Category: Camping and Roughing it

July 22, 1969: It’s all fun and games until…

Photo credit here

Got up and drove to Howard Prairie Lake near Ashland, stopping at a good store & bakery at Medford. The kids swam.

Marge Binder, July 22, 1969
Could this be the last photo of Tim with his glasses? Maybe.

Mom must have submitted her diary entry before the drama that unfolded later that night. My brother Tim, a gifted raconteur, was holding forth around the campfire after dinner, doing impressions, mimicking the Borscht Belt greats, “owning the room.”

At some point, he slung around and — phwoosh — off flung his glasses into the fire. While we all reacted in horror (and a bit of “what an showman!”), Tim went about trying to retrieve them. But they were already literally toast.

To a Binder boy, lost or broken glasses meant humiliation, like getting a C+ on a test (Tim was the exception to this analogy). Lost glasses was just one more piece of tinder to stoke our raging insecurities. Our childhoods were littered with such spectacles (pun intended), some involving snowball fights, scrapes at school or simple stupidity.

On top of the initial sting of loss, Tim would be blind for a while, until we were someplace long enough for lenses and glasses to be made — pretty much the remainder of the trip.

No matter, it was really funny. Mission accomplished, Timbo! You owned it!

Fun story: When I finally got contact lenses in 1978, I lost one before I even got out of the office. Must have been a sight (puns abound!) for arriving patients to see a half dozen nurses and admins crawling around on the floor.

Note the address: Dead Indian Road. Well certainly they’ve changed the name of that by now. Nope. It’s actually got a pretty significant history. You can learn about it here.

July 21, 1969: “Es mejor que nada, baby!”

Photo credit here.

Dad was not a fan of the campsite along the Rogue River. Mom describes it as “dusty.” After all that she had endured on this trip, though, I’m sure she made due.

This occasion would have been ideal for Mom to proclaim her yet-to-be-TM’ed motto: Es mejor que nada. Spanish for, It’s better than nothing. The “baby” was tacked on later, probably during her tenure as a high school Spanish teacher in Fairfax County.

Mom voiced this mantra often in the past 40 years. It’s at the heart of who she is: a Depression baby who appreciates what you have, because it could be worse! Yeah, she was an optimist, a trait I did not inherit.

Years later, I had shirts printed.

Packed and left. Got a late start. Drove north along the coast then into Oregon. Camped in a dusty park on the Rogue River. Jim didn’t like it.

July 19, 1969: Tim Sees a Doctor

Mike has a friend next door named Mark—6 ½ yrs old, several inches taller than Mike and over 100 lbs. Took them on a hike with the ranger. Went to town to buy groceries and have a doctor look at Tim’s rash. Swam and went to the camp fire. 100° by the river but nice & cool at night.

Marge Binder, July 19, 1969

Okay, I’ll admit the headline “Tim Sees a Doctor” seems a little unexceptional. Thing is, it’s huge. Tim avoided doctors his whole life, so I don’t think he went willingly back in 1969, especially for a measly rash.

In his life, Tim experienced several injuries that would require anything from stitches to not-simple surgery. The ones I can remember from the last 20 years or so: he got bit by a copperhead snake and watched his hand swell and turn black, waiting several days to seek treatment; he dropped a fish-cleaning knife into his foot, severing a major tendon and was goaded by Dad into finally seeing a doctor, only to forego the kind of therapy he needed to heal; a few years before he passed, he twisted his knee in an unfortunate encounter with his car on an icy driveway, so he used a cane from then on rather than get help.

That was Tim, and he was proud of it.

In the book we made for our parents’ 60th anniversary, Tim contributed an essay about one of these doctor-avoidance episodes, something I called “Medical Attention Deficit Disorder.” Here is an excerpt:

Until the last few years, fish-cleaning was done on a makeshift table
in the garage. In 2002, I was butchering a bountiful day’s catch with a
murderous and electric fish-fillet knife. Between salmon, this implement
fell — while switched on — off the table and onto my right instep, slicing
a tendon neatly in two, and causing blood to gush. It also caused a vocal
argument between Boss, who advised a trip to the emergency room, and
I, who wanted to wrap it in gauze and duct-tape and go fishing the next
morning. As Captain of the ship, Boss’s will prevailed. Besides sutures,
the local doctor advised surgical splicing of the tendon, which I declined
when told this would keep me off the water for several precious days.

