Tuesday, July 25, 2023

SALUTE II


VETERAN’S DAY WEEKEND — 1984

Washington, DC


A Personal Account — Roger Hayes


They came by the thousands, drawn by the black granite slab inscribed with the names of 58,007 of their fellow soldiers who did not survive America’s longest war to date. Nearby stands three bronze soldiers that would be dedicated this weekend. Having just emerged from a small grove of trees they gaze toward the memorial to ensure that their names are engraved thereon so they can discontinue their patrol. 


I was one of the 300,000 to 500,000 veterans and others that took part in the emotion-filled weekend. Six of us traveled from Southern Illinois in a motorhome, taking turns driving with someone always in the passenger seat to help the driver stay alert. The trip lasted approximately 20-hours, and by its end the six of us, already sharing common bonds, were almost as close as if we had served together. 


We arrived in Washington, DC at 4:00 a.m. on 10 November 1984. After very little sleep we donned old fatigues and field jackets or simply a baseball cap with pins or slogans identifying the wearer as a Nam vet. Out on the street other veterans were emerging from their rooms and making their way toward Constitution Garden to the south where the Vietnam Veterans Memorial is located. They were dressed as we were and as we walked greetings were shouted across streets, fists were waved in the air, handshakes were exchanged, and backs were slapped. We began hearing two questions that would be repeated countless times in the next two days: “Who were you with,” and “When were you there?” This feeling of comradeship is part of what had drawn us travelers 800-miles to this almost magical city. Our Veterans Day Weekend had begun. 


None of us knew the exact location of the memorial, only the general vicinity, but as we approached there was no question. Streams of veterans were heading the same direction, and as we drew closer the streams joined into rivers ultimately forming a sea of olive drab or camouflage uniforms filling the area around the “wall,” as the veterans call it. 


A sidewalk leads from Constitution Avenue to the memorial and takes visitors past the wall and back out again. The memorial is actually two walls set at an angle of 125-degrees, with the east wall pointing to the northeast corner of the Washington Monument and the west wall to the same corner of the Lincoln Memorial, thereby tying it in to existing memorials and monuments, a design criteria. At each end the walls are almost ground level. The area in front of the memorial slopes downward so that the height of the walls at the vertex is 10.1-feet. 

And then there are the names. . . . 


As I was looking through the names of men who had died while I was there, hoping to see names that would jog my memory (I’m sorry to report that of all the men in my company who had died I remember very few names) a small, elderly woman approached me and asked how many men I knew fairly well from my company. We talked for several minutes, then she thanked me and left. I would meet her again. 


I spent three-hours at the wall finding names of men that I knew, and reminiscing. Many other people were doing the same, and some of them took pictures of names of relatives or loved ones. Some were making etchings buy placing a sheet of paper over a name, then shading over the area with a pencil. 


At noon ten Huey helicopters in formation, four F-4 Phantoms, and four A-6s conducted a flyover to the cheers of the crowd. The thunder from overhead brought back memories, and it was good to see them again. 


I missed the ultimate experience of finding a friend with whom I served, but I came close. At every turn I was approached by fellow veterans from my division who were drawn to the Tropic Lightning patch on my shoulder and bush hat, representing the 25th Infantry Division. Some of them were in my battalion, others were “in-country” during my tour, and several were both. A few were from my company but not during my tour. For the first time I learned a little of what happened to my company after I left. 


Later I joined another festivity in progress, a show on the mall featuring music from the war era and songs of special significance to Vietnam veterans. The US Capital formed the background for the show, featuring artists including Chris Noel, a disc jockey from an Armed Forces Radio station in Vietnam, and Frankie Valli. Introduced special guests included “Doughnut Dollies” (Red Cross women who served in Vietnam) and Gold-Star mothers (whose sons died in the war). One of them was the woman I had spoken with at the wall. A Medal of Honor recipient hugged each of them in turn, and one of them took the microphone and announced that they would love to give each of us in the audience a big hug also. After they left the stage I found my lady from the wall and complied. After learning where I was from she introduced me to Gold Star mothers from Illinois and St. Louis. 


