2c_1UeJtNO_HqpgoeWDDXt1NfOQ139itXS99nNq3NGISGmyCS333smXpJMITD_NvNAhG7qqad9bOnY6nf9Sr-Epf3AewgktFnVd8ZornDlp0srGXqOF1S9fme-UAY3IcStek/s1600/_DSC6630.jpg" height="556" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The nice leatherette case, with that nifty hold-down system. Simple, secure, and easy to use. The case to the left holds the subject of Part III of this mini-series on my September Teutonic Trio - guesses anyone?</td></tr>
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TonysVisionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12004608151032301174noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1254463358376059327.post-90055801709269300682014-10-26T21:40:00.000-07:002014-10-26T21:40:03.792-07:00A Red Corona 4 and a Happy, Misty Morning<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The red and whimsical Corona No. 4</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga5L6jWBgxLfuAtJjV_PEoXDJcHfA_wnHzDxyAaM9mV8whzEsO2rkQllEGEdDVuXcyJ-hiLldZXbhmqqJtvZOtAejiO4BeDg4Sb4pV0CmsNJRfiYcHw22xhj9WgQEGP9RSWUWO7aBKJss/s1600/_DSC0559.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga5L6jWBgxLfuAtJjV_PEoXDJcHfA_wnHzDxyAaM9mV8whzEsO2rkQllEGEdDVuXcyJ-hiLldZXbhmqqJtvZOtAejiO4BeDg4Sb4pV0CmsNJRfiYcHw22xhj9WgQEGP9RSWUWO7aBKJss/s1600/_DSC0559.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A misty morning in the golden, rollin' hills of California</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6A0zBw6sZ2ntlFa-KOOlY9iF-lsNaYq7ZHOGjY8wou-kR2wkb77HDl1l4OggAVXC-TBoApED9Be4KDr4jRPWKcmUa3WXMJhNr661mX4StxXP8xHTZtCTsgSGWJEGclaU3CDT5_z-9hIc/s1600/CCI10262014.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6A0zBw6sZ2ntlFa-KOOlY9iF-lsNaYq7ZHOGjY8wou-kR2wkb77HDl1l4OggAVXC-TBoApED9Be4KDr4jRPWKcmUa3WXMJhNr661mX4StxXP8xHTZtCTsgSGWJEGclaU3CDT5_z-9hIc/s1600/CCI10262014.jpg" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZvY23gQmvdHv7vNZpSuH4RS3SBwFufygkxmBXtBmNGp9Sre2epUV3kT5KyTS383TfKYtXHQ32CgsIB4o5-3uxpM_hrnexPW1poSGRKaGpL_gdN79BK82QJ4FizKjjFIu-d4XVMrrNslU/s1600/_DSC0563.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZvY23gQmvdHv7vNZpSuH4RS3SBwFufygkxmBXtBmNGp9Sre2epUV3kT5KyTS383TfKYtXHQ32CgsIB4o5-3uxpM_hrnexPW1poSGRKaGpL_gdN79BK82QJ4FizKjjFIu-d4XVMrrNslU/s1600/_DSC0563.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nandina berries - flickers will eat them at first hint of ripeness</td></tr>
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I <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx42uN1-InCtTYBnPYx3JhdDeI6G7fPVpCktmac5cs4fnhC_1JgforsLepjdOQDbZkWm8PHWdk7VMvsMQ2noSxf8dESITMzYNH8Mvt-A3M7GMXzf0jh77X2zrvOztOJ0xwOvfjCe9Vt6Y/s1600/_DSC0568.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx42uN1-InCtTYBnPYx3JhdDeI6G7fPVpCktmac5cs4fnhC_1JgforsLepjdOQDbZkWm8PHWdk7VMvsMQ2noSxf8dESITMzYNH8Mvt-A3M7GMXzf0jh77X2zrvOztOJ0xwOvfjCe9Vt6Y/s1600/_DSC0568.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I like the sunlight glints on the tiny water drops on the blue fescue ...</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">... and the leaves of the Japanese maple.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0iziVmP7-LvriC9ioqYozQB96WC_W909wTx2nB0hvg-LZjiP_8l1snlKqRl4Q1E4O1p9lStPdnm0lBMFub1Nq2J_B4XVrCw-l8KYKIPxMg7nh2kMP6ugMiDbV8FOBmBKnvVzJVIagd2M/s1600/_DSC0571.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0iziVmP7-LvriC9ioqYozQB96WC_W909wTx2nB0hvg-LZjiP_8l1snlKqRl4Q1E4O1p9lStPdnm0lBMFub1Nq2J_B4XVrCw-l8KYKIPxMg7nh2kMP6ugMiDbV8FOBmBKnvVzJVIagd2M/s1600/_DSC0571.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The doggies impatience shows when i carry a camera on our walks ...</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">... but I can't resist stopping to play with shadow and color in the lower garden.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1myMMzSzBEfB-89y9QNmyjfooxZw9B3agqOyQZPySRPCJ-unmMocvHli7tu0H8WQIVCP7QyJULxulOkiic7Xb4uYIpFqjY3qMAOHx3DoN3meYkB7q6kteRgpavF1A3CXZFASy9_aLRuk/s1600/_DSC0580.