Category: Feel Good Stuff

Paddleboarding Horseshoe Bend

By Mike Huber

Since my last story was on paddleboarding I thought sticking with the topic would be a great opportunity to share a unique and exciting experience. Camping off a paddleboard at the base of Horseshoe Bend in Page, Arizona.  This was to be a 2-day, 15-mile trip down the Colorado River from Glenn Canyon Dam to Lee’s Ferry and would include one night of camping off our paddleboards. As an avid motorcycle camper, I thought camping off a paddleboard would be right up my alley as the amount of gear from a moto to a paddleboard was relatively the same.  This adventure would bring us to one of the most hostile environments in the United States, all while living it from a new perspective, being on top of the frigid waters of the Colorado River.

The adventure began with camping near Page, Arizona, and a day of light paddleboarding on Lake Powell to gain more familiarity and confidence on the board.  This was more for myself, as the two friends I was traveling with were both very experienced paddlers.  My paddling to this date was limited to a couple of 8-mile runs on the Salt River near Phoenix and a horrible windy day off the Colorado River where we launched from Hoover Dam.  The Salt River had portions of minor rapids, but the environment was much tamer than we would experience along the Colorado River.

The Colorado River water is extremely cold even during the spring.  Contrasting the freezing water was the ambient air temperatures, which reached the high 90s (with no place to find shade or relief from the sun above the golden canyon walls that surrounded us).  Adding to the natural environmental threats there can be winds that blow up the river so strongly that you cannot paddle against them, even when going down river.  A year prior we were supposed to do a camping trip and ended up having to do an 18-mile paddle in heavy winds; on that trip, we were not able to camp as the winds were forecast to be worse the next day.  I didn’t want to put myself through that again.  That night we made our way to Horseshoe Bend in our car to watch the sunset and look down over the edge to see where we would camp the next evening.

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The day we were set to launch the winds were calm.  At 8:00 a.m. we loaded our watercraft onto a powerboat at Lee’s Ferry that would deliver us to the base of Glen Dam.  It was a cold ride in the boat to our drop off location as the sun was still hidden behind the massive walls that went straight up nearly a thousand feet.  Every bend we went around I was in constant awe.  It was as if every element that you can face in nature was in full view for us to admire, respect, and fear.  Once dropped off we unloaded the paddleboards, our gear, and took a few minutes to gain our composure before starting our 15-mile journey down river.

Pushing our boards off the shoreline, it was still cold and between the 40-degree water and 50-degree air none of us wanted to stand up on the boards.  Making a small error that could cause us to capsize during this delicate time would result in hypothermia with little hope of warming up until the sun crested above the canyon walls more than two hours later.  The winds were absent and with an occasional dam release we just coasted down the river effortlessly.  Having no headwinds was so much more pleasant than our previous time on this fully exposed river when we spent the day battling a constant headwind.

When the sun finally glimpsed above the canyon walls they instantly lit up. Just a beautiful golden prison we were trapped in with neon aqua waters so clear you can see fish swimming 20 feet below your board.  We had dispersed the weight of our gear between the three boards and then balanced them out as best we could.  We even had a bundle of firewood secured with Rok Straps for what we hoped would be a magical night under the stars. Along the way we stopped occasionally for a snack, a beer, or a short hike.  There are some hidden petroglyphs along the river where you can disembark from your board and hike in to view them.  This made for a perfect slow-paced and enjoyable day that we all fully embraced.

It was still early, yet due to the lack of headwinds and numerous dam releases we were already arriving at our camp at Mile 9.  Mile 9 camp is at the turn of Horseshoe Bend.  What made this really cool wasn’t the view (it all looked really the same with giant canyon walls on both sides of you).  What made this special was that when you looked up the thousand-foot walls you could see hundreds of tourists looking down at you and waving.  I felt like we were in a zoo exhibit. We set up camp and spent a relaxing afternoon swimming, chatting with other boaters (mostly kayakers and fellow paddlers), and just enjoying the fact we weren’t battling winds.  This was quite a rewarding day.

