Old Days and Places: LOST in the High Country

I, for many years dreamed about hiking in the Rocky Mountains when during 1995 - 1996 I spent the better part of a year working on a contract programming job in Denver Colorado. Even though I would be away from home for extended periods of time, the opportunity afforded me the ability to finally do some serious hiking. Most of my hikes were of the day hike variety, but I was able to make several overnight backpacking trips into several areas. The most notable were Homestead Meadows; a rustic location not far from Estes Park where old homestead cabins were still partially standing; and into Rawah Wilderness, a difficult and demanding hike into the high country of Northern Colorado. Rawah Wilderness provided the backdrop for a near disastrous hike where I was almost lost in the backcountry.

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LOST in the High Country

During the spring of 1996 during my time in Denver, I caught wind of a seminar being presented at one of the local branch libraries by one of the local hiking clubs. The subject was Hiking the Rawah Wilderness. Up until then I had managed a few short day hikes to some lovely but relatively easy locations, but I was itching to try something a bit more challenging. The seminar presented the perfect opportunity and location, and after speaking with some of the presenters I decided Rawah was to become my next big hiking adventure.

Rawah Wilderness is located in the north central part of Colorado and is characterized by numerous mountain lakes stocked with willing and hungry trout. A series of these lakes marked the end of the trail that wound its way upwards to around 11,000 feet. The lower camp lake sat just over 10,000 feet while the others were scattered higher up. I could not wait to give it a try, and it was this enthusiasm along with my inexperience of hiking in the mountains that nearly got me into trouble.

There were several trails that lead up to the lakes. One of the longer but less steep portion wound its way for a good number of miles mostly along the northern side of the climb. A shorter, but much steeper climb arched its way along the southern flanks of the climb.

For my first attempt to reach the lakes I decided to give the northern route a try in late May. As luck would have it I barely made it half way up the trail when I ran into a deep snow pack that completely obliterated the trail. There was no way I would ever be able to follow it with that kind of snow pack so I simply turned around and hiked out again. A few weeks later I gave it another try, this time about the third week in June. I managed to make it in to what I figured was maybe 3/4 of the way in when I ran into more snow pack. I was frustrated and tried to see if I could follow the trail on up. I managed to go maybe a quarter mile or so and realized I had no idea where the trail was so to keep from getting completely lost I simply turned around and followed my footprints back to where I could see the trail.

At that point I made a big mistake. While I was sitting down taking a short break I started looking at an inadequate topo map trying to figure out where I actually was along the trail. A few dozen yards off the trail was a steep mountain stream now filled with snow runoff. Coming out of the lakes area was an outlet stream that angled down the slope...actually there were several, so I figured this particular stream must connect up with the lakes and from where I thought I was on the map, in a straight line up hill the lakes were only about a mile or so from where I was. I figured I would just follow the stream to its source and I'd have to run into the lakes.

So that is what I started to do and began the slow and difficult climb up slope through deep snow roughly following the streams path. After what seemed like way more time than it should have taken to get there, I began to realize that my plan was flawed. This stream did not appear to lead to the lakes...in fact I had no idea really where it was leading me except deeper and deeper into a thickly wooded area. There were no lakes to be found. I stopped for a few minutes to get my bearings and decided to venture a little ways off from the stream hoping maybe I would be able to find some kind of landmark where I could tell where I was. At this point I was not really lost. All I had to do was to retrace my steps back down the slope which would lead me back to the original trail. However, events and circumstances were soon to turn for the worse.

I walked maybe 1/4 mile parallel to the slope and came to a steep snow packed escarpment that dropped off a good 20 maybe 25 feet almost straight down. I knew I would never be able to climb down it much less back up, so I stopped for a few moments and stood on the edge so I could survey what was below. Without warning, I suddenly found myself plummeting down the face of the escarpment. I must have been standing on loose rock or tree limb or something hidden by the snow that gave way under my weight. When it happened It happened so quickly I had no time to grab anything to keep from falling. Luckily several smaller saplings and several large rocks broke my fall as I bounced and slid down the face of the escarpment. Even so, I landed with a shocking thud at the base of the slope and my ankle buckled under me.

To say it hurt was an understatement. I really thought I had broken it, at the very least sprained and/or tore the ligaments. I sat there hurting for several minutes before trying to stand, but I was eventually able to get to my feet. The ankle was not broken, but it was strained and hurt something fierce and any walking required a noticable limp. My 35 - 40 pound backpack felt more like a hundred pounds.

By this time it was mid-afternoon. I was not in any kind of serious situation...yet. I still had my backpack with enough provisions to get me by for several days. The problem was as much as I tried I could not find a place where I could climb back up the escarpment to be able to retrace my steps down to the trail. I stopped, removed my pack, pulled out something to eat, and calmed down. While I was eating I looked at my topo map again and it seemed to me that if I were to follow the slope down hill, I would eventually have to run into the trail. It was a risky idea, because my ankle really hurt and if my logic proved faulty I could end up deep into the wilderness and have no idea where I was. Fact was, I had no other choice. I could not retrace my steps back because of the steepness of the escarpment prevented my being able to climb back up. The only thing I could do was to head down hill which is what I did.