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1myMMzSzBEfB-89y9QNmyjfooxZw9B3agqOyQZPySRPCJ-unmMocvHli7tu0H8WQIVCP7QyJULxulOkiic7Xb4uYIpFqjY3qMAOHx3DoN3meYkB7q6kteRgpavF1A3CXZFASy9_aLRuk/s1600/_DSC0580.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Across the street the "horse lady" enjoys the early sunshine and just watching her horses.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkNpDUQEPhvWeeOrO_oY6WkaS11BsaTLHfaqLNWc9KxatFEyvUt2Hn76eG5p4GgSfO-9WUJJzyYfR7PVlzO3Gei8a4QFcbH1JD6NqEmYHY-3MKgs9ytocj6yq2RG3A6muNlwr-QG35pxE/s1600/_DSC0599.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkNpDUQEPhvWeeOrO_oY6WkaS11BsaTLHfaqLNWc9KxatFEyvUt2Hn76eG5p4GgSfO-9WUJJzyYfR7PVlzO3Gei8a4QFcbH1JD6NqEmYHY-3MKgs9ytocj6yq2RG3A6muNlwr-QG35pxE/s1600/_DSC0599.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Up in back a fig leaf rests on a little pile of firewood...</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMtor_LCUy7w2wEENdsbd-yM0bLvJhoUgut_rdgufx3dQgK6fqbeTTLnMTbyvNHTbNEXZ__22lJaZpieycOHNTEJVN-t9AhnpcXTXmq0znnJJpxATfHR0fpeExE0Ez-_eUpKCH1XPNGLE/s1600/_DSC0600.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMtor_LCUy7w2wEENdsbd-yM0bLvJhoUgut_rdgufx3dQgK6fqbeTTLnMTbyvNHTbNEXZ__22lJaZpieycOHNTEJVN-t9AhnpcXTXmq0znnJJpxATfHR0fpeExE0Ez-_eUpKCH1XPNGLE/s1600/_DSC0600.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">... the blue frog peeks from the bergennia ...</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOqZ3lLz20P7IWN5pUAXrJ-P5HwWvBGMwGuSEHnmaFfCS6ndfyEGGfZpAQLk-D_VBjT1KaEFFt9kTma_Pw5bJhKiDGVezypHnQB-sRPTcA8JvXDKog9gNigGBJIxAUKLKJpX1jA_pcfvQ/s1600/_DSC0607.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOqZ3lLz20P7IWN5pUAXrJ-P5HwWvBGMwGuSEHnmaFfCS6ndfyEGGfZpAQLk-D_VBjT1KaEFFt9kTma_Pw5bJhKiDGVezypHnQB-sRPTcA8JvXDKog9gNigGBJIxAUKLKJpX1jA_pcfvQ/s1600/_DSC0607.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">... and a squirrel steals some bird seed.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_IL3ewQmOFc9zMRAM9vxk_CZ7mHzMdwxoFia1X5vremjWDlxrf-3a4nb4ZRgD2NEOJ8sxSKHwqLnGkaItAsIyYK8PYVYtEZpLyjkt_oSRHhHzKnBeC8gGg4DedAI8EbfKVX_p7jPLbow/s1600/_DSC0589.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_IL3ewQmOFc9zMRAM9vxk_CZ7mHzMdwxoFia1X5vremjWDlxrf-3a4nb4ZRgD2NEOJ8sxSKHwqLnGkaItAsIyYK8PYVYtEZpLyjkt_oSRHhHzKnBeC8gGg4DedAI8EbfKVX_p7jPLbow/s1600/_DSC0589.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Oh, yeah ... the garage. Prepare to be amazed by the transformation.</td></tr>
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<br /><br />TonysVisionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12004608151032301174noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1254463358376059327.post-24821553554913385732014-10-25T15:54:00.000-07:002014-10-25T15:54:37.102-07:00"Oly" Comes Out to Play<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4WuwCMSSOBr7uUNELIyO0AgWHOPQAy_Tt0L670ky-pRLY06DX08QCdAjvH6i0fg4iuU-KNRuSNUhDbRzrnz1-hCMdJkXmMkTpnHuMue-C13UrLSyq2tt4vl7j-6lqiz-z3dP2kQMKUp0/s1600/CCI10252014.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4WuwCMSSOBr7uUNELIyO0AgWHOPQAy_Tt0L670ky-pRLY06DX08QCdAjvH6i0fg4iuU-KNRuSNUhDbRzrnz1-hCMdJkXmMkTpnHuMue-C13UrLSyq2tt4vl7j-6lqiz-z3dP2kQMKUp0/s1600/CCI10252014.jpg" height="640" width="493" /></a></div>
<br />TonysVisionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12004608151032301174noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1254463358376059327.post-18927768387243756672014-10-23T18:39:00.000-07:002014-10-23T18:48:38.936-07:00The Mountains Are Calling And I Must Go<h2>
An Eastern Sierra Adventure</h2>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih5yDKjmo23Pu0ZnQS-WFqq5X89pEF-xNEfJQnDot9S69KWUuCKBMIO9Flk8mFxxcB4YsnGFIcd32eEHwrr5wyvcDhYEOb8O5_9Fn_1H9_B0yaNB1ttAQDebD33hrczXr_wLNGFiJsi0Y/s1600/Merge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih5yDKjmo23Pu0ZnQS-WFqq5X89pEF-xNEfJQnDot9S69KWUuCKBMIO9Flk8mFxxcB4YsnGFIcd32eEHwrr5wyvcDhYEOb8O5_9Fn_1H9_B0yaNB1ttAQDebD33hrczXr_wLNGFiJsi0Y/s1600/Merge.jpg" height="470" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Mountains Call</td></tr>