After a perfect day of mild paddling, relaxing and gazing off into this beautiful yet intimidating environment, the day slowly turned into evening.  It wasn’t long before we started a campfire.  Sitting around a campfire with new friends, cold beers from our Ice Mule Cooler, and exchanging stories is always the high point in my day.  I wandered off to use the bathroom when I noticed flashing from above.  At first, I thought it was the stars beginning to peer from above the cliffs, but it wasn’t.  The flashes I saw were the tourists above using their phones and flashlights to signal “hello” down to us.  As I zipped my pants up, I already had the “It was the cold water that caused shrinkage” or the “You’re 1,000 feet away…of course it looks smaller” thoughts.  For some reason my new friends around the campfire didn’t understand my humor and the stories continued until the flashes from the tourists above faded about the same time we did.

Having slept great that night at the base of one of the most iconic photo spots in the United States it was now time to pack up.  Winds always seemed to gain intensity as the day wears on, so we wanted an early start to avoid this threat, but there were no winds on this day, either. It was almost as if the river was rewarding us for having passed its initiation from that previous windy trip that didn’t allow camping.  The river was so calm we were able to even lay down on our paddleboards and allow the current and dam releases to carry us the remaining 6 miles downriver without any effort. This is how paddleboarding should be, but I knew this was an anomaly on the Colorado River. In my experience tailwinds are like unicorns.  They really don’t exist, yet somehow this trip we were surrounded by a herd of unicorns.

It wasn’t long before we could see Lee’s Ferry ahead of us on the right.  We made it to shore and began the process of packing our gear up to return to Lake Powell for one more night of camping before returning to southern Arizona.  Since paddleboarding Horseshoe Bend, anytime I see pictures of this location I zoom in and can often see paddleboards, kayaks, and tents at the beach when everyone else just is looking at the full view of the photo.  I absolutely prefer my new perspective of this part of Glenn Canyon National Recreation Area, that being through the eyes of a paddleboarder.

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Camino de Santiago Part 1: A Walk Across Spain

By Bobbie Surber

The Camino de Santiago, also known as the Way of St. James, is a network of pilgrimage routes that lead to the shrine of the apostle Saint James the Great in the cathedral of Santiago de Compostela in Galicia, Spain. The Camino has been a popular destination for Christian pilgrims for more than a thousand years, and it is now visited by people of all faiths and backgrounds from around the world.

There are several routes of the Camino de Santiago, including the Camino Frances (French Way), which is the most popular, and the Camino Portugués (Portuguese Way), which starts in Lisbon or begins in Porto for a two-week shorter Camino. The Camino de Santiago is a long-distance walk or hike that typically takes 30-40 days to complete, depending on the route and the pace of the individual pilgrim.

Along the way, pilgrims stay in Albergues (pilgrim hostels) or other types of accommodation and follow the yellow arrows and shells which mark the way. The Camino de Santiago offers a unique opportunity to experience the beauty of the Spanish landscape and culture and to challenge oneself physically and spiritually.

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I walked seven different Camino Routes with my first Camino in 2012 and the last in September 2021. My last walk found me starting in Pamplona, Spain, a vibrant city never lacking a reason for a fiesta, a city known worldwide for the Running of the Bulls every July.  I ended my journey in Leon, Spain. With my added side trips, I walked over 300 miles, experiencing high desert plateaus, the Rioja wine region, the blissful Logrono’s tapas, the magnificent Burgos Cathedral, the Meseta’s emptiness, and the joy of Leon.

I was on a multi-month motorcycle/camping trip through Arizona, Utah, Colorado, Wyoming, and Montana. When riding, there are times when every part of your brain is laser-focused on the road ahead of you and who might try to run you over from the back or side, but every now and then, the ride is so peaceful that you have time to turn a portion of your brain to the gift of “I wonder.” This led me to reminisce over my six prior walks along different Camino routes in Spain, Portugal, and France. Once released, an avalanche of memories and images flowed to the point that I knew I would be booking my flight to Europe as soon as I stopped my ride for the day.

A quick Google Flights search gave me what I needed, and I soon had a ticket. This was another solo walk, my favorite way for most hikes. My arrival in Pamplona was early enough that I decided to start my Camino right from the Pamplona Airport, bypassing one of my favorite cities in Spain.

The morning had the hope of the fall weather yet to come as I headed slowly up the first of several foothills with the goal of a 10-mile walk for my first day. The gravel crunched satisfactorily underfoot as I quickly adjusted my backstraps to climb up to an iconic ridge that all pilgrims look forward to, the Alto del Perdón, a mountain pass in the province of Navarra in northern Spain, about 12 miles outside of Pamplona. I had returned to the Camino Frances trail after nine-year of absence, taking in beautiful views of the surrounding landscape and a chance to rest and recharge. The mountain pass is named after a sculpture of the Virgin Mary and the phrases “Señora del Camino” (Lady of the Way) and “Perdón” (Forgiveness), which are inscribed on the base of the sculpture. The windswept ridge and the massive wind turbines in the background contrast the sculptures that represent a pilgrimage from the Middle Ages. I took my first full breath after 18 hours of travel and an excellent 8-mile walk to this point. I thought about my intentions for this walk, what I hoped to gain and whom I would miss in the coming weeks of a long walk across most of Spain.

