Showing posts with label hunting. Show all posts
Showing posts with label hunting. Show all posts

Monday, January 16, 2012

MONTE WOLFE WILL LIVE ON.

It’s interesting to me that when I first heard of Monte Wolfe and interviewed Harry Schimke, Monte’s unusual  life had been covered by the San Francisco newspapers, the Stockton Record, local newspapers and several historical societies. But, no one investigated Monte like Don DeYoung. Don first contacted me about my blog in 2009 and went on from there to meet the Schimke family. Harry’s daughter, Susan had all of her father’s photos and notes, and his brother Art was still alive.  Don did a major investigation about Monte that led to a  vastly more accurate portrait of Monte than anyone had before. As he put it, thanks to the internet, his skills and his own boyhood fascination with Monte from a boy scout camping trip, (that  he describes in one of the links below), Don  satisfied a lifetime fascination.  Monte disappeared in 1940, a date established by Harry Schimke,  who was the last person to see him alive.
Mark Bonar, too, became fascinated by Monte as a young man through his father-in-law, Paul La Teer, and subsequently collected materials, visited the cabins and introduced his own children to the legend of Monte Wolfe.  Monte built the “new” or second cabin in about 1933, Mark is guesstimating. As you can see, the hinged door is missing but the old woodsman’s device for “barring the door” was  in place.

Mark told me, “Paul knew that country and used to stash food, sleeping bags and wool blankets in rocks behind Camp Irene, which was about eight to fifteen miles below Monte’s cabins.  A Forest Service trail led down to the  new cabin from the Blue Lake side.  It is located about 12 miles from the mouth of Summit City Canyon Creek. The creek funnels into the Mokelumne.  The cabin was well hidden, nestled among the trees about 100 yards from a sharp bend in the river. There was a horse trail leading down behind the cabin (as yet not re-discovered). Monte, too, used “spike” caches to hold food and traps on his forays throughout the steep Sierra Nevadas, a common practice for ranchers chasing cows, sheepherders, trappers, fishermen and hunters.
Mark found a paper at the cabin describing how Monte built that cabin by himself. He hoisted all the material up onto the ridge pole using the wetted incline plane principle. The door was small, but extremely heavy. “The door probably weighed 150 pounds and had massive hinges. No one could remove the door without special tools or help.
“The cabin was beautiful; strongly built,  with two rooms. The foundation of lightly charred cedar rounds  discouraged insects. He had a screened pantry high up off the floor to keep out mice.  Monte dug a fresh spring near the cabin from which he piped water into a carved wooden sink and to a solar shower he hooked up on the cabin’s outside wall.”

“He also built a partly under-ground smoke house with hooks enough for 100 trout or a large deer cut into pieces.”  Mark showed me pictures of  carved log chairs, a table and other items Monte made. There were also  comfortable furnishings that Monte  hauled into that steep canyon from long distances.

(The above two pictures were taken by Mark on one of his many visits to the cabins.)
“Monte hauled a heavy cast iron cooking stove from Hermit valley to the cabin, piece by piece.  He was exceptionally strong.”
Monte was reported to throw a canvas sack of nails over his shoulders weighing 80-100 pounds, stand with it on his shoulders and visit for an hour and never set it down, then move on as  though carrying nothing. He was seen setting off from Blue Lakes on skis to his cabin on the Moke,  at night, an incredible feat in the day time,  without the deceptive shadows cast by the moon. Paul Le Teer described him as “…a swarthy, short man; a dead shot with a rifle, small feet, enormous calves, slender waist, and the broad shoulders of an athlete. He wore his long hair in braids, sometimes tied by a ribbon.”
There are many engaging stories of Monte’s exploits.  One I heard from a former bartender at Tamarack concerns the romantic Monte. Supposedly no one, the law, nor wardens could  “sneak up” on the expert woodsman. But,  the Bartender  came across him lying in a naked embrace  with a woman on a large flat rock  in the bright sunshine. He retreated undetected.
After Monte’s disappearance, people began using the upper cabin until the U.S Forest Service burned it down. The main cabin was harder to find, was locked, and  under the “protection” of the Linford family.
Mark  has a letter from the Lindford’s to the El Dorado Forest Service  Supervisor, Edwin Smith, after Monte’s disappearance was formally acknowledged. The Lindford’s were well off and owned an Oakland Construction Company. They befriended Monte and convinced him to jointly establish a mining claim on Monte’s properties, meaning the area of his cabins and property he occupied, but didn’t own. The Lindord’s enjoyed, with Monte, a private, free, Shangri La Cabin in the mountains. From the letter, Mark speculates the Lindford’s were interested in the amazing private cabin retreat more than Monte. The letter admits that they had never mined nor taken any minerals on their claims, they simply wanted to use the cabin and lands that Monte occupied and asked permission to continue to do so. Permission was granted them as long as they did not extend that privilege to others. So, they shared a special  lock with the forest service on the cabin door.
“Between 1955 and 1970, ” explained Mark, “fewer people were going to the cabin. The elder Linfords were essentially gone and their son, family and friends used it on rare visits.  A tree fell on the cabin and took out one corner of it and the end result would certainly be steady deterioration. The cabin was repaired much later by a committee of interested people formed to protect the cabin. The non-profit Monte Wolfe Society was formed by James Linford.
The U.S. Forest service decided in recent years that the cabin should be left to deteriorate and removed the door to hurry the process and prevent people from using the cabin. They emptied the place of everything but the stove. The group has taken legal action against that decision, arguing that the Mountain Man’s place is an historical  artifact like an Indian Ruins and should be preserved.  The group has succeeded thus far in having the door replaced and the chimney pipe hole patched in 2010. That is heart warming progress indeed.
Don DeYoung’s book is still awaiting publication. But, in the meantime, there are several websites about De Young’s extended research, including locating Monte’s grandchildren and learning his real name at the very interesting links below.
http://blogs.esanjoaquin.com/san-joaquin-river-delta/2009/07/28/monte-wolfes-cabin/
http://deyoung.org/MonteWolfe/
http://montewolfe.blogspot.com/
http://www.montewolfe.com/
http://www.recordnet.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20090727/A_NEWS/907270305