That evening I attended a hospitality suite hosted by the 25th Infantry Division Association. Veterans from World war II and Korea intermingled with those of us from Vietnam. I later read in the Washington Post that this weekend differed from the similar one in 1982, during which the Vietnam Veterans Memorial was dedicated, in that the mood of the veterans was more positive and that Vietnam Veterans and those from previous wars were mending the rifts between them. I talked to many of the vets that I had met earlier in the day, and met many others. It was a pleasant evening with memorabilia from both the Vietnam War and the Division’s history. Posters on a wall identified the various battalions within the division with with space for signatures and addresses to aid in identifying and locating buddies or at least those from the same units. I signed under the name of my old unit: the First of the Fifth (Mechanized), commonly referred to as First of the Fifth Mech. During the evening eleven names appeared on the sheet. 


I was excited to learn that my brigade commander was there—Duquesne (Duke) Wolf. I introduced myself and when he learned that I was with the First of the Fifth he said, “That was a scrappy unit.” We compared notes of the Summer Offensive of 1968 following the Tet Offensive of that year. He has written a book of this series of battles entitled The Infantry Brigade in Combat, highlighting a series of battles in which my company was ambushed killing 29 of us, and during which I was wounded. 


This had turned out to be a memorable evening, but another event would take place at this reunion that no-one present would forget. We were astounded when a figure wearing a civilian suit of clothes but instantly recognizable strolled nonchalantly into the room. It was retired General William C. Westmoreland, Commander of American Forces in Vietnam for the majority of the war. He was greeted by cheers and immediately surrounded by a crowd. He shook hands with every man in the room—more than 200—then raised his hands for silence an said, “Keep the faith.” This set off cheers once more. This scene would be repeated, I later heard, at numerous other reunions that evening. 


Two of my new friends were especially touched by his visit. A pin fell from the general’s coat, and Chip Hayes, a fellow “Bobcat” (nickname for my old battalion) picked it up to hand back to him. The general told him to keep it. It read “West’s Warriors,” a fitting souvenir. Another friend cried when the general signed “Westy” as an autograph for him. 


It was raining when I awoke the next morning. I actually enjoyed walking to breakfast in the rain. My bush hat kept my head dry just as it did during the monsoon season 16 years ago in another land. I commented to my companion this morning, Larry Friedrich, one of the motorhome travelers I came with, that this was not the first time we had walked to the mess hall in the rain. 


Shortly after breakfast it stopped raining, and Chuck Sisson, another of the motorhome travelers, and I went out for coffee, then strolled south again, heading eventually to the wall for the closing ceremonies. We stopped at the Hotel Washington, headquarters for Salute II (National Salute to Vietnam Veterans and their fallen or missing comrades). A wide variety of souvenirs were on sale including pins, posters, stickers, books, jackets, and t-shirts. One booth was selling miniatures of the statue of the three soldiers. The merchant explained that the base was black granite like the wall, and the top was brass. As I reached out to turn the replica for a better view he mentioned the the piece sold for over $250,00. I withdrew my hand and asked if he had one in plastic. 


On Constitution Avenue I stopped to purchase a hot dog from Vietnamese merchants who operated mobile stands in the area. Meanwhile Chuck was approached by a young woman who asked where she might buy a POW/MIA armband like the one he was wearing. He answered, and she said she didn’t know where that was, then began weeping and walked away. As she turned away Chuck noticed a piece of paper pinned to the back of her sweater that identified her husband as a sergeant reported missing in Vietnam, an MIA. Chuck called and ran after her, removed the black arm band from his arm, and pinned it on hers. We both hugged her then, and she thanked us, especially Chuck. As she walked away we couldn’t help thinking that the war is still not over for many of us. But with love like Chuck demonstrated, and as is so evident among Vietnam veterans, we’ll make it. 


The President was scheduled to speak at the weekend’s closing ceremonies at the memorial. Accordingly fences had been erected for crowd control purposes. We passed through metal detectors to gain access to the memorial area. Several hours remained before the scheduled events were to begin but it was an enjoyable time of fellowship with other veterans. As each hour passed the crowd grew successively larger until it became difficult to move. We witnessed the reunion of two war buddies as they embraced with joy. Again there were hundreds of 25th Infantry Division patches moving through the crowd. Two of us approached each other and I said, “I was about to ask you who you were with and when you were there, but you know what? It doesn’t matter.” He agreed and embraced me. 