Reluctantly leaving the ridge late afternoon, I knew it would be challenging to reach my Albergue for the night. The steep loose gravel trail reminds me that my knees are not what they used to be, and motorcycle riding for the prior months did little to prepare me for the rigors of this walk. Soon the village of Uterga appeared with another climb up to her main street. My arrival timed perfectly to watch the evening stroll of the locals begin, kids running in the square, little old ladies with perfectly quaffed hair and well-put-together outfits ambling in deep conversations. Adults were sitting in outdoor cafes having a drink, visiting each other, and enjoying the last dregs of daylight. I wanted to plop my disheveled self within their mist and order my first long-awaited glass of Vino Tinto, but I pulled myself together and made the last of my walk to my Albergue in short order.

This first night’s stay found me in a dorm room in a private Albergue with its small restaurant and bar. After showing my pilgrims pass (issued to show you are walking the Camino) and paying 12 Euros for my place in the dorm room, I quickly dumped my backpack on my bed, looked in the mirror, confirmed I looked like a wreck, dashed for the bar, and ordered my first of many good Rioja wines. Settling in, I met my first group of fellow pilgrims. A portly German fellow in his mid-fifties that I would painfully learn would serenade us throughout the night with his epic snoring. Also, a group of Italian bicycle riders. They were loud, and all were talking at once with what would become the usual question:  Why is an American woman walking the Camino alone?  Well, that’s a question for another day! I order my second glass of wine and move into the restaurant for the start of the evening’s Pilgrim meal, an inexpensive three-course meal with portions that could feed a small family, and your choice of bottled water or a bottle of wine, Good God, man, why would you order the water?  I certainly did not.

I had equal feelings of contentment and joy seeping in as German, Italian, and Spanish conversations swirled around me—fellow pilgrims sharing their day’s success and physical hardships. Many of the pilgrims had started 60 miles back on the French side of the Pyrenees, had survived the celebrations of Pamplona, and were still in high spirits so early in their walk. I listened to their stories and their countless toasts made in several languages. I left the room while the wave of conversation and laughter reminded me of how lucky I was to be on this walk for a 7th time. This surely was the beginning of an epic adventure and the hope of what Spain had in store for me.

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Charles Darwin, Alive and Well

You know those signs that tell you not to drive into flooded areas?

Every time I’d see one, I always wondered about the target audience.  I mean, who would be stupid enough to drive into a flooded area?  And if they were that stupid…well, maybe ol’ Darwin had the right idea.

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Based on the cover photo, you may have already guessed where this story is going.  I don’t have to look very far to find someone stupid enough to “enter when flooded.”  I see that guy in the mirror every morning when I shave.

You see, there’s a creek that flows across the dirt road out to the West End Gun Club.   I’ve been driving across it for close to 40 years now.  Most of the year, it’s a dry creek bed. After a rainy spell, we’ve had times when it was so obviously flooded I wouldn’t attempt to cross it.  Most of the time.  But other times when the water was flowing, it didn’t look bad enough or deep enough to keep me from taking a chance.  I mean, what could go wrong?

I guess I’m one of those guys who has to urinate on the electric fence to see for himself.  Yep, I finally got stuck, and stuck good.  I always figured with my all wheel drive Subie I could get out of anything.  But you know, AWD ain’t the same as 4WD.    Something I learned today.

When I heard the underside of the Subie hit the ground on the ledge (that was now more of a bank than a ledge), it hit hard.  I felt it as much as heard it.  I was in trouble.  I tried to back out, but I knew from the downward facing hood the Subie’s butt was in the air and I could feel the front wheels spinning in the water.  I was balanced on the bank, and I could feel the car rocking and pivoting slightly to the right.  It was like being in a formulaic movie or a bad dream when a car has gone out of control and is hanging over a cliff.  I opened the door and the bank was directly under the opening, and as I looked at the ground, the bank was eroding.  In the wrong direction.  Water started coming over the door sill and into the car.

