Randy & Jim White-breakfast at Meadow Lake
Jim&Shirl's" Wild Places"
Monday, March 27, 2017
Friday, December 23, 2016
Lost: A
True Story
By Jim L White
It had been a great day of skiing at Sugar Bowl, even
though it had stormed all day. The storm had brought lots of that cold light
powder snow Sugar Bowl ski area has been famous for. We had been riding the
chairlift and skiing on Mt.
Disney during the storm.
There was a poma lift and a rope tow lift too at Sugar Bowl, but the Disney
chairlift was the only chairlift in the Donner Summit area during the winter of 1946-47.
We were all so
young, most of us just out of the armed forces after World War 2. This was a Sacramento Jr. College (later called Sacramento City
College ) Ski Club ski
trip. We had met early that morning at the old Gibson Bus station on 12th street
in Sacramento
for a ski club day outing at Sugar Bowl. Most of us skied at Soda Springs ski
hill, where all they had was a J bar and a rope tow lift. Going to Sugar Bowl
to ride the Disney chairlift was a really big deal to us. We of course rode on
the tractor pulled sled from Soda Springs all the way into the Sugar Bowl. What
a lot of happy laughing college kids, the Donner Blizzard underway was no
problem for us at all
After the hard day of skiing in the storm and back in the
bus at Soda Springs we were ready to head down the hill and go home. The bus
lurched forward and out on old highway 40, heading down the hill when the
leader started a head count. Something was not right, the count was wrong. Was
someone missing? Someone asked where Grant Cox was and no one seems to know.
The leader yelled at the driver to stop. He counted heads again. We were one
person short!
Grant Cox was a
really good skier and mountain man. He was older than most of us, mid 20s or
so. Grant had been in the Rangers, a specially trained combat unit, trained to
survive in any weather conditions. Survival skills were a Rangers main game.
They were experts in survival. He would be O.K., probably just missed the
tractor sled train leaving the bowl at 4pm .
He was probably hoofing it out along the edge of Lake Van Norden. Nothing to do
though but to send a party back up the road to look and if he was not on the
road to check out the lodge at Sugar Bowl. A small party of volunteers got off
the bus to go search, the rest of the group continued on to Sacramento . A phone call later that night confirmed
that Grant’s model A Ford was still parked at the Gibson Bus Depot, his
ski-trooper ruck sack was found at the bottom of the chairlift where he had
left it that morning. The search for Grant Cox, ex U.S. Ranger, Mountain Man, and
expert skier was on.
The Donner Blizzard continued all night with more than
four feet of new snow on the ground by the next morning. Many of the ski club
members had returned by morning along with many volunteers from the Soda
Springs and Truckee area. We formed a search
party of about 25 people, headed by U.S.F.S. ranger Max Williamson. Later Constable
Johansson from Tahoe
City joined the party,
representing Placer
County . At Sugar Bowl, interrogation
of ski club members in regards to who had seen Grant last, revealed that I had
been the last one to see him. He had ridden up the lift with me at about 3:25pm
just before the lift closed at 4pm. He was wearing a ski trooper reversible ski
parka with the white side out. We got off the lift on top of Mt. Disney
in zero visibility. Grant turned east, headed toward the Palisades
(a ridge of rock pinnacles along the highest ridge) and I turned toward the west,
headed down the Meadow Run. Grant was not visible to me after about 20 feet of
travel. This was my last run for the day since the storm had been very tiring. The lift closed at 4pm and it was dark almost at once.