T. James Binder, 2010

July 18, 1969: There’s a State Park Nearby

Packed everything down the hill and were ready to go by 9:15! Drove north to Richardson Grove State Park in the redwoods and set up in Oak Flats. The kids swam in the river. Tim had a narrow escape on a cliff.

Marge Binder, July 18, 1969

I checked with Maw recently about Tim’s “narrow escape.” She laughed and assured me that “that happened all the time.” Tomorrow we delve deeper into that topic.

Learn more about this place and WikiCommons here.

Mom made full advantage of state parks along the way, opting for their modicum of luxury for a discounted fee or even none at all.

Richardson Grove looks to be an idyllic example with all of the right ingredients: rugged terrain, a swimmable river, robust flora and fauna (a stray dog tried to bite Mike), all set amidst the mighty redwoods.

Did you know there are now over 8,500 state parks in the country? Here’s a recent article all about state parks from The New York Times.

Ever think of becoming a park ranger? (I think you know who I’m talking about.) Here’s a good site to get started.

July 16, 1969: Even More Hippies!

Golden Gate Park Photo by Robert Altman

Took a hike around Mt. Tam—gorgeous view. Dropped Jim off to see an AUSA man. We went to Golden Gate Park & saw the fly casting pool, Japanese garden, playground, Sears & then met Jim and walked around Chinatown. Ate at Shanghai Low—Tim had squid. Noisy people in camp.

Marge Binder, July 16, 1969

Mom’s post speaks for itself: a pretty full day. A hike on Mt. Tam, dropping Dad somewhere, hitting several different areas of GG Park, dealing with Sears, dining in Chinatown and returning to a noisy campsite up a mountainside. All with three boys in tow. For Mom it was Wednesday.

Sears

Mom’s diary contains numerous references to Sears. Rarely though does she detail the needs or transaction. It just seems like an all-purpose reference to procurement and frustration. In one instance she talks about “doing battle” with Sears, which has me imagining her facing down her mortal nemesis, while scoring some new Keds for her youngest.

July 14, 1969: Hippies!

This must have been a spectacular drive along the coast; it is indeed “scenic.” We passed within a few miles of where I live today. In fact, in one of the earliest posts in this blog I cited Interstate 280 as being among the most scenic and sinuous of highways. But back in 1969, it wasn’t yet finished. So up Highway 1 we traveled, along its twisty, hilly, white knuckle contours overlooking the Pacific. (Note in the AAA guide book: the roads are “not recommended for the timid driver.”)

So when it recently come to light that I spent the day with a bucket in my lap, I can’t say I was surprised, given my track record with projectile car-sickness.

By the end of the day, we were ensconced on Mt. Tamalpais north of San Francisco, communing with hippies!

Packed up and got an early start. Took the scenic route along the Big Sur coast and Doug got sick again. Went through San Francisco and got a spot on Mt. Tamalpais—Bootjack Camp. Had to carry everything in.

Marge Binder, July 14, 1969
https://calstate.aaa.com/via/road-trips/-mount-tam-mill-valley-day-trip
From 1969 edition of AAA Tour Book, California-Nevada

July 12, 1969: “It never rains in Southern California…”

Clamming, Pismo style. I guess it all can’t be surf ‘n’ sun.

Maw still hums this song every now and again. The data agrees (see below), at least for July. We learned a very different lesson back in ’69.

Speaking with Maw a few weeks ago she recalled this day in detail. I added up all of the challenges: thunderstorms, heat, tent camping, laundry, more rain, power outage with soaked clothes. That must have been the worst! Mom was like, meh.

Actually had thunder and rain – then a fairly hot day. Went to San Luis Obispo to buy Tim a new rod. They swam. Another shower in the evening and the power went out just as I was finishing the laundry.