I beat a hasty exit out the passenger door.   Other folks going to the range, wondering if they could cross, had stopped and were watching me.   I had set the example.  The spectators tried to help by pulling down on the rear bumper.   It did no good.  I was high sided, and if anything, the car was moving more toward the stream, which was starting to look like Niagara Falls.  Yikes.

I called the Auto Club, but they put me on hold.  The bank continued to give way under my Subie, so I called 911.  They took my info and I never heard from them again, nor did anybody show.  You know the old saying…when seconds count, the cops are only minutes away.  The other spectators drifted away.  I was on my own.

Then a miracle occurred.  Good buddy Lee, who I met for the first time this morning, came by in a Jeep.  A real Jeep.  With a winch.  We connected (literally and figuratively), but it was no good.  As the winch did its thing, it dragged the Jeep toward the Subie.  Lee and I looked at my  situation.  Lee put boulders in front of the Jeep’s wheels, and the winch dragged them along, too.  “If I could hook up to another vehicle,” Lee said, “we could make this work.”

Then the second miracle occurred.  Another newly-met good buddy named Aaron rolled up in a big Dodge pickup.  He hooked up to Lee’s Jeep, Lee hit the winch button, and just like that (with some God-awful undercarriage scraping and grinding), I was free.   For a few seconds, I thought my future held a commission as a U-boat commander, but no more.  Lee and Aaron, wherever you are, thanks much!

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ExhaustNotes TV Review: then came Bronson

I’ve been on a then came Bronson kick lately. I can’t find any of the TV shows on YouTube but the website Dailymotion has a few complete episodes available free online and I’ve been watching them one a day for a week or so. A bit of backstory for motorcyclists under the age of 105: then came Bronson was an episodic, 1-hour TV drama about a guy traveling the country on his Harley Davidson Sportster. It was sort of like Easy Rider but without the drugs. This was in the era before Sportsters were considered a girl’s bike. In the late 1960’s the Sportster was a high performance motorcycle that ran with the best of the British bikes…in a straight line.

When tcB was a new show I watched it on a black and white television with maybe a 19” diagonal measurement. I was 12 years old and a TV show about motorcycles and motorcyclists not depicted as Hells Angels had never been done. I remember watching the TV show but I can’t remember specific episodes. In those pre-internet, pre-DVD recorder days if you missed the air date it was gone forever. Watching the old show on the Dailymotion site has been like seeing them for the first time.

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Bronson was from The Bay Area and he chucked it all to cruise around the California backcountry meeting interesting characters and saving damsels in distress. Watch the classic opening scene on YouTube: nobody wanted to be that guy in the station wagon. I guess distress is too strong a word. The damsels were more dissatisfied than distressed. They were small town girls trapped in boring lives and Bronson represented a different ending to the story. Bronson was their ticket to Any-where-else, USA.

James Dean and Michael Parks

Lord knows Bronson never went out of his way to encourage the girls but when you look like James Dean you don’t have to try very hard. Bronson’s sure-fire method for attracting women was to do exactly nothing. He wouldn’t talk unless really pushed into it. He never tried to get fresh or make the first move. Often he would fall asleep on a date with a beautiful woman who was holding up a cardboard sign that said, “Take me now, you idiot!” written in red lipstick. His method may have been sure-fire but his actual success rate was low. It wasn’t long before the girls would get frustrated, give up, and go back to their small town boys

Of course I didn’t notice this strangeness when I was 12 years old. It was enough to see a motorcycle on the television. Looking at the show today it is clear than Bronson suffered from narcolepsy and possibly landed on the high end of the autism spectrum. At times it seemed painful for him to speak, he would grimace before he could manage to drag the gut-hooked words out of his mouth. Sometimes when another character would ask Bronson a question his answer would be to turn away and look off into the distance. It was all too much for him.

It seemed like in almost every episode Bronson’s motorcycle would be wrecked. A car might back into him, he might run into a ditch and bend the forks or a friendly local might ride it into the lake. These crashes were a way to hold Bronson in a town long enough for the local women to throw themselves at him; normally it took two or three days for all of them to have a go at Bronson. If you’re a nitpicker for accuracy the scenes of Bronson repairing his bike will have you yelling, “That’s the fifth time you’ve put the gas tank bolt in!” or, “There’s no way you got that fender straight with two rocks!”