I slipped and stumbled, zigged and zagged trying to maintain as straight a path as I could and after a while I was beginning to believe I had made another big mistake, but then all of sudden there it was...the trail. I was never so glad to see a piece of worn dirt trail as I was then.

I stopped again and rubbed my sore ankle which was starting to swell, so I tightened the laces of my boots and started back down the trail to where my vehicle was parked. Several hours later I removed the heavy pack and threw it inside my truck and crumpled into the seat. It had been a full and difficult day, but, my ordeal, except for the long drive back to Denver, was over.

Several weeks later, about mid July, my ankle had recovered enough to where I was willing to give it one more try. This time I took the steeper southerly route deducing correctly that it would be exposed to more of the sun and the snow pack would be gone. After an exhausting hike I managed to find the lower lake and spent a peaceful, except for the thunderstorm that rolled in around dusk, and rewarding afternoon and evening enjoying this marvelous part of the Rocky Mountains.

I learned a difficult lesson. I thought I knew more than I did about backpacking in this kind of mountain environment. Turned out I did not and I managed to make several really dumb mistakes which could have easily ended in disaster, but it did not, and in the end I became a much more experienced and certainly a more cautious hiker from that moment on.

Old Days and Places: To An Old Friend

Some years ago long before starting Beyond The Campfire and long before moving to Kentucky, I maintained a website called Oklahoma Backcountry. It was hosted on the old, no longer available AOL Hometown site and was listed as one of the top five personal websites on the Hometown location accumulating well over 100,000 hits. Some of the best Old Days and Places stories I ever created were posted on that website. I'd like to share one of my favorites and one of the most popular.

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To An Old Friend - (originally written August 2002)

Attempting to pass through the Chouteau Lock and Dam on the Vertegris River leg of McClellan/Kerr Arkansas River Navigation System was ordinarily routine, but securing the bow line to the floating bouy embedded into the walls of the lock was essential if the river tug and barge were to safely lock through. Even so, as hard as I tried my lassoing ability failed with each attempt. Our skipper, who was struggling to maintain position in the stiff Oklahoma wind, shouted at me several times from the bridge, "Get that line secured!"

Him shouting at me only served to rattle me even more which did not improved my lassoing ability but did add another chapter of color to my sailor language skills.

I happened to glance upward and noticed from the visitors overlook high above stood an older man watching the event unfold. He was obviously entertained by my feeble attempts to secure that line. Half aloud I grumbled some derogatory remark as I again failed to secure the line. Somewhere around the ninth or tenth try I fianlly connected with the loop and took three quick turns around the cleat on the bow of the barge. Holding the open end of the line taut, I raised my arm and fist shouting so the skipper could hear me, "Hooked up!"

Internet Image - Chouteau Lock and Dam

The powerful diesel engines reversed thrust and the line stretched and popped under the strain but held firm. Near the stern another crewman secured a second line with a single toss and we were ready to "lock" through.

I shot a defiant look toward the stranger standing above us and while holding my hand on my hip and a smirk on my face, not unlike someone who had just tripped and jumped to his feet, muttered to myself, '...I really do know how to do this...' Strangely enough, he seemed less amused and more releaved that nothing was damaged in the process. It was a chance encounter with someone I had never seen or met before. It turned out to be the start of a life event I never knew was coming.

It is odd how random chance meetings have a way of developing into more lasting and meaningful parts of your life. Although I did not know it at the time the strangers name was Ralph Baston, and little did I know at the time, but he and I would become life long hunting and fishing partners and more importantly, life long friends.

USCG Forsythia

The year was 1977.  I was close to 25 years old at the time serving out the last few months of my enlistment service in the United State Coast Guard on the river bouy tender Forsythia out of Sallisaw, Oklahoma. (Don't ask what a Okie was doing in the Coast Guard stationed in the landlocked state of Oklahoma. Just trust me on this one.) Those last few months saw me performing some of the dirtiest, nastiest, hottest, coldest, grubbiest work I've ever had the misfortune of doing, but I would not trade the experience for anything. The previous three years or so I was stationed out in Oregon performing search and rescue operations at the Umpqua River Lifeboat station. Truly a life adventure, but a career in the military was not in my future.

Ralph was probably in his mid-fifties at the time, with a rather stout and somewhat gruff appearance, but tender hearted and filled with character. He turned out to be the father of a young lady I was to start dating shortly after our chance encounter at the lock and dam...that is how we met. Turns out the relationship with the young lady faded after a year or so, but by then Ralph and I had hunted and fished together more than enough times to become quite comfortable with each other. Neither of us saw any reason for that to end so we continued to do so. By then my friend Rocky and Ralphs friend's Curt and Neuman along with my brother had formed a comradship which evolved into our own hunting and fishing fraternity. We formed a unique cross section of personalities which for the most part complimented our personal whims and provided enough contrast to create some truly memorable moments filled with laughter.