Tuesday, December 6, 2011

THE BARREL ROOM PARTY AT CHATOM

Tasters usually snug up to the tasting room bar for the fine wines at Chatom, and maybe enjoy a bit of chocolate or an olive spread and cracker. I love the sunny tasting room at Chatom, and the wines, the frog balls and other eccentric gifts but once a year during the Christmas Season, Chatom hosts a party in the barrel room for members.

It is one of the best parties of the season and Margo, Karen, Jan and I enjoyed the wonderful food and camaraderie even though I’m no longer a member. Gay Callen started the winery in 1982 or 3, I believe it was. My youngest son planted vines for Stevenot’s Vineyards under her direction in 1979 .  She later developed her own vineyard. He developed a high school  crush on Gay and loves to tease and remind her about those days. (Doug wasn’t the only high school boy with a crush on Gay during that planting season.)

These two women, and a guy, who was taking a break when I took the picture, have played this party every year for the last twelve. Beautiful voices that rival some famous folk singers I’m fond of. Unique about them is Chatom’s Christmas Party is the only gig they play. They enjoy it as much as we enjoy them.

Singer and hunter seems a strange combination.  Though I’ve never gotten her name, she confided she had recently made her first kill. My look must have expressed alarm. “Its more humane than the way our meat is raised and killed,” she defended. “A head shot kills instantly, there is no suffering.”  She hails from a hunting family. I do too. My father was a great hunter, and we farmed and butchered our own hogs and chickens. I was taught to handle a gun at age six and encouraged to hunt partridge. I never did like killing any critter. Even when I was a competition skin diver, I disliked killing the fish and never hunted outside of a meet. I’m not being judgmental of her choice to hunt, just surprised. Her statement is absolutely correct about the way our meat is “factory farmed” and killed. In a word, inhumane.

As we wandered about the room, visiting with anyone in sight, courteously, we introduce ourselves to each other, but the names all float away in my head. This woman approached me because we have the same Christmas bell earrings and a necklace. Just fun, cheap costume jewelry from years past. She told me something very funny I intended to blog. It too, floated out of my head. I  enjoy chatting with friends and strangers. After all, a stranger is just a friend you don’t know well yet.

Santa was present again this year; he is  from Copperopolis. He has no role in the party but does play Santa for non-profits, free of charge. A service he loves to provide.

Jan wanted her picture taken with Santa to prove to her grandchildren Santa is real. It is nice to have a Santa with real hair and beard. And it was very nice to join the throng at Chatom’s barrel room and taste and nibble for an hour or so. There was a time when I would get dismayed at how early the Christmas season started. Not now!  I enjoy the extended party season and all the wonderful colors, music and special treats. Of course, I don’t have young Children and a dream to perpetuate at Christmas. I just have fun.