Speakers included John P. Wheeler III, Chairman of the Board of Vietnam Veterans Memorial Fund, the organization that conceived and raised funds for the memorial; Brigadier General George Price, USA, retired; Commander Billy Ray Cameron, VFW; Vice Commander Robert Turner, American Legion; Congressman David Bonior, D-Michigan; Francis Whitebird, Inter-Tribal Association; and Everett Alvarez Jr., America’s first prisoner-of-war in Vietnam. Music was provided by the US Marine Corps Band. 


The statue that was dedicated on this day, 11 November 1984 is described by the sculptor Frederick E. Hart as follows: 

“The portrayal of the figures is consistent with history. They wear the uniform and carry the equipment of war; they are young. The contrast between the innocence of their youth and the weapons of war underscores the poignancy of their sacrifice. There is about them the physical contact and sense of unity that bespeaks the bonds of love and sacrifice that is the nature of men at war. And yet they are alone. Their strength and their vulnerability are both evident. Their true heroism lies in these bonds of loyalty in the face of their aloneness and their vulnerability.” 


The statue features small details that are indigenous to Vietnam warriors. The soldier on the right has an olive drab towel draped over his shoulders, like some GIs carried. The soldier on the left has a rag tied around one leg, used in Vietnam by some to prevent leeches from going up pant legs. The middle soldier wears one dog tag tied in the laces of a boot to aid in body identification in the event of dismemberment. 


Speeches continued for an hour or so. I can remember only highlights because I was still greeting fellow veterans. But I remember one person saying,


“The veterans created this memorial and presented it to the Government, though it would have been more fitting for the Government to create a memorial and present it to the veterans.” 


Flashing lights on motorcycles escorting a black limousine caught the crowd’s eye, and we knew then that “he” was present. When the speech in progress had been completed the Marine Band performed the familiar fanfare followed by “Hail to the Chief,” and then President Ronald Reagan was introduced. 


His remarks were general in nature. He commended Vietnam Veterans for their patience in awaiting recognition from the Government and citizens of the country. He ended by signing documents transferring the responsibility for the memorial to the Government, then added, “Now it belongs to all of us.” 


He wore a tan trench coat, presumably bullet proof, and I had to stand on my toes to see him over the crowd. A branch from a tree obscured my view for the majority of his talk, but still I was in awe to be in the presence of a President. 


At the close of the ceremony a spontaneous, emotional even took place that would form my fondest memory of the trip. Between 30 and 40 of us veterans of the 25th Infantry Division gathered near the division’s colors, which had been brought to the ceremony by the past president of the 25th Infantry Division Association and host of the hospitality suite that had continued through the weekend. We took photos of each other holding the Tropic Lightning flag with banners from places with names that resound with US military history: Pearl Harbor, Guadalcanal, New Georgia, Luzon, Japan, Korea, and Vietnam—all places where the 25th served. Someone suggested that we march the colors past the wall to which all of us enthusiastically agreed, not yet ready to draw a close to this weekend. A veteran who had served as a lieutenant in my battalion two or three years after my tour carried the flag while the rest of us formed a line behind him, each with a hand on the shoulder of the man ahead in a show of unity. 


Because of the heavy crowd it took quite a while to approach the wall. Our march constituted the only organized activity taking place at the time, and photographers maneuvered into position to capture us on film. We stopped several times to wait for the mass of people ahead of us to move, and during one of those stops I found myself next to a veteran with war-damaged legs, walking with difficulty on crutches. A patch on his shoulder read, “Airborne Ranger.” Countless trainees, myself included, had sung as we double-timed in formation from one training site to another, “I wanna be an airborne ranger! I wanna go to Vietnam!” This man had done both, and is still paying the price. I placed an arm around his shoulders and sang the refrain to him, then embraced him. With tears in his eyes he said, “I love you, brother.” 