Marge Binder, July 12, 1969

July 11, 1969: My Brother Mike

Foggy ‘till late. Bought groceries. We all went to San Luis Obispo and visited the mission. The boys swam and then took a long walk up the beach. Doug and I cooked supper. Mike shut his finger in the car door.

Marge Binder, July 11, 1969

When I first read this entry from Maw’s diary and saw, “Mike shut his finger in the door,” my reaction was, “Yep, that’s Mike.”

I felt bad, for sure, but things like this were always happening to my brother Mike. I think he’d agree today: thus has been his existence. Mike is the middle child, and he possesses much of the pseudo-psycho baggage that goes with that (along with the virtues like leadership and modesty). But that’s just the beginning.

I don’t think my joints do that anymore. Now I know why.

If you’ve been following this blog, you’ve seen that we stopped every seven days in one little town or another to get Mike an allergy shot. Later on in the trip, he’ll get poison ivy and visit a hospital in Illinois for an ear situation. In the years to come, Mike will suffer bouts with more allergies and god-awful plantar warts. Being in the room when he was having one of those things removed was terrifying for me; I can’t imagine what it was like for him.

(Mike and I share a few bum knees too, but I am grateful that our family didn’t suffer anything more nefarious. Very grateful.)

In her diary, Mom seems to cluster Mike and me together in many situations. Even though he was eight and I was four, Mom referred to us as “the little guys” in one entry. We swam while Tim fished. While Tim fished we swam. And on and on.

The scout befriends a native.

But Mike and I were very different kids. He excelled in math and science. I relished the liberal arts and sports. He was obsessed with “Star Trek.” I made appointment TV with “Wide World of Sports.” He studied his ass off. I did what I needed to get by. Mike became an Eagle Scout. He put himself through the University of Virginia (which he didn’t have to do) by driving buses around Charlottesville. He graduated Phi Beta Kappa, got several advanced degrees, researched at CERN in Switzerland and then got another degree in architecture.

I have a BA in English.

We are no longer the little guys. For 50 years we’ve charted different courses, chased different dreams, and we’ve somehow got more in common now than ever. We are both creative and artistic, curious, considerate and compassionate. All traits we no doubt learned from Mom.

Yet, differences remain. I consider my big brother Mike to be one of the most honest, modest, sincere and hard working persons I have known in my life. Something I can only aspire to.

July 9, 1969: Happy Anniversaries!

I had originally titled this post “The Sea Slug” (see Mom’s entry below). But then this Washington Post story came across my feed yesterday (as well as a second sighting by Steven Pine from the NYT).

https://www.washingtonpost.com/history/2019/07/07/driving-cross-country-was-crazy-idea-an-army-convoy-set-out-show-it-could-be-done/?utm_term=.1cbc4d7f0ace

For those keeping score: in 2019, San Diego is celebrating 250 years, the first “successful” coast-to-coast roadtrip happened 100 years ago, and our little jaunt turns 50. Btw, Mom made better time, served better food and planned for more swimming and fishing than Ike & Co.

Went on a 2 hour harbor cruise. Had pizza and walked and drove around a bit. Tim and the others swam and then caught more sharks, rays and a sea slug. I got the oil changed and did the washing, etc.

Marge Binder, July 9, 1969

I don’t think that’s a “sea slug.” And I don’t think the photo is from this trip. But that is Tim holding something gross and dead. So it fits Mom’s narrative.

July 8, 1969: The Zoo

Visited the San Diego Zoo. It is tremendous. Ate lunch in Balboa Park. The boys swam at the campsite. Barbecued hamburgers. Tim caught several sharks and a manta ray.

Marge Binder, July 8, 1969

I’m gonna say this is the San Diego Zoo because Dad would have been there to take this pic. It could be Marineland. Or it might be the National Zoo in DC. Know what? it could be anyplace that kind of looks like a zoo. No matter, I grew up to dislike both zoos and aquariums. But I thank Mom for trying.