Ralph was one of those guys who possessed a subtle but strong sense of humor and whose patience was legendary. He couldn't hear a thing without his hearing aid, yet in spite of his infirmary, he accomplished many things in life. He was a great musician and appreciated all talents he discovered in others. Like many of his generation he rarely spoke of his service during World War II thinking of it simply as his duty and preferred instead to concentrate on other things like hunting and fishing or working in his yard.

Through Ralph I learned more about the ethics of sportsmanship and why being an outdoorsman required a deep commitment and understanding of a greater responsibility than most people realize. He truly was the anchor of our group in more ways than one. He wasn't in a hurry to do anything and time after time we would chomp at the bit waiting  for him to finish tying on a lure or pull his waders on, or light his pipe. Sometimes he seemed like a real anchor holding us back with his lack of hurriedness. But, when the opportunity presented itself, everyone of us would arm wrestle the others for that coveted position to sit in front of Ralph's canoe.

His old Grumman aluminum canoe was a classic and reflected much of his personality. It was beat up, banged up, and long ago lost it's new charm, yet it kept on going and doing things every bit as well as the newer canoes. When the rest of us were talking about the high-tech vessels that were just then becoming available and how nice it would be to own one or even better own one of those fancy new high powered bass boats, he would simply nod favorably, then go about his business catching fish in his old trusted Grumman.

Ralph was wealthy only in character and goodness of heart. He would bend over backwards to help out someone, but was wise enough to know when to back off and step away. I cannot count the number of times he would take his day off to help me repair my broken down vehicle. All you had to do was to ask and he'd be there, and yet, he rarely asked for the favor in return.

Our younger bodies had a difficult time keeping up with him. There was not much he could not do physically. He often joked about his 'wide bottom' but we all knew those strong shoulders and back could out perform all of us when push came to shove. Not until he reached his upper 70's did he start to slow down and we were able to catchup with his capabilities.

His way with words belied his vocabulary skills. "Blast", or "No Kidding", or "Come On", or "Boy, Boy" were repeated so often I find myself using them even today.

I'll never forget the day I caught two 4 to 5 pound bass out at Old Beggs Lake. It was the first year or so I knew Ralph. He was the first person I showed them to..."No kidding!...Boy Boy...." he repeated over and over as we gawked at them. The next Saturday we were all down there frothing the water eagerly anticipating producing a wall hanger with each cast. Fishing reports were an expected thing with Ralph. If he knew you went fishing and he didn't get to go he'd act all  indignant, then want to know how we did and what we caught them on..."No kidding," he would exclaim as he complimented you on fine day afield.

Whether it was wetting a line from a canoe, wading Flint Creek, floating Baron Fork, quail hunting inside some tangled draw, or standing waste deep in freezing water waiting for an elusive flight of ducks, Ralph always had a story to tell. Seems his story telling was the highlight of our outings and we all relished those moments when the sun climbed higher and hunting or fishing slowed down. Heaven forbid if he started a story and you were in a hurry. What would take an ordinary person two or three minutes to tell, he could drag it out for half an hour. Twenty minutes into the story, if you paused to check the time, he would wrinkle his brow and growl, "Waht cha looking at your watch for! You aint got nothing better to do," and he'd be right, often extending the length of the story making up for lost time in telling it. He was also one of the few people I know who could tell the same story a dozen times and it would still be funny.

Many of his stories and many of our outings took on the flavor of the outdoor adventures chronicled by Patrick McManus, a brilliant and hillarious writer of outdoor wit. I suppose it was because we could relate to many of his created adventures is why we enjoyed them so much. Some of our greatest laughs were spawned while discussing Patrick's most current book. We'd run into some real-life character who would remind us of one of the McManus clan. Characteres like Rancid Crabtree, or Retch Sweeney, and even Eddie Muldoon. Sitting around the campfire we would laugh so hard recalling those tales tears would roll across sunburned cheeks. Man., those were good times.

As Ralph grew older we became less adventuresome and more intune with the greater pleasures of simply getting away. A morning of fishing became less an attempt to catch fish and more of an attempt to unwind, shake off the grime and stains of modern society. I didn't realize this so much the first few years I knew Ralph, but he was already a master of applying that concept long before I knew him. Over the years some of his ways were subtly adopted by all of us. They were the kinds of lessons one learns from experience and observation. Ralph was able to demonstrate his laid back appraoch to life and because of his subtle mentoring, we all grew not only in outdoor wisdom, but learned a great deal about life in general.

Ralph eventually began to slow down as he grew older. There was a noticeable shaking of his hand and a tireness in his eyes. When we were informed by his wife Pink that he had been diagnosed with Multiple Myloma, a type of blood cancer, we felt time was finally catching up with him. His hunting and fishing days were limited after that, yet his humor never left him and as far as I could tell he never complained about his condition, just about the orderlies, doctors, and nurses. At times it looked like he would beat it and occasionally he found enough strength to make an outing even finding the ability to sit in front of Curts canoe on one of his last canoe fishing trips to Old Beggs Lake. Now that I think about it, Old Beggs was the first and last place place I ever fished with Ralph. Fitting it seems, for there I learned about the joys of fishing from a canoe and how simple pleasures is what fishing is all about. It was also where I first leaned what being an outdoorsman meant.