We formed up in formation facing the vertex of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial. Someone called “Attention” and then “Present Arms!” We saluted the wall. Then we formed a circle with the lieutenant and the colors in the center. We held a moment of silence for our fallen comrades, then the lieutenant slowly lowered the division flag bearing the Tropic Lightning insignia in its center and with gold fringe along the edges to head level. He rotated in a circle while we each touched the flag and paid our respects. It was a solemn, emotional moment. 


Everett Alvarez Jr., America’s first prisoner of war in Southeast Asia summed up the mood and feelings that this hallowed spot invokes. He said:

“There was a time, long past, when words would have mattered more. But at this place, for all time, it is our hearts that speak.” 

Saturday, June 4, 2022

2022 Memorial Day Service

I was asked to be the guest speaker at Carlyle’s 2022 Memorial Day service. I began by recognizing veterans and those who lost relatives or loved ones during our country’s wars. 
 
Then I gave a brief history of Memorial Day. It began—I didn’t know this—after the Civil War in which 622,000 soldiers perished. It began as Decoration Day, begun by the Grand Army of the Republic, a fraternal organization composed of veterans of the Civil War. It didn’t become a national holiday until 1971. 
 
I added, “I find it disconcerting that the holiday has evolved into one on which all graves are decorated. In my opinion it dilutes the original intent of the holiday—to remember and honor those who died for our freedoms.” 
 
Then I turned to my platoon. During my year-long tour sixteen of my platoon’s young men died. Their average age was 20.5. 
 
I knew when I would be drafted seven months in advance. While in my third semester of college I received a notice advising me that my student deferment had been terminated and I was now 1a, which meant ready to be drafted. I visited the local draft board, who said I didnt fill out a questionnairethey put a notice on the bulletin board at the school but I didnt see it. They told me Id be drafted in seven months. That gave me time to mentally prepare to be a soldier. During that time I concluded that I wanted to be where the action is. Once inducted I volunteered for Vietnam and the infantry, two options not very hard to get in the 60s. 
 
I figured, all I have to do is be careful; nothing’s gonna happen to me. Once in Vietnam I quickly learned that that notion is as false as it could be. I wrote that 19 to 25 year olds make the best soldiers for the same reason they make the worst drivers. They have not yet realized their own mortality—how easy it is to die. 
 
Next I discussed two of my platoon’s casualties.  
 
Bernard Mattson was from Peoria, and arrived around the same time I did. So we became friends, and hung around together. On 12 Jan 68 our company was assigned the task of searching a suspected VC village. We surrounded it to prevent VC from escaping and reinforcements from arriving. Then half of each platoon entered the village to conduct the search. I was on the search team, and while we were in the village the VC mortared our positions on the perimeter. Of course everyone hugged the ground and pulled buttons from their shirts to get closer. One small piece of shrapnel entered Mattson’s left side beneath his armpit, and pierced his heart. Medics tried to save him, but there was nothing they could do. He was 20. 
 
Kellum (Kelly) Grant was one of the old timers in the platoon when I arrived; he was due to go home soon. On 4 May 68 we assaulted an enemy position on line with everyone throwing a lot of lead to gain what the military calls fire superiority. One of the enemy reached up and squeezed the trigger of an RPG (rocket-propelled grenade). It hit Grant in the chest, killing him instantly. I was not far to his left, and have a piece of shrapnel in my chin from the explosion. Grant was also 20. 
 
Then I read an excerpt from my book, which began when I arrived in-country:  “I would soon learn two things. First, there are certain things that soldiers in combat can do to reduce their chances of becoming a casualty; second, there are more ways to increase those chances.” Both types of lessons had to be learned quickly, and most of the details were not taught during our training. Unfortunately, these skills and knowledge increased but did not guarantee a soldier’s chance of surviving.
 
“In the end, those who died or were wounded terribly were not the poorest soldiers. They were not the least prepared or the least careful. Too many of them were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. It could have easily been someone else. It was, to a certain extent, the luck of the draw.” 
 
So today I will think of Mattson and Grant as well as the other fourteen soldiers from my platoon who didn’t make it home. In our hearts and memories they will remain forever young.