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Last weekend my grandson David and I heeded that call in John Muir's quote, packed up my little 1988 Toyota motorhome known as "Minnie Winnie" and headed south from Reno on US 395. The route parallels the steep east front of the Sierra Nevada to the west, and the Great Basin deserts to the east. This is probably one of the more spectacular highways in the world - it is certainly a favorite drive of mine.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTKxDYwXuN5hsD2hlNIMqzH3XRcbgU2xpxF0mjn37b5ZbiQ4gP67hjMxTkh0piPftObF5q-AUXWUd1AF3UYq1-oqw9ScMX_JYTeIdAtKtEozA9qCHqiG6pQEH24IiTOBQqdjdbxa9B0LQ/s1600/_DSC0429.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTKxDYwXuN5hsD2hlNIMqzH3XRcbgU2xpxF0mjn37b5ZbiQ4gP67hjMxTkh0piPftObF5q-AUXWUd1AF3UYq1-oqw9ScMX_JYTeIdAtKtEozA9qCHqiG6pQEH24IiTOBQqdjdbxa9B0LQ/s1600/_DSC0429.jpg" height="424" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The desert of the Great Basin on the east side of the Sierra Nevada</td></tr>
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Our destination was the glacier-carved canyon of Bishop Creek west of the town of Bishop. I'd been hoping to photograph some fall color, but the web site of a local resort was not encouraging. "You've missed it" was the disappointing information it provided. Well, no matter - fall can be lovely even when the leaves are on the ground and scattered colorfully over the granite boulders of those Sierra canyons, and besides, the fun would really be just getting out on another adventure with my grandson.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrHUM5CCsxEwJxDjPP5OnUJKPyQP2OGrjOIk7MOATStcsbFU4segXQbBw45M34opePQhZNLAJr7sbz2DG7UtYgPYKSBADLJd-wsfry6sFiQIpGPsXMCmXkVbG-jNSnzcvqBPg_31JssLQ/s1600/_1090826.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrHUM5CCsxEwJxDjPP5OnUJKPyQP2OGrjOIk7MOATStcsbFU4segXQbBw45M34opePQhZNLAJr7sbz2DG7UtYgPYKSBADLJd-wsfry6sFiQIpGPsXMCmXkVbG-jNSnzcvqBPg_31JssLQ/s1600/_1090826.jpg" height="214" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Grandson David</td></tr>
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I'm fortunate to have seven children and thirteen or so grandchildren. Always one of the most enjoyable aspects of parenthood to me has been the availability of companions (victims?) to share adventures great and small, and David and I have shared several. During our drive down 395we reminisced about our adventures in computing a couple of decades earlier, with him on my lap as we explored the world of Myst.<br />
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The magic of the Eastern Sierra is in the contrasts - elevations that vary by many thousands of feet in just a short distance, with the corresponding change from desert to alpine plants during a short drive. And so after a last stop for a few groceries to fill in the gaps in our larder we were slowly climbing from desert sage outside of Bishop at about 4,200 foot elevation to crawl at low gear through the summer home community of Aspendell at 8,500 feet and its surrounding pines and colorful aspen forest. And the leaves were not only still hanging onto the trees, but spectacularly so. <br />
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A couple of miles above Aspendell and just below Lake Sabrina and nestled into aspens alongside Bishop Creek we found a snug campsite just the right fit for Minnie Winnie. It was dark and cooling off by the time we sat down for a grilled steak salad. The warmth of Minnie Winnie's bunks beckoned, but first we headed out for a look at the night sky. So we climbed the glacial moraine next to our camp to gape at the countless stars and the bright swath of the milky way directly over our heads, and wonder at the fact that the sun is one of billions of stars in our galaxy, and that our galaxy is one of billions of other galaxies in the universe. In between wondering and feeling small I set up a tripod with my big Nikon on it and played with combinations of ISO and f/stops to eke the best resolution from my limited photographic gear. But those bunks in Minnie Winnie soon called to us. David loaned me a fleece-lined "beanie" to warm my nearly bald head. Good thing, because I just had to keep the little window at the head of my bunk open to let in the sound of the creek.