Rocky called me at work one day in the middle of the week and said I better get over to Tulsa and see Ralph because he had taken a turn for the worse. I would not be able to go until a day or two later, but by then it was too late. His youngest daughter, my exgirlfriend, called me at work. Through her shakey voice and somber tone I knew before she said anything a friend, a father figure, a mentor, had passed on. I did not get much work done that day.

Many kinds of people are met traveling along the paths of life. Few make an impression and even fewer change the lives they encounter. Ralph was one of those life changers. Oddly enough, he probably never took much notice of it. He was simply being himself. He never expected anything different from anyone else.

There is no way I can explore all of Ralph's life or even the twenty-five or so years I knew him. I'm not sure what my favorite moment was, there are so many memorable ones. For example the time Rocky pulled the canoe out from under him after he stood up in the back and subsequently caused him to perform a backflip off the stern landing with a giant splash. Or maybe the time he and I found an ailing Redtailed Hawk while we were quail hunting. He took it home to see if he could find someone to nurse it back to health, much to his oldest daughter chagrin...it kept staring at her. Or the time he met me up at Canton Lake for some late season goose hunting and we witnessed one of the most awesome displays of nature I've ever seen when thousands of ducks and geese took to flight across the backdrop of a spectacular sunrise. Or, I suppose it could be all those times when on every outing we stopped hunting or fishing and sat for a spell in a shade to listen to one his never ending supply of stories. We would talk about how we ought to go frog gigging, or, or make that dream trip up to the Boundary Waters Wilderness Area. We never made those trips.

I think my favorite times were after the sun had gone down and the campfire was casting a warm glow across our camp. It was then time-worn stories were shared again for the hundreth time and images of hilarious misadventures and triumphant moments were enhance by the warmth of the flames.

What ever mansion Ralph has earned up in Heaven, I can rest assured there is a campfire somewhere near by. I actually believe old Ralph has cornered the Good Lord up there offering him a warm cup of coffee along with whatever camp grub he may have simmering. I also see him asking, "Why did you put so many blow downs on the Baron Fork...speaking of blow downs, do you remember that time when..."

...Twenty minutes later into his story, the Good Lord will look at his watch, Ralph will wrinkle his brow and growl, "Waht cha looking at your watch for...you ain't got nothing better to do..."

...then in the end they will laugh so hard they will both wipe a tear from their cheek. Once they laughed themselves out, both will look down here and they will see his family and friends and remember all the good times of our lives. Another tear, one of happiness, will roll down his cheek to join the ones we have already shed, some in saddness knowing he is gone from us, but most in joy knowing he has a good friend up there who will forever share in and will never tire of listening to his stories.

Old Days and Places...Wave Warriors - 1973

Prologue...                

Keith Bridgman Image - CG44331 on the Umpqua River Bar

I stood alone, wedged between that appointment when day becomes night, and gazed toward the hills that surround this lost corner of Oregon at Winchester Bay.  Caught as I was where obscure memories find a fresh avenue of awareness, old recollections were aroused by sights, sounds, and the aroma of low tide. I returned to my old duty station back in 2007 and stood on a pier, alone, and searched the depths of my heart and rediscovered a part of my past which at that time was thirty-four years removed.

Sometimes events and opportunity pass our way and we fail to grasp the moment until years later.  The months and years I spent at U.S. Coast Guard Station Umpqua River, so long ago, were no exception.  In recent years I am finally beginning to understand how the emotions, personal connections, and the chance happenings I experienced then, touch me now. 

In so many ways I’m not the same person I was then. Even so, I realize more than ever that I would not be who I am now if not for those days.  As middle age evolved into those first vestiges of old age a desire inside to return to that place, to touch base again with a part of my past began to burn into my life.  It took a decade for those desires to find a path that lead back to Winchester Bay. It was as though I was called back to find an answer to some unknown question.  Over the next few days I sought a resolution to reconcile those emotions.  The riposte I uncovered lifted me onto another plateau of understanding, with a warming sense of confidence, and an elevated measure of respect for the current young men and women of the U.S. Coast Guard lifeboat service.  A respect they so mightily deserve.

During my tenure at Umpqua River from November 1973 until January 1976, life changing events, character refining moments, and memory building people, became my world.  We were a good crew back then, somewhat on the edge at times, always ready to lay it on the line.  We loved and hated our job at the same time.  We were young and searching and often foolish, but just as often, we were amazingly resourceful.  We had to be, as funding for the Coast Guard in those days amounted to a few crumbs of left over resources not allocated to the big four services.  

               

 It was a sense of adventure we sought, but more often than not our lives consisted of routine, mundane work dictated by long hours of  port and starboard, or maybe at best, two out of three duty rotation.  Even so, more often than we dared to discuss…circumstances carried us into that realm of high adventure and the searching inexperienced-lives that we were, became young men forced to deal with difficult and sometimes tragic life and death situations.  Although we never considered ourselves ‘elite’, under challenging circumstances we performed our job well, and whether we wanted to admit to it or not, we did so with a sense of purpose and duty.