Sunday, June 21, 2020

An 1890 Silver Dollar

When I was about six or seven years of age, my dad gave me and my brother and sister each a silver dollar. The one he handed to me bore the date 1890. I don't remember what happened to the coins he gave my brother and sister, but I carried mine in my pocket. I liked the feel of it there, and took it out to inspect it several times a day. I grew to love that coin and carried it for well over a month.

One day my dad came down the stairs dressed to go out, and asked whether I still had the silver dollar. I confirmed that I did, and drew it from my pocket. He told me we didn’t have any money, but needed milk, and asked for the silver dollar. I obediently handed it to him.

Over the next few weeks, I missed the silver dollar, but learned a lesson: life goes on despite losing something that meant something to me. Soon I was caught up in the adventures that capture the imagination of a young boy, and forgot about it.

A couple of months later, it was Christmas. My brother, sister, and I opened our presents while sitting on the floor near the sparkling tree. Afterward we remembered our stockings. I reached into the one bearing my name, and pulled out a few small treats and trinkets that were like my siblings.

Then my dad told me I missed something in my stocking, and suggested I reach all the way to its bottom. I soon pulled out a coin--a silver dollar. I turned it over, and saw that the date was 1890. Further, I recognized the scratches on the coin's face, and realized it was the same one I had handed Dad months before.

It became apparent that after he had been paid, Dad returned to the store and bought back the silver dollar I had given him.

Many times small, seemingly insignificant things create lasting impressions, and so it was with my 1890 silver dollar. It was a wonderful Christmas. I no longer remember the presents I received that year, but will never forget the consideration, sensitivity, and thoughtfulness a dad had for his young son on that Christmas morning.

Thanks Dad

Your son, Roger
Stanley Hayes

Tuesday, April 21, 2020

One-Room School Memories


One-Room School Memories

I attended Elmwood Grade School for sixth grade in the school year beginning in the fall of 1958. The school closed after that year. I went on to Junior High, but my brother, a year behind me, was transferred along with fellow Elmwood alumni to Empire Grade School. 


Elmwood Grade School was located on the south side of Lamm Road, three tenths of a mile west of South Baileyville Road, which when I lived there was called the Baileyville blacktop. The building still stands, and is presently a private residence. 


My parents were Stanley Hayes and Mary (Marler) Hayes. When I was born, we lived at 815 West American Street in the home built by my grandfather, John Ray Marler, who was a ticket agent for the Illinois Central Railroad. 


In the summer of 1958 we moved to a one-room cabin previously owned by “Cowboy” Bill Fay. We later added on to the home, which is located between the old racetrack and the county fairgrounds. Elmwood Grade School was 1.3 miles from our home—road miles. A school bus picked us up at the intersection of South Walnut and Fairground roads, which was a third of a mile from our driveway.


The school was comprised of three grades: 4th through 6th. During the year I attended, 24 students were enrolled, six of whom were 6th graders like me. Our teacher was Miss Coomber. I don’t remember her first name. I seem to recall that she was from Ohio, and possibly returned there after Elmwood closed. My classmates were Jean Wilhelms, Sandra Helms, Karen Otto, JoAnne Kaiser,  and Steve somebody whose family moved away the following year. 


The school had two entrance doors, one for girls, the other for boys. Both doors led to a narrow coat room, and upon looking to my left upon entering, I could see the girls coming in. I always wondered why we had separate doors since they both led to the same place. But other schools, such as Lincoln Grade School, which I attended from Kindergarten through the 5th grade, had separate girls and boys entrances. Lincoln’s were on opposite sides of the building, and are probably still marked as such.  


Doors from the coat room led into the rest of the building, which was one room. Four rows of school desks six deep were on the right side of the room, from the rear perspective, and a circle of chairs was on the left side of the classroom. Along the front was Miss Coomber’s desk and a chalk board. 


A coal-burning pot-bellied stove sat in the middle of the room, and it was the job of the first 6th-grade boy who arrived to build a fire on cold mornings. Most of the time that was me, and I enjoyed tending the fire. I think we lit crumpled-up newspapers or scrap paper to light the lumps of coal. In winter it took a while for the room to become warm, and I remember students working math problems while still wearing coats and gloves or mittens until 10:00 a.m. 