I’m poking fun at then came Bronson but it really was a great show that had a huge influence on my generation of motorcycle riders. Hell, it’s still a great show. Bronson came along at the exact right time to catch the first big wave of what we think of as modern motorcycling, when you could meet the nicest people on a Honda or a meanie on a Yamaha. The show still holds up well to re-watching if you can suspend logic for an hour. And who doesn’t love a show with a bronze-head Rudge in it?

Bronson
Me

As you can see in the photos above, watching then came Bronson had absolutely zero effect on me. I was lucky to travel around the country in 1975, only a few years after Bronson aired. The small towns in America still looked like scenes from then came Bronson. Today many of the towns I saw in my travels are boarded up and abandoned. Thriving businesses where I bought gas and a RC cola have crumbled into the ground. Turns out none of those people Bronson met and befriended really wanted to stay in their little towns. They didn’t know where they were going but they ended up somewhere.

After my Bronson binge I’ve been thinking about getting a jet-style, open face helmet like the one Bronson wore in the show. I know a full helmet is safer but I want more interaction with the environment, but not like my face on asphalt interaction. Maybe getting a few bugs in my teeth would be a good thing, and maybe I do talk a little too much. I’ll practice my pained looks and concentrate on the horizon. I wonder if I ignore CT long enough she’ll hold up one of those lipstick-lettered cardboard signs. That would be cool. Go check out then came Bronson on Dailymotion, and hang in there.

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Racing the Sun

By Mike Huber 

Finding myself in Arizona in the winter months has become my norm.  Arizona provides one of the better climates for riding and camping, and I can camp there without waking up next to a frozen Gatorade bottle in my tent (which happens way too often to me).

Over the past three years wintering here I had missed one of the more moving Veterans Day memorials, the Anthem Veterans Memorial in Anthem, Arizona.  This fascinating tribute to our country’s Soldiers, Airmen, Marines, Sailors, and Coast Guard (no Space Force yet) is located just two minutes off Interstate 17.

I visited the Veterans Memorial on several occasions while stopping at the Starbucks in Anthem (insert BMW GS joke here) before riding to work in Phoenix or Tucson.  What makes the Anthem Veterans Memorial so special is that on November 11th at 11:11, the sun aligns with the Memorial and shines directly through its five pillars (each pillar represents a branch of the military).  That lights the Great Seal of the United States of America.  The pillar heights correspond with the number of people in each branch (Army, Navy, Air Force, Marines, and Coast Guard).

This year when I rode my GS to Phoenix for routine maintenance, I saw the sign on I-17 for the Memorial. I looked down and it was 11:08.  I had a chance to make it!  Pulling in my clutch and clicking down two gears brought me to this new destination. It was exhilarating. I was literally racing the sun to be where I needed to be at 11:11.

I didn’t make it in time. Only five minutes or so had passed, but the eclipse of the Great Seal was not in totality anymore.  That is how accurate this modern-day sun dial is. The radiant glow from it was still vibrant and even though it wasn’t in full on totality it was still very impressive.

Many people surrounded the Memorial this day; more than a few rode motorcycles here as a Veterans Day Pilgrimage. It is always a great day whenever I chat with Veterans, especially at such an impressive monument on Veterans Day.

Having been so close to seeing this Memorial at its peak has placed it on my 2023 list.  I will join other Veterans riding to the Memorial and the festivities on this special day, and Starbucks will be part of the experience to meet my BMW GS ownership obligations.

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Nobody needs an excuse…

By Joe Berk

…to go for a motorcycle ride.  On the other hand, I’m always finding reasons not to go to the gym.  But I think I found a solution.  Lately, I’ve been riding the Enfield to the gym.   I’m more interested in getting on the motorcycle than I am in going to the gym, but if I ride the Enfield to the gym…well, you get the idea.

My Enfield at the gym.

There are usually two or three other guys who ride to the gym.  Two have Harleys, another guy has a new Guzzi, and there’s even a Yamaha V-Max parked there on occasion.  I’ve spoken with a few of those guys, and like me, they’re not spring chickens.  I think they’re younger than me, but I suspect we’re all qualified for the Silver Sneakers subsidy.  We’re old and we’re all trying to stay young.  Such is the way of the world.  The motorcycles help.

A Guzzi at the gym.
These things are wicked fast.

We’re lucky here in California; we can ride pretty much year round.  I’m at about 1700 feet above sea level, right at the base of the San Gabriel Mountains, and even in the winter months it’s usually in the high 60s or low 70s during the day.  That’s perfect riding weather.  It can get cold at night, but who rides at night?