Internet Image - CG44303 Breaker Drills

They call them Wave Warriors these young people who challenge the treacherous waters that collide with the edge of a continent. For good reason as the coastline of Oregon and Washington is home to some of the most dangerous waters on the planet. The lifeboat units of the 13th Coast Guard District have garnered a rightly earned unique place in history as a result of their efforts. Often overlooked, rarely spoken of outside the confines of their respective locations, these brave young men and women, place themselves at risk virtually every day, standing ready to save those placed in jeopardy by the whimsical nature of the Pacific Northwest. 

This is the First-Person account of my initial experience chasing the waves across the Umpqua River Bar. (Check out the video at the end)

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November 1973....

“Standby one!”

United States Coast Guard Motor Lifeboat CG44303 rolled to starboard as it coasted to a stop less than two hundred yards from the mouth of the Umpqua River Bar as Myron Dale replied to a radio call from the lookout tower.

The forty-four foot surfboat gleamed brilliant white in the foggy dim of the morning light.  Deep echoes rumbled from within the twin diesel engines as they settled into idle. Coasting to a stop the 303 turned broadside to the swells and rolled along its central axis, bobbing and whipping left then right then bow to stern. It was a typical November winter day on the bar in 1973, overcast dreariness where a diffused layer of fog hovered suspended above the main channel to boil against the abruptly angle ridge that formed the eastern wall of the river channel. Multiple rows of twelve to fifteen foot breakers collapsed across the narrow three-hundred yard gap separating the ends of the north and south jetties. The surge rolled heavily well inside the channel away from the main surf action.

Internet Image - CG44303 on Patrol

The Umpqua River Bar held the reputation as one of the most dangerous bar crossings on the west coast, or anywhere for that matter. Rightly deserved it was. It turned into a liquid hell at times when black storms rolled in to meet the outgoing tide surging with the stained runoff of the Umpqua River to blend into a boiling dirty brown cauldron. From its source high on the flanks of the ancient Mount Mazama deep in the Cascade Mountains of Oregon, the Umpqua River cut a jagged course across the western reaches of the state. It’s personality a beautiful, lively river for most of its length, a resource of unspoiled natural wonder, its flanks widened, its color turned brown, and its pace slowed as it approached the coast to eventually arch behind a thick layer of primordial sand dunes and spill into the Pacific Ocean.

8mm Video Frame of The Umpqua River Bar

It is here the Umpqua changes into its alter ego and becomes manic depressive in nature, almost Jekyll and Hyde. There are days the mouth remains deceptively calm and serene only to turn violent and depressing at the slightest provocation. It is during those manic times rows of breakers exploded from the depths a turbid boil upon the edge of the continent. This anger could only come from an entity that was alive it would seem, an evil unto itself without enmity, without concern for those who must cross through it, ready to spring from its lair a watery trap for those careless enough to forget. Its history is such that numerous sailing craft large and small have suffered because of its volatile nature, and with them the lives of sailors caught within its hellish waters.

8mm video frame - CG44303 Crossing The Dangerous
Umpqua River Bar

First Class Boatswain Mate BM1 Myron Dale surveyed the face of his rooky crewman, me, perched nervously to his right in the coxswains flat of the CG44303. Myron stood tall in the coxswain’s seat helped by a frame that stretched almost two inches over six feet. His athletic form was showing signs of softening around the mid section. Even so, his youthful appearance and longer than regulation brown, wavy hair, gave him a younger look than his years would show.

8mm video frame - CG44303 Crossing the Dangerous
Umpqua River Bar

Station Umpqua River was one of the older Coast Guard stations on the west coast originally established well back in the days of the old Life Saving Service. In the year 1915 it became part of the newly formed military service officially known as the United States Coast Guard. The first new older facilities originally constructed in the late 1930’s up on the hill overlooking the bar now stood boarded and abandoned after 1962 when the newer station was built on the entrance channel into Winchester Bay Harbor. Today those older buildings house a museum.

Keith Bridgman Image - One of the 44's tied up
At the fueling dock

Small units like Station Umpqua River were not just places to put personnel, they were part of the communities in which they were built. Crew’s of these units became like foster sons to the people they interacted around and it was important to maintain as much as possible that sense of family and connection. Family is simply treated different. Experienced personnel like Myron became invaluable assets to maintaining productive relationships. Winchester Bay exemplified the quaint life that was small town life along the Oregon Coast. Scattered here and there amongst the Victorian style homes and coastal shops were well attended, stout, old churches weathered by wind and rain.

8mm video frame - Salmon Harbor Winchester Bay, Oregon

Today’s drills were my first time out on a 44, first time on breaker drills, first duty station out of boot camp, first time to get seasick. Slightly behind Myron and to his left stood Third Class Boatswain Red O’Neil, along with Dan McKean, our engineer, another sandy headed with a dark red beard old timer.

 “Come on Sport…let’s get you strapped in,” Red shouted as he swung around the backside of the coxswains flat where he opened the white equipment storage box behind the coxswains chair and extracted two sets of a seatbelt-like harnesses. He fumbled with the tangled mess before handing one to me. After receiving it I am sure I looked somewhat puzzled as to what to do.