Bill Kline, head
of the Sugar Bowl Ski School talked to the search party about
snow safety. Bill said avalanches were going to be a major danger to our search
party. Bill introduced a Swiss ski instructor named
Rusty who gave us a 30 min lecture on avalanche survival, telling us the
avalanche danger was extreme and teaching us how to swim if we were caught in a
avalanche. He warned us to stay away from the Palisades
and the bottom of any steep north facing slopes. The bottom of Mt. Lincoln
was also to be avoided. The search group
was very somber. It had been snowing more than one inch each hour all night with
no let up in sight. Rusty looked grim as we were divided up into search teams
of 3. We had no radios or way to notify others if Grant was found (only the
military had walkie talkies) so we were told the ski school bell would be rung
which would be a signal to return to the lodge. My team was assigned to ride up
the lift and ski along the ridge to the Crow’s nest (a rock pinnacle along the
ridge to the west) calling out Grant’s name as loud as we could. After reaching
the Crow’s Nest we descended in waist deep snow and plodded over to the upper
end of Lake Van Norden. Most of the searchers were dressed in war surplus ski clothing,
since regular ski clothing was expensive and not much of it was really on the
market for us to buy. The mostly cotton and nylon ski parkas were soon soaked from
the warming storm and felt like they weighed a ton. Our skis were made of
laminated wood and equipped with cable bindings which when adjusted loosely,
permitted our heels to rise up and made hiking in the heavy snow possible. We
had to stop from time to time to scrape frozen ice from the bottom of our skis.
This added to our labor in this deep soft snow. Most of our ski bottoms were
pine tarred or painted with a coating to permit them to slide, and this worked
poorly in this kind of snow.
Back at the lodge
we found every one soaked and tired but willing to go out again. Several very
loud roars were heard as avalanches thundered down from the Palisades
and Mt. Lincoln . We were warned again not to go
near that area since it was too dangerous. This of course was the very area
Grant was last seen heading for. We searched until dark and found nothing.
That night we were housed in the Chalet ( separate from
the main lodge, it was equipped with bunk beds and was a less expensive way to
stay at Sugar Bowl) and were fed bowls of hot beef stew and French bread which
we wolfed down as only exhausted young men could do. We sat around after dinner
and wondered if Grant could have gone south over the summit ridge and into the
Onion Creek drainage. This was a wild steep area which drained into the north
fork of the American
River . If we went down into Onion Creek in this very
deep snow, how would we ever get back up the hill? Lying in bed that night we listened to the
wind howl and the snow blow against the windows of the chalet. I wondered where
Grant, right at this moment could be? It stormed all night.
The storm continued for 4 more days with highway 40
closed most of the time. The storm turned so warm that it almost rained on our
already soaked clothing. We had done every thing we could do, and it was not
enough. The search was called off at this time. The Sugar Bowl staff was to keep an eye out
for Grant the rest of the winter and we agreed to meet the next summer for a
ground search, after the snow had melted, but nothing was found.
To our great sadness, Grant Cox was never seen again, nor
was his remains ever located.
Copyrighted 2007
By: Jimmy L White
Footnote: This
story first was published in the February 2008 issue of Sierra Heritage
magazine. About 2 months later I was contacted by a woman, who someone had sent
my story, who said she was on our ski-bus trip and had been with Grant Cox at
Sugar Bowl that day. She also stated that she was engaged to marry Grant Cox.
She reminded me that she had pounded on the bus door when the bus was ready to
leave, to see if Grant was in the bus. Her call jarred my memory and I did
remember her pounding on the door and asking about Grant. This was followed by
our head count and the first discovery that Grant Cox was indeed missing. In
her call to me, 62 years after our ski trip, she wanted to know if Grant had
ever been found? I was in shock that this woman was still remembering our trip
and still wondering if Grant had been found. I told her no” that Grant had not
been found and then she mentioned “how hard it had been on Grant’s parents and
her. Talk about a “ghost from out of my past”. I still cannot forget our loss
of Grant Cox.
Skier with the Palisades in the background where we think Grant died in an avalanche.
A ski searcher on the ridge behind Mt. Lincoln in a storm.
Friday, July 29, 2016
FONG THE FAMOUS SNOW SHED COOK
By Jim L White
Late at night, deep in the dark and cold snow sheds of the
Southern Pacific Railroad near Donner Pass, Fong, the Chinese cook sat alone
smoking cigarettes and reading his Chinese newspaper. The snow was deep on the
sheds and as usual, Fong was waiting for the next train to stop on the nearby
tracks, and the crew that would come in for dinner and the hot coffee perking
in the pot nearby. Fong was the full time cook for the A.V. Moan Co. of San
Francisco who operated the 24 hour commissary near Norden , California
from at least the late 1940’s to the late 1960’s.