Well, I guess I do, sometimes.  Always by myself, and if it’s a night ride, it’s always short.  There’s something about a late night ride that’s simultaneously invigorating and relaxing.   The last few nights, it’s been warm enough.   Everything seems more focused on a motorcycle at night.  I hear the engine more clearly, and I see what the Enfield’s headlight wants me to see.  I love the Enfield’s instrumentation, especially at night.  It’s a simple two cup cluster…a tach and a speedometer.  Just like my Triumphs were in the 1960s and 1970s.  I really don’t need anything more.   I rode a new motorcycle for one of the manufacturers a couple of weeks ago and the instrument cluster was way too complex.  It had a brilliant TFT display and computer game graphics, but overall it was distracting and actually took away from the riding experience.  Just a tach and speedo is all I need or want.  Even the tach is kind of silly (I never use a tach to shift).  But it looks, you know, balanced with the matching speedometer.

Cute, but a bit much and a bit distracting.  Way more than I want in an instrument panel.

When I lived in Fort Worth about 50 years ago, I rode a Harley Electra Glide. All that motorcycle had for instrumentation was a speedometer and I never felt an info deficit.  Late night solo rides were my favorite rides.  Fort Worth summers were brutal (well over 100 degrees during the day and very humid).  At night it would drop into the high 90s (still with tons of humidity), but it felt way cooler.  Sometimes I’d stop for a cup of coffee at a 24-hour donut shop on Camp Bowie Boulevard.  Sometimes I’d just ride, heading west toward Weatherford and the great beyond (once you pass Weatherford, there’s pretty much nothing until you reach Midland/Odessa). One time I realized it was time to go home when I saw the sun coming up.

Back to the Enfield:  It’s a much better motorcycle than the Electra Glide ever was and it’s a hoot to ride.  Circling back to my opening line, riding to the gym makes for a good excuse to get on the bike.   Not that anyone ever needed an excuse to go for a motorcycle ride.  But it defeats the excuses I make for myself when I don’t feel like going to the gym.

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The Wayback Machine: Mr. Bray

By Joe Gresh

I didn’t start out working for Mr. Bray. He was a deep red construction foreman who had been baking in the Florida sun all his life. His nose looked like Bob Hope’s except God had pressed his thumb into Mr. Bray’s right nostril and kind of smooshed the thing to the side. Mr. Bray ran projects all around Miami. I was a laborer helping my dad who was an equipment operator. The main job of labor for an equipment operator is to never let the operator get off the machine. Anything that needed to be done in order to keep him in his seat was my responsibility.

Mr. Bray had hired my dad to do the earthwork on a shopping center he was building in North Miami. I was a hard worker because I wanted to make some seed money and go back to California. I was taking growth hormones and steroids at the time. It was all I could do not to tear the footings out of the ground with my bare hands. The meds were prescription: Starting with a 5-foot tall, 98-pound body the pills added 6 inches in height and 27 pounds in acne over 3 years. I had abundance of energy, man. I tore around the construction site like a banshee. Mr. Bray liked a hard worker, drug-induced or not, so he hired me away from my dad just by offering twice the money.

The job was Union, which meant I had to join one. Mr. Bray had connections at the carpenter’s local so he arraigned for my union card. This was a big deal because normally you’d have to wait in line to join and then you’d have to wait in line until the Union sent you out on a job. It might take several years to clear the backlog. I was a First Period Apprentice without missing a paycheck.

When I got that paycheck it was a disappointment. The Union dues sapped a lot, then the federal and state deductions sapped some more. My dad paid cash, you know? I ended up making less money than before. Mr. Bray had pulled strings to get me in but I showed him my pay stub anyway. “That’s not so good, is it?” Mr. Bray said. I told him that it wasn’t but that I would carry on. I mean I had taken the deal; I felt obligated. “Lemme see what I can do about it,” Mr. Bray told me.

The next paycheck I received my rating was Third Period Apprentice (equivalent to 1-1/2 years of experience and passing several written tests) and I was making 8 dollars an hour. This was more money than I had ever made in my lifetime. From then on my loyalties were clear. I was Mr. Bray’s boy. If he needed a body buried on the site I would do it faster and better than anyone else.