The building had no running water nor facilities. An outhouse stood on the east side of the yard toward the rear of the lot. I suppose a pump for water was located outside, but I don’t specifically remember. 

I carried a metal lunch bucket, which usually contained a sandwich (often peanut butter and honey), and maybe some fresh vegetables or fruit. The small thermos that fit in the top of the lunch bucket usually contained milk. We ate at our desks. 

On most days Miss Coomber would take one of the classes to the circle of chairs on the left side of the classroom for a lesson. I remember a specific English lesson she taught to the 4th graders while the rest of us remained at our desks working on an assignment. I could hear the lesson, of course, and it served as a god refresher and foundation for higher-graded English homework I'd be assigned later. As a result, I felt that I learned more in 6th grade than I did in the two school years preceding or following it. 

During these times while our teacher was busy at the side of the room with another class, we were free to walk around the classroom provided we were asking a classmate how to calculate a math problem, for example. This freedom was violated once in a while, as one might expect, but not too often. 


Recesses were enjoyable with the entire student body participating in games in the yard on the east side of the building. We probably played several, but I remember only pump pump pull away, similar if not identical to capture the flag. 


No sidewalk led to the building, and depressions formed in the earth in front of the steps leading to the doors. In rainy weather, they filled with water. On one day some of us thought it would be fun to wade in the puddles. Jean Wilhelms, assuming we’d get in trouble, sat on the steps and watched. Sure enough, we ended up in trouble sufficient to warrant a swat or two with the paddle kept by Miss Coombers for that purpose. 

Not many people can say they attended a one-room school, but I'm glad I did. 

Wednesday, August 14, 2019

Yellowstone National Park


31 July - 4 August 2019

It was one of those bucket-list items: a visit to Yellowstone. And this midwesterner enjoys watching the terrain and vegetation change as we travel west. Our route, which took us to the park from the south, led through the Wind River Indian Reservation and Grand Teton National Park.

29 July: Our car was loaded with camping equipment, and we missed the much easier trips we took in the small RVs we owned over a decade ago. This day we drove around 13 hours, ending the day in North Platte, Nebraska.

While anticipating the drive, I checked some web sites for the Wind River Reservation, and learned that Sacajawea (or Sacagawea) is buried there, or so some folks, including the Eastern Shoshone who inhabit the reservation, believe. The cemetery is only two miles off our route, so we stopped there.

Sacagawea—the most accepted spelling—is mentioned seventeen times in the Lewis & Clark journals. It’s spelled differently each time, but always with a letter G.

I read long ago that Sacagawea died during childbirth in South Dakota at the age of 25, and that’s consistent with Wikipedia. But since Native Americans didn’t keep written records, it’s difficult to be certain. In any event, an effort by suffragists to locate her remains was undertaken in the very early 1900s. Sacagawea captured their attention because she was allowed to vote during the Corps of Discovery’s expedition. A Dakota Sioux physician was hired to find Sacagawea’s remains. After visiting numerous tribes, he learned of a woman who had once lived on the Wind River Reservation, whose great granddaughter said spoke of a long trip with white men when she was young, and who had in her possession a Jefferson peace medal, which Lewis & Clark handed out to Native Americans they met. So it was concluded that the woman was Sacagawea. We figured that whether Sacagawea was indeed buried on the reservation, it was still a memorial to her and worthy of our visit.



On to Yellowstone National Park: We’ve seen videos and photos of geysers, bears, Bison, Elk, and other wildlife, but our initial impression of the park was a surprise. It is not nearly as open as the photos seem to imply; rather, the roads travel through forests composed mostly of Lodgepole Pine, and vistas are limited.


In the portions of the park we visited, which were in the southern half, open areas were found only near geysers or other thermal features and a few valleys. Herds of Bison and Elk can be found in two valleys: Hayden and Lamar Valleys although the latter species can be seen elsewhere such as within a few yards of our campsite in Grant Village.

The park is huge—the caldera alone is the size of the State of Rhode Island—and the maximum speed limit is 45 mph, probably to safeguard wildlife as well as other visitors. As a result, a visit to the park results in a lot of driving, and it takes time to get where one’s going.