Out of the corner of his eye, Fong saw the light go out in
the hall way outside of the door leading into this restaurant deep in the
Norden snow sheds. He got up, went into the back room to get a new bulb and
then walked thru the kitchen to the door going out to the long tunnel-ramp that
led down from the tracks above. He reached up to un-screw the bulb and the
light came on. The bulb was only loose. That was funny, Fong would say later,”
how come bulb loose by self”. He screwed the bulb in firmly and returned to his
seat behind the stainless steel counter, his cigarette and newspaper. He turned the page and noticed the light in
the outside hall went out again. It could not be vibration from a passing train
that loosened the bulb since no train had passed by in some time. He got up,
went out the door and found the bulb loose again.” How come, how come “ Fong
would shout in his sing-song English and then suddenly, Fong was seeing stars in
the light bulb with severe pain in his head and neck as the butt of a rifle
crashed into his skull and caused him to fall to the floor. All Fong could
think of to do was to scream in Chinese at the top of his lungs. In fact his
screaming was so loud that it frightened his attackers who ran out a back door
that opened out to the deep snow on the hillside below.
Leaving a trail of blood, Fong made his was back into the
kitchen and in broken English on the railroad phone got the dispatcher in Roseville to call the
sheriff’s office to report the robbery. The next morning the sheriff’s officers
found and followed deep foot tracks in the snow, heading toward Sugar Bowl.
There were two of them, Mexican track hands that were caught hiding in the
trees nearby.
I first met Fong Quong back in the late 1940’s when I was
working as a weekend ski patroller at the Soda Springs Ski Area. This was back
when “Mad Dog Dick Buek” was the hottest skier on the summit and his father
Carl, checked tickets and loaded skiers on the pomo lift and rope tow at Soda
Springs Ski Area.. I remember well since my girlfriend charmed Carl into
letting her ride the lift without buying a ticket. I guess we were a rag tag
group of college kids with our war surplus clothing and ski-trooper white skis.
A chance to eat at a very low cost was too good to pass up. The word was out.
All you had to do was enter the huge dark wooden snow sheds just east of Soda
Springs and walk in the dark for about one quarter of a mile to where a lone
light bulb above a door marked the entrance to the long covered ramp that led
down to the S.P. Commissary. The trick was to not get hit by a train that could
come around a bend in the sheds with a terrible roar and noise while we clung
to the walls of the shed, inches from the huge steel monster. One had to
believe that there was enough space between the train and the walls of the snow
shed for us to cling to life and survive this monster of a train. The noise was
terrifying.
I always thought Fong must have known how poor we college
kids were because a complete steak dinner, fried potatoes, canned green peas,
all the coffee you could drink, and a slab of pie always cost one dollar. That
was one dollar for all of us. It did not seem to matter how many of us there
were, since later, when my girlfriend and I went alone, it was still “ won
dallar”. The pie was always a deep-dish
fruit pie; each pie cut in four pieces and a piece a whole meal by itself.
Years later after college and two careers later, my job
led me to wander over old Donner Pass on highway 40 from to time and I would
stop on the edge of the highway just up the hill from the Sierra Club lodge,
walk down the steep rough hillside to the small opening in the huge wooden snow
sheds and brave the dark, to walk towards Soda Springs and the single light
bulb above the door leading down to the Commissary and my friend Fong.
After I read in the paper about the robbery and injury of
Fong, I hurried up to Norden to hear the story from Fong himself. I of course
had the wonderful steak dinner, fried potatoes, and this time canned corn, with
one quarter of a cherry pie. Twenty years later it was still only “won dallar”.
I felt like I was home again! I asked Fong to tell me his frightening story
himself and asked if he had recovered? I also wondered how he had been doing at
the gambling tables in Reno .
Fong’s working hours were twenty-four hours each day, seven days a week. He was
given ( or took on his own) an afternoon each month when he would take the
Greyhound bus to Reno
to gamble. Sometimes he won which he talked about, but he never mentioned it
when his “luck run out”. This time he said his “luck veery bad” and “he go home
China ”.
