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July 28-September 6, 1975 I went on a backpacking trip along the Pacific Crest Trail across the state of Washington—531 miles. The trip began with five people: myself, a co-worker Becky Hansell, her brother Chris Bowen, and Robin and Dan who were there to return the auto home.
We started at Stevenson, on the southern border of Washington. On the second day we meet a lone backpacker, Jeff Booth an elementary school teacher from Portland, Oregon. Robin and Dan said their good byes and turned back to head home to Utah. Jeff asked if he could join us the rest of the trip, realizing that it wasn’t safe for him to travel alone. Jeff stayed with us most of the way until we reached the N. Cascades Hwy, near the Canadian border, there he moved ahead alone at a swifter pace so he could meet his ride and get back home in time for the start of the school year.
What I’m about to relate is one of many adventures we had on this trip, highlighted in yellow on map, this being the scariest:
When we reached the city of Snoqualmie Pass, it had been approximately two weeks into our trip, we decided to chip in and get a room in a small motel so we could each take a hot shower. We watched the news as we waited our turn for use of the shower. A macabre story was on the news, months earlier some humans skulls were found not far from where we currently where. Police were organizing a search to try to locate more evidence of the crimes. At the time it was unknown that these were victims of Ted Bundy, who had already moved to our home state of Utah.
It is common for passing hikers to greet one another near the trailheads. As one gets further away and deeper into the wilds, you stop and have conversations with the people you meet.
After a short side trip to North Bend we were back on the trail, two days passed and as those of you who have done any backpacking know—your mind can really play tricks on you, especially when alone. We were spread out, walking our individual pacing, anywhere from two to three miles between each individual. Jeff in the lead, followed by me, then Chris, and Becky bringing up the rear.
I had just walked out into a clearing roughly three hundred yards long, at the same time another backpacker emerged at the opposite end. When we where a hundred feet away he veered off the trail, some forty feet, to his left. As we passed I called out a hello, he just looked at me not saying a word—a chill went down my spine as I looked into his eyes. He was Charles Manson’s identical twin! I picked up my pace, when I reached the trees I increased my pace even more. Before I knew it I was running!
Snoqualmie Pass was a food pickup point. We would mail our food General Delivery, to ourselves, to various local post offices along the trail. We weighed our packs on a rock scale at a local rock shop. At this point on the trail, our packs weight had decreased to 35-45 lbs. Jeff’s pack now weighed 85 lbs., Chris and mine weighed 80 lbs., and Becky’s came in at 50 lbs.
All sorts of thoughts ran through my head, “Is he after me, is Jeff dead, Oh, my God, Becky!” I must have ran for 10-15 minutes now thinking I’ve got to turn back, then I saw Jeff running towards me and shouting, “Did you see that guy, I know he’s the killer!” Together we ran towards Chris. Soon we saw Chris running towards us. We all agreed he was the killer and ran to Becky’s rescue. This time another 10-15 minutes passed, we feared the worst that we would find Becky’s lifeless body, but then we saw her running towards us. She was shouting, “It’s the killer, it’s the killer!”
We doubled our pace to put as much ground between the killer and us! We had a plan. No stopping for lunch today, run, run! Time passed and the sun was starting to set, we needed a safe campsite fast. We headed up the side of the mountain, up the scree field, this way we could hear anyone approaching our camp. A mile up the mountain’s side we found a terraced area, no tents tonight—too visible. No hot meal tonight, can’t chance it, our gas stoves may give away our location. Chris volunteered for the first watch, the rest of us kept our Swiss Army knives close at hand.
It took another day before we relaxed and could laugh at ourselves.
I spent the weekend searching for art treasure with my two youngest children, Aiden and Tara. Although we were not lucky enough to find any treasure, we did have a fantastic time!
July 24th I read an article in the local paper, Salt Lake Tribune, about a Minneapolis-based artist William Hessian who travels across the U.S. hiding miniture artwork in city parks. His art tour brought him to Salt Lake where ten pieces of art were hidden throughout the city. We followed the clues, got close, but no luck.
The above photo shows (left to right) Kelsey Hessian, William Hessian, Aiden and Tara, and another family at Liberty Park.
A recent conversation with my co-workers included the subject of layoffs and firings, being the oldest in the group I had the most stories to relate. Here is the funniest:
Working in a small advertising and design market, it is common to be laid off every three to five years as clients jumped ship and moved on. But on one occasion I was let go because I refused to fall on the sword and take the blame for the incompetence of the new marketing director.