Thursday, August 19, 2010

WE MADE IT TO ASHTABULA, OHIO

If you like a good ghost story you might enjoy this one. Before we left Smethport, PA. we saw a sign to visit the old jail where the ghost of Ralph Crossmire appeared after he was hung by his neck until dead. We didn't visit the jail, which is run by the local Historical Society, I believe, but I did go on-line and read his whole story. You can check it out at:     http://www.smethporthistory.org/king.street/jail/crossmiremurder/crossmire.htm

Smethport was a nice town, friendly and pretty with a good sized lake and park. 
A huge flock of Canadian Geese make this lake their home. Above is a small portion of the lake and a small portion of the flock. 
I walked around the lake on Goose Chasing Trail, appropriately enough. I saw along this wall of greenery on the trail many berry bushes and a huge plop of bear scat. Not a place to walk at night. The park had ball fields, several childrens playgrounds, tennis courts, a skate board area; You can fish and kayak, and sail boats and swim here. A huge barbeque area for group affairs plus many strategically located more private picnic areas with benches. I crossed two bridges over the water. For a small population of about 19,000 people, it was commendable. If I were to chose a place to live in Pennsylvania, this might be it.
Down the road apiece was this figure attached to a hunt and bait shop. Methinks the area is a great hunting, fishing and skiing area, judging from the mountainous terrain of the Allegheny Mountains. And, the main grocery here had better prices compared to what we were paying for items in Ivoryton and Dartmouth.

Yesterday, I attempted to get a picture of a snowmobile crossing sign and missed several of them. But, I finally succeeded after three tries on this stretch of road headed for Ashtabula.
Our journey was somewhat eventful in that a truck turning right pulled within inches of us at a stop light, then backed up and made the narrow turn. I was so transfixed I didn't get his picture. Likewise when we came to a very narrow underpass. This one, pictured below, was lower than normal, but not so narrow. The transportation department gave plenty of warning that it was coming up. Twelve feet seven inches. The motor home is Eleven feet two inches.
Then, we stopped for lunch and a stretch at Union City and wondered what all the yellow ribbons were for? Maybe vets? Maybe cancer awareness? Its a local thing.

Signs we saw, but not in time to get a picture:
HOME OF FLAMETHROWER BURGERS
 (That was Conneaut)
BLIND PERSON AREA
(On cape cod, we saw a DEAF CHILD sign.)
BUCKLE UP ITS YOUR LIFE ITS OUR LAW
SOULSHINES BETTER THAN A SHOESHINE
WORLDS STRONGEST REDNECK
That last one really has me curious. We saw it in three places in two small towns???
Life on the road is fun even whizzing by. We made it to Ashtabula.

Tuesday, March 2, 2010

ACADIAN HERITAGE

Monday was moving day, from Houma, north west to Thibodaux. Expecting rain, we made it our destination and plan to visit one of a series of National Parks, the Acadian Wetlands Cultural Center here.

The French settled a place in Nova Scotia in the 1600’s and called it Acadie. These Acadians were expelled by the Brits in the 1700’s. Many of them ended up in Louisiana. Called cajuns, every aspect of life in Southern Louisiana has been influenced by the Acadians, and the polyglot of migrants that settled here.

When we visited Eunice, I was enthralled by cajun culture without making a connection to my own background. Across the state, this unique mix of French speaking peoples and their exciting music captivated and excited my interest.

Jim and I have often discussed the similarities in our upbringing, church, religion, food, attitudes and games from our similar French backgrounds. My maternal grandparents refused to teach their children French, claiming, instead, it was best to assimilate. Until I visited this museum, I didn’t realize that assimilation came by threat and laws passed in 1916 banning the French language. Children were required to attend American schools and punished if they spoke French. Children in school had to wet their pants if they could not ask to go to the bathroom in English. They were humiliated and beaten if they were caught speaking French to each other. Suddenly, I understood, rather than blamed my grandparents, for what I considered a regrettable decision, that my mother and her brothers and sisters never learned French. Now I understand why my grandmother would refuse to teach me even a word of French when I would ask. Jim bought a tape for his family to learn about their culture and I bought a book for mine.

The Acadians were self sufficient in Nova Scotia for 100 years and had only remembered ties to France when they were expelled. In Louisiana, they started anew and learned to use cornbread rather than wheat. To weave with cotton, rather than wool.

They did every type of work they could, harvesting spanish moss, fishing, hunting, and trapping while adjusting to the changing terrain of a flooding, sculpting river.

Their music and strong sense of family sustained them just as it had in Nova Scotia. (The washboard above was turned into a musical instrument and is still used today.)

The Parrish here is named Terrebonne, French for good earth.

We exited the facility into the face of the beginning squall predicted for this area.

In minutes, it was pounding and rocking the motor home, cascading in sheets off a building next to us and formed a veritable lake in front of our warm and cozy tube.