Mr. Bray’s crew consisted of a journeyman carpenter, a mid-level carpenter, a laborer and me. In practice, we weren’t tied to a trade. I might have to do a little wiring, relocate pipe or dig a foundation. We formed all the foundations, then the steel workers would tie the steel and we would pour the concrete. These were non-cosmetic jobs. For slabs we hired a crew of finishers.

It didn’t set well with the other guys when Mr. Bray made me the foreman the few times he had to go off site. I only had like two months of construction experience but had absorbed a lot more knowledge just by being around my dad. The journeyman carpenter got sulky taking orders from a third period apprentice.

I have never been a leader of men. My approach to management is to tell everyone to stay the hell out of my way and I’ll do it myself. Surprisingly it worked in this instance because these guys still had remnants of a conscience. We usually got more done when Mr. Bray was gone.

Mr. Bray used my size to motivate the crew. Whenever there was something heavy to move the guys would bitch and want a crane. “Gresh, put that plank on the roof.”  That was all I needed to hear. I was a greyhound shot out of a gate. I’d shoulder the 10-inch wide, 20-footer, run full tilt at the building, spear the end of the board into the ground like a pole vaulter and walk the board vertical onto the wall. While the rest of the crew shook their heads in pity I’d run up the ladder and grab the board, hand-over-handing the thing until I could rest it onto my shoulder. Putting the wood onto the roof took about 45 seconds.

The whole thing had a creepy, Cool-Hand-Luke-when-he-was-acting-broken vibe but I wasn’t acting. It was more an act of unreasonable anger. I wanted to get stuff done. It was all that mattered to me. Mr. Bray would turn to the guys and say “Look at Gresh, he did it easy. You don’t need a crane. Now put the rest of those damn boards up there.” Picturing the guys pole-vaulting the boards up one by one I’ll never understand why they didn’t beat the crap out of me when Mr. Bray turned his back.

Another Union trade on a construction job are the bricklayers. They would put up walls on the foundations we poured.  The floors were left dirt to allow new tenants to choose the interior layout.  After they put up the walls we would tie the steel and form the gaps between sections of wall then pour them full of concrete. The poured columns made a sturdy wall. Unfortunately, being only 8 inches wide, the wall is very fragile until the concrete columns are in.

Mr. Bray was always looking for ways to save the company money and as my dad’s equipment was still on site he would have me do small operator jobs rather than have my dad drive to the site and charge him. We needed a trench for something, I can’t remember what but since we only had a 14-inch bucket it didn’t matter. I was digging inches away from a wall with the backhoe at 45 degrees to allow the bucket to dump the spoil. I could only put one outrigger down because the wall was too close. The whole setup was wobbly and when a return swing ran a bit wide the boom tapped the wall. Not hard, it didn’t even chip the blocks.

It happened so slowly. The wall teetered. I pulled the boom away. I was wishing it to settle down. The wall tottered. More thoughts and prayers were directed at the wall. Slowly the wall went over and smashed into pieces. After checking to see that I didn’t kill anyone I went to Mr. Bray. “Um…we have a problem, Mr. Bray.”

He was marking stuff on his critical path chart. “What is it, Gresh?”

“You better come take a look.”

We walked over to the crushed wall. I explained everything like I just did. Mr. Bray was fighting some inner demons for sure. Finally his face relaxed and he said, “Don’t worry about it, we’ll tell the bricklayers the wind blew it over.” Man, I loved that guy.

From my dad I learned a perfectionism that I have rarely been able to equal. From Mr. Bray I learned that perfection is a great goal but the job needs to get done because another trade is waiting on you. Mr. Bray would let a lot of things slide that my dad would obsess over. Working for Mr. Bray was much less stressful and customers inside the finished shoe store could not tell the difference.

The shopping center was nearly done. I had worked for Mr. Bray 6 months. I had a couple thousand dollars saved and told him I was going back to California. “Why don’t you stay on? I’ll train you in construction management, you’ll be a journeyman carpenter in 5 years and you’ll be running jobs like this.”

Mr. Bray was offering me his most valuable gift. He was offering me everything he had: To pass his lifetime of knowledge on to me. I had to go back to California though and I left feeling like I had let Mr. Bray down in the end. And even today I’m not settled. I’m still trying to finish the damn job.

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From all of us to all of you:  Merry Christmas!