The first day, 31 August, we set up camp, and then enjoyed one another’s company for a while. We visited the nearby West Thumb Geyser Basin, which offered our first look at the park’s thermal features. Since the best time to see large mammals was at dawn or dusk, we drove to Hayden Valley where we watched a herd of a hundred or more Bison.  Some of them crossed the road, blocking traffic and creating long lines of stopped vehicles. A while later a herd of over 70 Elk emerged from trees across the valley.




Cold Water: Bathrooms in our campground, and I suspect others as well, offered cold water only. Hot water was available in the shower building, but the sinks in the same facility had only cold water. Twice I washed my hair and shaved in cold water. It wasn’t fun but not nearly as uncomfortable as I imagined.

Weather: During the course of a typical July or August day the temperature varies around 40-degrees, dropping from a high in the 80s in afternoons to overnight lows in the low- to mid-40s, and lows in the 30s are common. Because the atmosphere is thinner in the park—our campground was at 7800 feet in elevation—the sun feels more intense than at lower elevations. Sunny afternoons were uncomfortably warm, but around bed-time our sleeping bags were welcome sources of warmth. All of us were cold overnight even with sleeping bags rated at 20 or 30 degrees. Apparently such ratings are only reference points. I awoke several times because my head was cold, but eventually found that wrapping my poncho liner around my head kept me warmer. My wife and I took along yoga mats that we placed beneath our air mattresses as a form of insulation from the ground. The tent floor beneath the yoga mats was colder than above the mats (between the mats and our air mattresses) so it helped a bit.

Brochures and web sites advise carrying lip balm and plenty of water, and we found that to be valid advice; the air is dry at Yellowstone.

The next morning, 1 August, we made breakfast in our respective campsites, then convoyed to Old Faithful, which was erupting as we arrived. While waiting for the next eruption, I spotted a female Mountain Bluebird, and a male Western Tanager in a tree before us. I’d seen both species only once before. About a thousand visitors lined a semicircular walkway with benches to view the next eruption.




While in the vicinity we watched Old Faithful erupt four times. We also had lunch in the nearby cafeteria, and explored the area including the historic Old Faithful Inn. 

Cell Phone Service: We were warned that cell phone service would be spotty or poor, and we found it to be nonexistent. It was both a hindrance and a convenience. We noticed that a lot fewer folks had their heads down staring at their phones, and in restaurants, people looked at one another.

Bears: We didn’t see bears, although our son and family who arrived a few days before we did saw a mama and two cubs. But we obeyed regulations governing the cleanliness of our campsites. No food items, coolers, or even water containers—I guess to bears they look like food containers—were to be left in unoccupied campsites, so each day we loaded everything except our tents, luggage pack packs, sleeping bags, and lawn chairs into our cars. That meant that we didn’t have room for back-seat passengers, and each time we left the campground we traveled in a three-vehicle convoy. Communication between cars would have been nice. In hindsight, FRS (Family Radio Service) two-way radios, at least one per car, would have been nice to have.

2 August: We left the campground after breakfast, heading to the Grand Prismatic Spring, the most colorful thermal feature of the park. We hiked the provided boardwalk, and marveled at the colorful hot spring.


Crowds and Parking: The most popular attraction at Yellowstone is Old faithful, and the area offers plenty of parking. But other attractions had a lot less such as the Grand Prismatic Spring, which may be among the next most popular park features. Waiting in line to enter the parking lot, and then finding a parking spot once there was not fun. Plenty of folks parked along the main road, then walked in. Perhaps these areas are less busy once school starts, but then the nights can be much colder. During these times when NPS budgets are shrinking, this is something visitors have to deal with.

The next stop was a swimming hole, where the kids spent time in the water. Autumn spent time with 7-year-old Miranda, and they seemed to bond during their time in the water.


3 August: This was Casey’s birthday, and he was given the opportunity to pick out the day’s adventure, which consisted of hiking the Elephant Back Trail. It led through woods and up a mountain with a crest near 8500 feet. The top provided a great view of Yellowstone Lake. 