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Aspen along Bishop Creek below Lake Sabrina</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Minnie Winnie in her campsite in the romantically-named campground, "Upper Intake2"</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Billions and billions - the Milky Way glows over our campground</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0T8CnFOpaKQl0G9HtI1dcc6twSa_p-NsRki3h30SNw-lZ3AceTNYID_Lv-BuXFPozj7DHrZTc_n23Y_tGLVkXYtuQW_asNAdyu_OWYjKcz0dHKWvodFbUs_A5JXd-ile4mr2IAN9aERM/s1600/_DSC0486.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0T8CnFOpaKQl0G9HtI1dcc6twSa_p-NsRki3h30SNw-lZ3AceTNYID_Lv-BuXFPozj7DHrZTc_n23Y_tGLVkXYtuQW_asNAdyu_OWYjKcz0dHKWvodFbUs_A5JXd-ile4mr2IAN9aERM/s1600/_DSC0486.jpg" height="320" width="276" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bishop Creek</td></tr>
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The next day we enjoyed a leisurely morning. Well, some of us did. I crawled out in the early chilly dark trying not to wake David. I gathered clunky camera gear to attempt to capture the dawn light on the Sierra peaks. That didn't work out, but it's always a nice experience to be out at that unusual hour in such a beautiful area, although I craved a toothbrush and coffee. Down by the creek I managed to capture the rushing water and some aspen in the soft, pre-dawn light.<br />
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With the sun well up we made some Krusteze blueberry pancakes and fried eggs on the Coleman stove, made some lunches, and finally parked near the Lake Sabrina outleat at the trailhead for Blue Lake about 11 am. Definitely a leisurely start to soak up what was turning into a beautiful day.<br />
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By noon we were well on the way, heading ever upward on a beautiful trail apparently built by the Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC) in the 1930's, from the lovely stonework steps and buttresses. The trail begins with a gradual inclining traverse parallel to Lake Sabrina. Once opposite the west end of the lake the trail begins to seriously gain elevation with switchbacks through some lodgepole pine woods, around a ridge, then more switchbacks up and out of a spectacular gorge just below Blue Lake.<br />
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David waited with kind patience for his grandpa, as I puffed and paused my way up. As a flatlander, living down at about 1,000 feet, the thin air was definitely an issue for me, but by taking it slowly and pausing every other switchback or so, I was never so uncomfortable as to not be able to enjoy the spectacular alpine scenery and the ambient scents and sounds. Birdsong was frequently present, especially in the more wooded areas, and the spicy aroma of warm sunlight on the pines and a bit of horse manure made a classical Sierra trail ambient mix.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The sculpting effect of glaciation events which began about 2.5 million years ago and last occurred just 15,000 years ago is evident from the distant views of classical U-shaped valleys and cirques, and up close as in this slope of polished and striated granite.</td></tr>
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While the views on the way up were spectacular, the sweetest was the first view of the lake as we topped out alongside its outlet creek. Rugged pines growing from fissures in the granite reflected in the outlet pools and framed the lake, which was indeed blue, and the alpine peaks beyond. The 2-1/2 mile and 1,300 foot climb had taken us about four hours, what with all of my pauses to puff and photograph, so it was getting to be late afternoon and clouds were beginning to form. Nevertheless we gave ourselves about an hour to rest, explore, and generally just absorb the scene before heading back down again. Back in camp we talked about returning in the spring to spend more time; explore around a bit. Although the thought of backpacking up all those switchbacks is a bit daunting, I'll bet the mountains will call.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Blue Lake</td></tr>