I was working at a small research and consulting firm that catered to the IT industry. A year earlier the company had merged with another small firm on the east coast, the company kept both offices intact and had some duplicate positions. After this first year the marketing director in our Salt Lake office quit, he had had enough of the marketing director in the Virginia office. This left me exposed and now working directly with Little Napoleon--as we referred to him. On two occasions I was made aware of him trying to blame me for his costly screw-ups, who knows what else he blamed on me.
After speaking with the HR manager I met with Little Napoleon and tried to resolve our working relationship, boy was I naïve, he soon convinced upper management to fire me. I cleaned out my things and he escorted me out the door. The following day I called the IT director and asked permission to use a computer for transferring some personal data that I had on large file disks onto smaller disks that would work on my equipment at home. The IT director said it would be fine and when I arrived he just left me to my work. Napoleon saw me at the computer in the office and went ballistic, after an argument with the IT director, he permitted me to continue—but he first wanted to see everything on the disks and sat next to me until I completed my task. I was fuming! He walked me to my car, smiled, and put out his hand and wished me luck. I looked at his hand and said,“You’ve got to be kidding.”
A month earlier the office had put on its yearly conference at a luxury resort hotel in San Diego, CA. At the conference, amongst one of Little Napoleon’s many screw-ups, he misplaced the prizes that were to be given out to attendees in a drawing. A few months later the hotel staff discovered the missing box and mailed it to the Salt Lake office. The Salt Lake office forwarded it to Napoleon in the Virginia office--removing the hotel’s return address but forgetting to replace it with the Salt Lake return address. When Napoleon received it unannounced and thinking it was from me, he panicked and called the police claiming he had received a bomb in the mail.
A bomb squad’s policy is not to mess with it, first blow the thing up so one could safely examine the contents. After doing their job, they told Napoleon that it appeared to be some clothing. They had blown up ten bomber jackets--what irony.
Seeing the humor, I wanted to make a Christmas card that referenced the bombing incident. I thought better not to, Little Napoleon might see it and fire the person who called and related the incident to me.
Sherman tank crushing a Honda Prelude on July 4, 2008. I drove my parents and my two youngest children to a private July 4th celebration. The host collects military vehicles (he has seven plus warehouses full) and every year he puts on a big shindig--an all day celebration, and invites veterans and their families to attend. My dad served in N. Africa, Sicily, and Italy during WWII. Earned four bronze battle stars, was awarded the Silver Star at the battle of the Rapidio River, Cassino, Italy and turned down two purple hearts. This and other characteristics of my father made him my number one hero while growing up.
In Mayan mythology, a story is told in the Popul Vuh about twin brothers Hunbatz (one monkey) and Hunchouén (one artisan):
By nature these two sons were very wise, and great was their wisdom; on earth they were soothsayers of good disposition and good habits. All the arts were taught to Hunbatz and Hunchouén, the sons of Hun-Hunahpú and Xbaquiyalo. They were flautists, singers, shooters with blowguns, painters, sculptors, jewelers, silversmiths; these were Hunbatz and Hunchouén.Eventually, Hunbatz and Hunchouén are lured up into a tree and changed into monkeys by their illegitimate stepbrothers Hunahpú and Xbalanqué—the Hero Twins. Hunbatz and Hunchouén are revered by the Mayans as the patrons of the arts.
This is the final design, client requested a fisherman on the front and a fish on the back--this was one of two versions shown to the client. The other being a different style of illustration, executed by Steve Keele.
July 28-September 6, 1975 I went on a backpacking trip along the Pacific Crest Trail across the state of Washington—531 miles. The trip began with five people: myself, a co-worker Becky Hansell, her brother Chris Bowen, and Robin and Dan who were there to return the auto home.
When we reached the city of Snoqualmie Pass, it had been approximately two weeks into our trip, we decided to chip in and get a room in a small motel so we could each take a hot shower. We watched the news as we waited our turn for use of the shower. A macabre story was on the news, months earlier some humans skulls were found not far from where we currently where. Police were organizing a search to try to locate more evidence of the crimes. At the time it was unknown that these were victims of Ted Bundy, who had already moved to our home state of Utah.
I had just walked out into a clearing roughly three hundred yards long, at the same time another backpacker emerged at the opposite end. When we where a hundred feet away he veered off the trail, some forty feet, to his left. As we passed I called out a hello, he just looked at me not saying a word—a chill went down my spine as I looked into his eyes. He was Charles Manson’s identical twin! I picked up my pace, when I reached the trees I increased my pace even more. Before I knew it I was running!