4 August: Our day of departure. We began the 1600-mile trip back home, passing once again through Grand Teton National Park and the Wind River Indian Reservation. Lonnie and I stopped that night in Sidney, Nebraska.

5 August: Continuing the drive through Nebraska, thirteen miles of Iowa, and into Missouri, where we checked into a room in Columbia.

6 August: An easy drive back home.

I can’t leave this topic without mentioning our trusty, old Coleman Camp Stove. I bought it in 1978, and used it quite a bit over the years including making tea and preparing meals at Yellowstone.


Wednesday, May 9, 2018

Pristine Forests of the Shawnee

On a whim Lonnie and I ventured to southern Illinois where we spent a night in a cabin at Giant City State Park.



After dark I stood on the road outside our cabin and played the songs of Barred Owls, Great Horned Owls, Screech Owls, Whip-poor-wills, and Chuck Will's Widows.  Barred Owls responded first followed by Great Horned Owls. Screech Owls were the last to respond.

The next morning after breakfast we walked the park's Indian Creek Trail, hiking through mature, climax-deciduous forest.  We spotted a Tulip Poplar, Liriodendron tulipifera, that was well over 100-feet in height, the tallest tree species that occurs east of the Mississippi River, that is if they germinate and grow in optimum habitat--forested valleys where more moisture is available.



While crossing a creek with crystal clear water, Lonnie asked me why we don't have streams that clear where we live.  The answer involves two factors: first, streams in the Shawnee National Forest are more likely to have rock bottoms; and second, forests, I learned in college, produce the cleanest runoff water. Rain drops first strike a succession of tree leaves on their way to the forest floor where they land with less impact on a layer of leaves from the previous growing season. In comparison, much of the watershed of the Kaskaskia River, which runs through our home county, is farmland with lots of exposed soil that finds its way into streams, rivers, and lakes.


Later in the day we visited the Bald Knob Cross near Alto Pass. Throughout the day we passed through extensive mature forestlands, which I find spiritually cleansing. I found myself missing the relatively pristine mature forests of the Shawnee National Forest, where I spent a lot of time while attending SIU-Carbondale.  






Sunday, March 25, 2018

The Farm Pond: An Environmental Analogy

While attending a community college in my hometown of Freeport, Illinois, I took two classes from the same teacher, a man named Keith Blackmore, who was an inspiration for me as I was beginning development as a naturalist.

One day during a series of environmental lessons in Ecology class, he told us the tale of a farmer who had a pond on his land from which his cattle drank. One day he noticed an aquatic plant floating on the surface of his pond. He researched the plant and learned that it doubled in size every day, and getting rid of it would take several days. The plant would also preclude his cattle from drinking. But it was small and his cattle had plenty of space to drink so he went on to other tasks.

A few days later he noticed that the plant was quite a bit larger, covering a greater portion of his pond, but it didn't block his cattle from drinking, so he once again ignored it.

Then one day he was surprised to see that the plant covered half of the pond's surface, and the next day his cattle would not be able to drink. He had ignored the aquatic plant until it became too late.

That's where we are with several environmental issues. Here are just a few.

- Overpopulation: We are crowding out numerous species of wildlife; polluting the air, soil, and water; and run the risk one day of running out of natural resources, particularly food and water. (Keith Blackmore's tongue-in-cheek solution for overpopulation was death for parking violations. But he added that no-one would listen to him.)

- The world's overuse of plastic: A floating pile of plastic garbage lies between California and the Hawaiian Islands that is as large as the State of Texas. But it's cheaper to continue using plastic bags for groceries than environmentally sustainable paper bags, to choose one of numerous examples, so we'll continue using plastic. Besides, the oceans are much larger than Texas.

- Global warming: The research of 96% of the world's scientists is not sufficient to spur action on the part of global warming deniers. Sadly this includes the United States Congress and the Administration.

We are the farmer, and the aquatic plant becomes larger every day that we do nothing. We ignore it at our peril.

In the same Ecology class we learned the requirements for life as we know it. The first was that a planet needs to be the right distance from its sun to sustain liquid water. Next was an atmosphere, followed by plant life. The final requirement was that the dominant form of life must be smart enough to avoid destroying the planet. We haven't shown that we're that smart yet.