“See this part…snap it around low on the hips like a seat belt then pull it tight…like this,”  Red demonstrated using his harness, “ then take the two end pieces and snap them into the eyes built in the bulkhead there and there. Once you’re snapped in, lean back and take out the slack…use your legs like shock absorbers and hold on here and here…it’s going to get rather bouncy once we head into the surf…like this…”

Again he demonstrated by placing tension on his harness, leaning back until the straps tightened and then he began to rhythmically bend at the knees.  I followed suit.

Myron looked on with approval and started to verbally give his opinion when the radio cracked.

            “…303 this CG44331.”

Master Chief Boatswains mate John Whalen, Commanding Officer of Station Umpqua River and one of the best surfboat operators in the Guard, also one of the most unorthodox…was approaching from up channel in the 303’s sister craft CG44331.

I turned to my right and spotted the 331 loping along about three hundred yards behind our position. It was mid-morning and the early fog had not completely burned off. Behind them the black bulk of the Umpqua River jetties curved away into the distance filtered by the haze until they disappeared. Nothing was more beautiful than morning on the channel where the haze blended the features of the surrounding terrain into a soft gray. Then, when the sun poked its disc above the ridge, its rays would spread through the haze like golden beams and generate highlights on the dunes against the darker background. I soon discovered that I would never grow tired of witnessing such moments.

The 44’s were powerful rescue boats, yet at the same time they often appeared vulnerable out on the bar almost like toy boats thrown up against an unforgiving adversary. They first came on line in 1964 a few years before my time. Chief Whalen was one of the first to operate them, a new breed of surfboat operator in his day, who helped write the book on how to handle the new vessel.

Tom McAdams

During the 44’s initial evaluation the legendary Chief Tom McAdams would run the prototype through the treacherous waters off Cape Disappointment, where the Columbia River met the Pacific, until they broke it.  Afterward they would limp back to port, have it repaired then they tried to break it again. When it didn’t break anymore, they figured they had themselves one fine rescue boat, certainly a much better craft than the old wooden hulled 36 footers. The old 36 footers were venerable craft, but ancient by the standards required of the new era. Even so, two old 36 footers were still under commission back then, one, the CG36498, sat tied to the fuel dock still used from time to time but only when necessary. Even with the newer 44’s it was still seat of the pants operations, only now they had a vessel with far greater capabilities.

The 331’s gleaming white hull glowed against the dark gray background as a beam of sunlight broke thru the haze, and its red slash across the bow became readily apparent in the new light. On the hill beyond and somewhat to the south, the Umpqua River lighthouse cast its one red and two white beams through the thinning fog. Less than one hundred yards to the north of the lighthouse was the lookout tower which was not really a tower but a small building resting on the edge of the ridge that commanded a view of most of the channel and the bar along with a long stretch of coast as far as the eye was allowed to see.

            “Go ahead 331…” Myron responded.

            “Looks like a good day to break in our rooky, how's Bridge doing?”

Being the reserved sort of fellow I was at the time, I was embarrassed by the comment. Everyone at the station had nick names or shortened names…that’s just the way it was. To have one made that person feel like they were an accepted part of the unit.

            “Ah Roger that Chief…I think my young cherub here is a bit nervous.”

            “He won’t be in a few minutes. How ‘bout you take a quick run through the surf then sit outside by the number two buoy as I come through.”

Myron removed his tight fitting helmet and propped it against his leg. It felt good to get it off his head and feel the fresh air circulate around his ears again. The 303 continued to slowly roll from one side to the other and the light wind whipped the diesel exhaust into the coxswains flat with its noxious fumes. His bright reddish orange neoprene survival suit squeezed him a little too tightly around the shoulders, but was loose around the waist. He glanced at me and detected distress in my expression. He winked at Red and cast a sly grin while nodding at him. Red chuckled.

            “Hey Sport…you’re look’in a might peek-ed around the gills there bud.”

I could only muster a forced grin as my insides were beginning to turn to mush and my head was spinning. My once rosy cheeks were now pale and my jowls and under the eyes contained a delightful greenish hue. Red could not hold his laughter.

            “You know they say there are two kinds of seasickness…”

            “Oh yeah…I didn’t…ummmph…know that," I naively replied stepping feet first into Red's joke.

            “Yeah…you see there’s the kind where you get so sick you’re afraid…and there’s no doubt about it… you’re going to die…”

            “Must be pretty bad….what’s the other kind?”

Red laughed again knowing he had set up his young rookie, “Well sport…then there’s the kind where you get so awfully sick…you’re afraid you won’t die.”

 He, Myron, and Dan burst into a loud obnoxious laughter at the old worn out joke. Red must have told that to every rookie that ever passed through the station at one time or another. I could only grin but wasn’t going to let them get the best of me. I replied,

            “I figure I’ll…ooouuuumph…survive.”

Internet Image - CG44303 Breaker Drills

 A moment later I leaned over the side and emptied my gut with a loud retching much to the delight of the gulls swarming around the boat. They dove into the slime covered water and fought each other for some of the larger of the regurgitated chunks. I felt much better afterward, but also felt foolish and embarrassed. Red laughed and patted me on the back.