I was not sure I heard him right so I asked again and he said, “ Fong luck
veery bad, he go home China
to die”. I heard him right this time a sat there in shock! I could not imagine
Donner Summit with out my friend Fong. I tried to talk him out of it, but then
he explained, he “ not want to die far from home”. He had been loosing at his
gambling, and almost getting killed by the robbers was just too much. Time to
go home to die.
Fong was always very polite to us, hustled around the
kitchen to fix our meals when we were kids in college and years latter when we
stopped by as working adults, was still very polite to everyone. The train
crews that came in while we were there spoke to Fong as if he was dumb, and
berated him for almost everything. A number of steaks were returned by the
train crews and some nights the racial
insults were embarrassing to hear. It seems that the abuse of the Chinese who
worked on the railroad was not limited to the building of the railroad in the
1870’s but continued a hundred years later.
Somehow I think Fong must have been received in China as
someone special, and found his peace at last. He was a good human being and I
still miss him and the old wooden snow sheds which are now gone. They have been
replaced by concrete snow sheds and the train crews are on their own when in
comes to eating at Norden. I can’t even find a steak dinner for $10.00 on
Donner Summit now days.
Copyright 2016 Jimmy L White-Auburn, Ca.
Tuesday, June 28, 2016
ROYAL GORGE OF THE
AMERICAN RIVER
By Jim and Shirley White
Tahoe
National Forest Supervisor Richard Bigelow saddled up his horse at Emigrant
Gap, mounted, and headed south for Westville on the Foresthill divide to
investigate a report of a large forest fire burning near Michigan Bluff. It was
5 A.M. on August 1, 1909. Ranger Bigelow had given orders to the trail crew at
Mumford’s Bar on May 18th, to build a trail from Mumford’s Bar on
the North Fork of the American River to Emigrant Gap for just this kind of
emergency. He had a report that the trail was completed and now was the time
not only to inspect the trail job, but to use this new trail to lend a hand in
fighting this important fire.
Ranger
Bigelow rode his horse across the North Fork of the North Fork, the East Fork
of the North Fork and then climbed almost one thousand feet up Texas Hill where
he continued south three miles and hit the new Mumford’s bar trailhead at a
place that was later named Government Springs. Later he would have a water trough
installed there for travelers to water their horses before the terrible two thousand
feet decent to the American River and a gold miner’s cabin called Mumford’s Bar
Cabin. Upstream from Mumford’s Bar about 7 miles was the jewel of the North
Fork called the Royal Gorge because of the remarkable beauty of the river running
thru the huge soring cliffs between Snow Mountain and the Wabena Ridge.
One hundred
and four years later, on November 30, 2013, my wife Shirley and I headed south from
Emigrant Gap in our jeep, along this same trail to photograph the Royal Gorge
of the North Fork of the American River. About eight miles of the old trail is
now a road and paved. At the end of the pavement we turned east off the old
trail on forest road 19, a dirt road, headed for the abandoned site of the Big
Valley Bluff fire lookout. Two thousand feet below the old site we could see
both downstream to the Mumford’s Bar Cabin and upstream to Heath Springs, in the
upper part of the canyon. Just below the lookout site hidden in the trees was
Palmer Camp, a mining camp used during the Great Depression by a miner named
Palmer who raised his family there. The old Palmer cabin on the north side of
the river was still standing during my last visit 20 years ago. This year we could
see at least a mile of the river was dry, with only a hidden flow of water
below the river gravel. We laughed as we remembered back in 1947 when we had
driven my 1946 Pontiac out to Government Springs and had hiked down to the
river and back in one day. Shirley was 18 and I was 20 years old and that hike
almost killed us.
In late
July, 1955 I had visited with Bill Watson, Forest Service lookout at Big Valley
Bluff lookout, who told me of seeing several Golden Eagles flying below his
lookout on some days. The old trail to the lookout was rough back in the 1950’s,
and I had to hike a mile from my car to get to this outstanding view. Parts of
the old trail to the lookout are still visible to this day. The lookout of
course is long gone.