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TonysVisionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12004608151032301174noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1254463358376059327.post-53088921454855418472014-10-15T22:47:00.000-07:002014-10-16T08:29:29.705-07:00A Trio of Teutonic Typers Part I<h2>
Tony's Typewriter Toot - Part 1 of 3 - Adler Junior 3</h2>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That screw, held snug by a lock nut, is duplicated at the other end of the carriage. They control how high the carriage lifts when the shift key is pressed.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Loosen it with a 5,5 mm socket - if you dare ...</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBeBTS9zJAxy0nufYFpUFLjjOviHnfhyphenhyphenyeNcY5iZUtuQr11NtcTDKz3gK8f8o3y6kGuSu6Ieo0Taal3U9x9B4H_EIuHaHL0dDaZht2EMmHf_X0PJvY4jJo0u3MiaJdn4SKrhVxjG3eAZU/s1600/_1090746.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBeBTS9zJAxy0nufYFpUFLjjOviHnfhyphenhyphenyeNcY5iZUtuQr11NtcTDKz3gK8f8o3y6kGuSu6Ieo0Taal3U9x9B4H_EIuHaHL0dDaZht2EMmHf_X0PJvY4jJo0u3MiaJdn4SKrhVxjG3eAZU/s1600/_1090746.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">...then hold the lock nut from turning while diddling with the screw. It needed to get loosened (counterclockwise turn) just the right amount to allow the platten to rise to meet the type slug just right. Repeat on the other side. Then test. Then diddle more ... repeat ... and finally H's and I's print clear, top to bottom. But we're not done yet - there is a matching pair of screws underneath. They control the resting position of the carriage, i.e., the lower case position. These screws needed to go in (closkwise turn). I worked with both pairs of adjustments to get the platten raised to the sweet position where the type slugs hit just right. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY8Hho-D4p8c7Do4hRAZ7qHbObjmwLRpwI5jyz2i27WNnr4cnx4Qp4oipNrwuHUSEzOCJJgAzCojWtg6gZhUBCuTBPYogVbIMrZAHPijlVuPqcsf1Oqc3URzkav9JjlAUpvsg3Pn7ZzfY/s1600/_1090747.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY8Hho-D4p8c7Do4hRAZ7qHbObjmwLRpwI5jyz2i27WNnr4cnx4Qp4oipNrwuHUSEzOCJJgAzCojWtg6gZhUBCuTBPYogVbIMrZAHPijlVuPqcsf1Oqc3URzkav9JjlAUpvsg3Pn7ZzfY/s1600/_1090747.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At some point I discovered this adjustment - that black screw in the center controls the downward range of the shift key. It prevents an over-energetic typist from jamming the carriage against the stops. It needs to be set to limit the travel of the shift key just at the point where the carriage rises to meet the height adjustment screws. It has a companion beneath the right hand shift key. So there were three pairs of adjustment screws, and their lock nuts, to deal with.</td></tr>
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TonysVisionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12004608151032301174noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1254463358376059327.post-65395591244097222932014-09-28T17:39:00.000-07:002014-09-28T17:39:41.102-07:00The Search for the Jaunty "e"<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />TonysVisionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12004608151032301174noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1254463358376059327.post-52480240633331823782014-08-26T16:19:00.000-07:002014-08-26T16:19:37.780-07:00For typospherians Only (my pretty blue 1960-ish Smith-Corona Silent Super)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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