“Aint it amazing at how wide your mouth opens up when you barf big like that…and how those stupid gulls…man-o-man…they’ll eat anything won’t they, even something as vile as puke.”

The laughing continued, but Red could see the disappointment in my eyes. He knew that everyone was different when is came to getting seasick. Some of the boys never had a problem, while others almost never got used to it.

“Hey Sport, don’t let us laughing at you bother you none”, he said slapping me across the back, “most all of us have done the same thing at one time or another. You’ll get used to it soon enough. Next time out have ole Cookie get you a bag of plain peanuts still in the hulls so you can crack and eat them while you’re out…keeps your mind occupied where you don’t think about it so much and it helps settle your stomach. You ain't a real Coastie, until you toss your cookies a time or two.  We’re expected to ride the big stuff…and if that don’t get your insides churned up…”

           I interupted him, “Gee thanks Red…that makes me feel just all warm and fuzzy inside," then I leaned over the side one more time, only this time a thin ribbon of yellowish fluid oozed out between the strained retching sounds.

Reds laughter increased in volume as he patted me across the top of my helmet, “You’re alright Sport…you’re going to do just fine. Now, let’s get this here show off high center and have some fun.”

By now the 44331 had pulled alongside and cut the engines to idle about twenty yards off the starboard side. Myron spun the 303 slightly to get a better angle so they could hear each other above the roar of the surf and the grumbling of the engines.

           

“Looks like the middle ground is beginning to lay down some…I guess we better get some drills in before we lose the tide”, Chief Whalen shouted.

Chief Whalen loved to operate the 44’s on drills. He was quick to talk affectionately about what he considered engineering marvels. Equipped with LORAN navigation and RADAR technology, and a tough hull design, they could plow through the waters of the North Pacific in any kind of weather, and they could turn on a dime and tow a battleship with the twin diesel engines rated at 180 horsepower each. Geared and supplied with special props, they could handle breakers upwards to thirty feet, designed to make a 360 degree roll in heavy surf, snap upright in a few seconds and keep on going.  It was a simple conclusion to him and anyone who operated a 44…they were the best surfboat design in the world hands down.

The small fleet of fishing trawlers and charter boats that operated out of Winchester Bay had grown to admire the abilities of the 44’s and the crew of the Umpqua River Station. There was a kind of unwritten acknowledgment and respect they showed for each other, an almost symbiotic relationship. Each needed the other, each depended on the other, each, could only function if the other were there. The Umpqua River Lifeboat Station had a unique relationship with the community of Winchester Bay as they were located in the heart of the small community. The local folks knew the station boys treating them as though they were their own son’s in many cases. It was a bond with roots going back several generations, a bond of trust not easily broken, nor easily mended once lost. A monument dedicated to those who lost their lives operating out of Winchester Bay served as a reminder of the dangers a life on the sea subjects on those who dared to challenge it.

 Myron replaced the helmet and secured the strap under his chin. Turning toward me he said,

            “You ready for this…”

            I nodded.

            “Okay…Let’s do it…”

He waved his hand in the air in a circular motion then pointed toward the bar and pressed the twin throttles full forward.  The 303 surged, the stern driving low as the torque of the props driven by a combined 360 horsepower bit deep. He spun the wheel to straighten the bow and then cut across the front of the 331 about fifty yards out. A foamy wake exploded out from the bow and the deep staccato rumble of the engines vibrated the air. Without taking his eyes off the bar, Matt shouted above the roar so I could hear.

 

Internet Image - CG44303 Breaker Drills

         “Always remember…let this be the first and most important lesson you learn…never underestimate the bar and never overestimate your own abilities, once you hit the surf you have to stay on top of it at all times always keep your head moving, look ahead to the next series before you come out of the first, know what you are going to do before you do it, learn to react, learn to think quickly, this bar never stops coming at you, it will pound the crap out of you, always pushing, always shoving, always looking for a way to bust your butt. You must not let it have it’s way but you must control it. You must be in control of your vessel at all times, know what it will do and more importantly, what it won’t do.”

I barely heard a word. My mouth was dry, but my body was wet partly from sweat, partly from the spray blown into the coxswains flat as the powerful boat surged into the ever increasing chop. Oddly enough my seasickness disappeared with the adrenalin rush. I was scared but excited, intrigued, but wished I could have more time to prepare. Time ran out.

The first layer of breakers across the middle ground rose to meet us and Myron throttled back causing the 303 to surge downward toward the bow. He spun the wheel to port then to starboard lining up the next breaker, waiting for the swell to build…timing his approach…full throttles forward and the 303 lunged into the rising wall of foaming water. The bow shot upward to what seemed like vertical, then hung for moment on the crest and in a rush slammed into the trough behind the cresting swell. The jolt caught me off guard and I didn’t bend my knees in time and almost lost my footing but recovered.  The 303 sat seemingly lost between two walls of giant swells that now surrounded us.  