On this
recent trip to the lookout the weather was perfect. Not a breath of air was
stirring, and a few clouds made the scene special. We photographed the Royal Gorge
and the river canyon below from a number of promontories to the east of the
lookout, always looking below, hoping to see an Eagle. After a couple of hours
it was time to go and we reluctantly headed the jeep up along the sharp ridge
out with one glance back down the canyon. And there they were, two Golden
Eagles, with fixed wings, gliding below us. I let out a yell, stopped the jeep,
grabbed the camera with the long lens, and drew down on the birds below. The
auto focus lens would not focus! The target was too small, the lens was not
fast enough to focus, who knows what went wrong? We missed the shot. The birds
apparently landed below the point of the cliff where we could not see them. We
were to photograph no eagles today.
Ranger Bigelow
rode his horse down into the American River canyon 2000 feet below Government
Springs and then back up to the Foresthill road at Westville where he ate
dinner. After dinner he received a message that the fire had jumped over
Deadwood Ridge. He saddled back up and was on the fire line by 4 PM. He supervised the fire fight till midnight,
slept on the line waiting for daylight. He then worked on the fire line the
next 3 days and established a camp to feed the fire fighters. After this fire was out Ranger Bigelow rode
his horse up Ralston Ridge, to French Meadows and three days later arrived back
home in Nevada City.
While
sitting on the cliff at Big Valley Bluff and looking down on Mumford’s Bar, we
talked about Ranger Bigelow and his epic horse trips throughout the Tahoe
National Forest. I have a copy of his diary, but I really wish he had had a camera.
The Royal Gorge must have been even more royal those many years ago.
Ranger Supervisor Bigelow
American River in the Royal George
Copyright 2016 by Jimmy L White
Wednesday, June 15, 2016
SAFE FROM THE STORM
I remember
the “deer hair spider” dry fly floating on the surface of Needle Lake, the rush
of adrenalin that caused my rod arm to strike and bury the steel of the
barbless hook into the Brook Trout’s jaw. A yell from my son Randy from across
the lake, he had a fish on too! A fish on every few minutes was the rule that
day so many years ago. Surely I could relive those moments again today?
I parked the
truck along the “Johnny Hodson-Lyons Peak” road just south of Red Star Ridge
that late August day in 1960. Un-loading my two Labradors, Sage and Molly, with
my rod in my hand and small rucksack with my day gear on my back, I headed up
the hill to cross Red Star ridge to my east in what looked like on my map, a
shortcut in to Needle Lake. Not only did I want to fish the lake a little to
check on fish survival from the winter freeze, but also check the lake for
fishermen. Another reason I wanted to do this hike was, if possible, find a
hidden deer camp I had had rumors about. The information was that hunters from
this camp often crossed over Red Star Ridge (the game refuge boundary) from
their camp and illegally hunted deer in the French Meadows Game Refuge. You see
I was in fact working as a California State Fish and Game Warden, stationed in
Auburn, California. This was my job.
Climbing up
the steep hillside was easy, but on the other side I discovered a huge basin of
truck sized granite blocks I must climb thru. Somewhere below those Granite
blocks might be the hidden deer camp. I had to lift the dogs many times over
huge rocks and carry them thru some bad crevasses to make it into the timber. I
decided that when we returned, we were going to follow the high ridge that ran
from Needle Peak to Lyons Peak, where walking should be easier along the ridge
top, even though it was longer.
We found the
deer camp in a little meadow in the thick timber. The tree trunks at the camp
were hanging with pots and pans, grills, ladles and dippers, all the makings of
a deer camp. The ashes were old and the campfire had not been used yet this
year. Deer season opened next month and I was already making plans to be on the
refuge boundary ridge above on my horse ready to intercept hunters if they
came.
The hike to
the lake from the deer camp took only an hour more and I found no one there.
Might as well check and see if the trout were home. On my first cast, the Deer
Hair fly hooked up with a good sized brook trout and the fight was on. After I
released the fish I looked up and saw lightning strike the rock needle on the
high ridge above. We ran for shelter too late and were drenched by the heavy
down pour from the thunder storm that came out of nowhere.