 

Internet Image - CG44303 Breaker Drills

Myron spun the 303 to port, backed off the port engine and pushed the starboard engine forward spinning the 303 within its own length. A second later he jammed the port throttle to meet the other and spun the 303 to starboard timing it exactly to rise into next breaker cresting in front of them. The 303 plowed through the top of the crest and became airborne. For a moment we were weightless as the bow of the 303 arched slowly toward its collision with the surface, the engines screaming in protest as their props broke free. The impact staggered all of us, but we adjusted to the forces applied to our bodies, our heads jerking downward and forward, our bodies twisting against the torque. An arm of the curling breaker slammed into the corner of the 303’s coxswains flat and a jolt of water slammed into my face as it shot through an opening along the side. It took my breath away as it surprised me at how cold and salty it was.  I shook my head to clear my vision and glanced over toward Red whose smoke stained teeth glowed in the dim morning light through his wide grin.

            “The old 44’s are the bulldogs of the surfboat fleet. They power their way through the surf with brute force”.  Red yelled above the roar of the surf and engines so I could hear.

 Myron slowed the 303 turning the port side broadside to the next approaching swell, working the throttles causing them to alternately rumble then whine, then roar, spinning the wheel with a delicate touch, rubber necking his head right to left and back again. He rose up slightly to get a better view, then plopped his seat down quickly and cursed aloud as he realized the next breaker was approaching more quickly than he anticipated. He spun the wheel and jammed the starboard throttle forward…there was a delay and the 303 did not respond…a loud clanging bell began to ring indicating the engine had died. I wasn’t sure what was happening as my eyes were transfixed on the approaching breaker. Myron instinctively cursed out loud and he repositioned the throttle to neutral and slammed his free hand on the red starboard engine re-start button located in front of the helm. 

The engine sputtered…and he cursed out loud again and repressed the switch.  The engine roared to life and the ringing stopped as he jammed the throttle forward while spinning the wheel to port, but it wasn’t in time and the 303 angled at 45 degrees across the breaking swell. It rolled sharply 90 degrees to starboard and tons of water began to fill the lower well and swirl around our bodies. My eyes grew wide as the 303 tipped, close to rolling, and I was plunged into a dark, salty, freezing torrent of foaming water. I held my breath knowing from previous indoctrination that the 44 can and will roll 360 degrees…it was designed to do so…but I had no desire to experience this activity, not on my first outing.  A few seconds later the 303 snapped sharply to port righting itself from the near rollover and surged forward, the water that collected in the lower well draining out the self-bailing ports.

Myron yelled out loud with a whooping laughter and Red joined him as he turned toward the stern to take a glance of what they had just come through. I hadn’t taken a breath in close to a minute and gasped for air while I shook off the shock. That 90 degree roll on my side drenched me as much as a full roll would have. The 303 spun again lining up with the next and final line of breakers. Myron pulled the throttles back and brought the 303 to a complete stop waiting for the swell to develop before pressing them slightly forward. The final swell broke about 10 yards in front of us and slammed into the bow with the force of several tons. The 303 lunged upward and then through the swell and Myron kicked the throttles forward and headed out to open water.

Internet Image - Breaker Drills

            “And that’s the way we ride the waves!” he shouted as he high-fived Red.

 I was speechless. Never had I experienced such a rush…such a sense of fear tempered with excitement and now the knowledge that I too was a full fledged member of the Umpqua River Lifeboat Station having seen the elephant for the first time.

Myron delighted in breaker drills but his concern was with the engines as it was a real problem when they shut down during drills.

            “Dan, when we get back in take a look at that engine and figure out what’s going on there…that’s the second time it’s shut down on us this week.” he shouted at our engineer.

           Dan shouted back, “Done that already. Can’t find anything wrong with it Myron…we’ve checked it out top to bottom…everything is set up like it should be.”

            “Well, something’s wrong.  Check it out again when we get back in.”

             

For the next hour the 303 and 331 traded turns running breaker drills through the Umpqua River bar. By the time we finished, I felt like I was a real veteran. As the bar began to moderate and the surf converted into shallow swells, we headed back in. By this time, the sun was full up and the fog mostly burned off.  The experience, the sights and sounds taught me to enjoy those moments when the golden dunes were illuminated by the beams of sun that broke through the clouds. It was the colors, the sounds, the odors, and the feel of the moment that moved me the most.

Inside the Cove Near the Base of the South Jetty

Now as part of one of the oldest military branch of the United States my purpose was to perform my duty at the best of my ability. From that point on I wanted only to be prepared to do what had to be done when the time came. Somewhere inside of me I knew that destiny would bring me into conflict with this purpose.  

Any surfboat pilot could perform the routine stuff…train with breaker drills…tow in the broken down boats or run bar patrols as had been performed hundreds of times. Only the best could do the impossible.  Only the best could look death in the face and tell it to move aside. Only the best was what was expected of us. There prevailed a hovering specter lapping over our shoulders, always watching, always taunting. Somehow after that first introduction with what the Umpqua River Bar had to offer, I knew it was only time before something more seriously sinister would thrust its ugly world into ours...into mine. As it turned out, it wasn't long before I was to witness near tragic events that rammed home the importance of always being ready to face the dangerous unknown challenges that is the life of a Wave Warrior.

(From the Lassie series: footage of the CG44303 vs the Umpqua River Bar)