The dogs and
I hid under a thick young Red Fir tree, one small enough not to attract
lightning I hoped. Three hours later there was no let- up in the storm. I
thought for sure it would be over by four PM, time for me to get back to the
truck while still daylight. No such luck. I studied the map and the only safe
way with all the lightning along the ridge above, was to go down and cross the
many small tributaries of the North Fork of the American River and hike out the
trail down to the Cedars, a settlement of summer homes along the river. There I could hit the French Meadows road back
to the Hodson-Lyons’s Peak road where I had turned off and driven over Red Star
Ridge. It looked like a twelve mile walk, but I was young, felt strong and it
was better than spending the night in the rain at Needle Lake.
Fording all
the many hip deep tributaries to the American River was a wet, cold experience.
The North Fork itself, although roaring swift was not bad. The river was waist
deep water, but a good rock bottom. On the other side of the river was the main
trail. I had it made. All I had was about eleven more miles, much in the dark
and rain and I would be at my truck.
After an hour I was at the Cedars, very cold
and wishing I could find someone to drive me to my truck. This is when I
thought of spending the night at the Sherman Chickering cabin at the original
Soda Springs nearby. This was the site of the old Hopkins Hotel, from the late
1880’s. Sherman had been president of the California Fish and Game Commission
when I had guided the Commission members and some legislators into Upper Fish
Valley, Alpine County to see the rare Paiute Trout, we were trying to save. He
had mentioned if I was ever in the area of the Cedars to please stop by. Boy
did I need the warmth and comfort of that cabin now. There was a light on in
the cabin but no one was home. I thought of taking shelter on his porch, but it
was too cold and a little snow was beginning to fall. Maybe I could get a ride
on the nearby county road?
Two hours of
hiking later it had become very dark and a soft snow was falling. I had turned
off the French Meadows road and was hiking high up the Hodson’s-Lyons Peak road
when I saw the silhouette of a man with a hat on crossing the road ahead of me.
The strong smell of a large band of sheep nearby made me think it might be a
Basque Sheepherder that I had saw. But he had disappeared. When I got up the
road higher a man stepped out of the black and said something I could not
understand. Then I saw him make the motion of drinking a cup of coffee. I tried
to talk and say yes, but I could only let out a croak. I was too cold to talk.
Down the dark hillside I followed him to the sheep camp and a warm crackling
fire. Barking dogs that snarled at my dogs
were cursed and remanded to the fireside. My exhausted and tired dogs lay on
one side of the campfire, the herder’s dogs on the other. I knew only another
one half mile up the road was my truck, and two hours later I would be home. The
herder offered me a mug of hot coffee, lamb stew, and sourdough bread just
baked in the campfire. I shivered and ate until I felt warm again. I was safe
from the storm.
Needle Lake
Copyright 2016 by Jim L White
Copyright 2016 by Jim L White
Tuesday, February 9, 2016
Ray Nilsson has gone off to ride the high country, forever. We lost Fish and Game Patrol Captain Ray Nilsson on Jan. 24,2016. Ray was born on Aug.9,1924. He had a wonderful life. His last assignment was as Fish and Game Patrol Captain(Yerka). He was part of band of men who spent the working days protecting California's wildlife and other natural resources. He was at one time part of my Wildlife Protection squad, headquartered in Auburn, Ca. who worked 5 counties, from Donner Pass, Nevada County south to Sonora Pass. Each man was responsible for about one thousand square miles each. This was back in the time when Wardens worked as many hours as it took to do the job. Many did not take vacation, because there was no one to cover for them. Here is my squad who worked the high country and made me proud.
They were(from the left to right) Bill Hart,(south Lake Tahoe), Ernie Skinner,(Sutter Creek) Curt Kastner,(Georgetown) Artie Brown,(Markleeville) Ed Johnson, (Placerville)Wayne Caldwell,( Auburn) and Ray Nilsson(Foresthill)/ . All are now gone, except, to my knowledge, Curt Kastner.
I now know I loved every one of them. They worked hard, played hard, and lived the outdoor life many men only dream of. God bless them all. I will miss them, and my Fish and Game life forever.
Saturday, October 17, 2015
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