Seiko and Honda: A Match Made In Takamanohara

By Joe Berk

The Honda Cub is the most-produced motor vehicle of any kind in the history of the world.  Not just motorcycles, but motor vehicles.  Honda passed the 100 million Cub mark years ago; today they still offer a Cub in the form of the 125cc Super Cub.  That 100 million figure doesn’t count all the knockoffs by Yamaha and the Chinese marques.  It’s a staggering number for a staggering vehicular concept.  So, if you’re a watch company and you want to produce a watch honoring a motorcycle…well, you know where this is going.

Seiko is the company, and this year they introduced a limited edition of the Honda Super Cub watch.  These watches have been nearly impossible to get, so I was astounded when on Christmas photog duty at the mall I wandered into a watch store and what do you know, there it was.  It was the only Seiko Super Cub watch I’ve seen and I knew I had to have it.   It’s self-winding and to watch weirdos like me it doesn’t get any better than a mechanical self-winding watch.  The ticket in was $400, I asked if there was any room in the price, the store manager said no, and I pulled the trigger anyway.  I bought it for list price and that was still a good deal.

Seiko is offering a limited run of the Super Cub watch in two colors.  I’ve not seen the black one in person, but that’s okay.  I like the green and white one better.

The Seiko Honda Super Cub watch has several cool details, including a NATO band, a rear cover intended to evoke a tail light, and a stem that looks like a Cub fuel gage.

Two of your blog boys (that would be Gresh and yours truly) both owned Honda Cubs back in the day (Huber didn’t, but he has an excuse…he wasn’t born yet).  I guess that made Gresh and I two of the nicest people you’d ever meet.

To my great surprise, I found a couple of photos of my Honda Cub buried in an old photo album.  The image quality is not up to my current standards, but hey, I took these photos with a Minolta C110 camera in the 1960s.  With those little 110 film cassettes, these 60-year-old pics ain’t half bad.

I bought the Cub for $50 (a dollar per cubic centimeter) from Zeb Moser (a buddy in New Jersey; RIP, Zeb), rode around on it a little bit, and then sold it for $70 thinking I’d done well.  There’s no need to say it, but I will anyway: I wish I still had my Cub.

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The Wayback Machine: What do you have in your project bank?

By Joe Gresh

There are more ways to measure wealth than money. Sure, traditionalists rely on a strict net worth approach, adding up the figures on electronic statements in a system where the winner is whoever has the highest number. You can count all sorts of things, though. You can count friends, you can count grandchildren, you can count experiences: These are forms of wealth that won’t show up on that balance email from the bank.

When it comes to future projects I am a very wealthy man. I’ve got them lined up out the door and around the corner. And my account keeps growing; with compound interest my Project Bank doubles every seven years. Most of these projects will never see the light of day but they remain secure in my thoughts, if not in my actions.

On of my largest assets is the 4-speed Suburban project. When I bought the ’90 ‘Burb it came with a malfunctioning automatic transmission. I hate automatics and malfunctioning ones even more so. The 700R4 works in Drive and Reverse but not in 1-2-3. The truck runs fine and it will tote a 3000-pound load without complaint but that boring automatic has got to go. It’s a rare Suburban that came with a 4-speed from the factory and even rarer to see a ½-ton version. I’ve only seen one 4-speed ‘Burb and it was ¾-on. This project keeps earning interest and I’ve been training a weather eye on Internet sale sites for a cheap, manual transmission, 4X4 GM truck to steal the guts from. I found a late model, 4X4-IFS 1/2-ton truck with a 5-speed and a nice FI engine that ran well but the transfer case and transmission housing were broken and besides everything was on the wrong side for the old straight axle suburban.

The chalky blue, 1974 MG GT came with Tinfiny Ranch and was listed as an out building on the deed. This car was on the chopping block until I started reading about MG’s with Buick 215 cubic-inch aluminum engine swaps. I really have to stay off the internet. The Buick engine triples the horsepower, doesn’t weigh much more than the iron 4-banger it replaces and sounds cool as hell revved up to 6000 RPM. This is one asset I kind of wish was not in my Project Bank as I’ve never been that interested in cars. Still, it’s there waiting on me.

Tinfiny Ranch itself is a huge source of endless work, but beyond the physical plant The Ranch continues to deposit surprises into my Project Bank. This Merry Tiller project revealed itself as I was hauling away two, multi-panel garage doors. The doors sections were stacked with spacers in the popular rat-paradise fashion and I gave chase to a couple fat rats but they got away from me in the thick brush down by the ravine. The Merry Tiller looks like it will come in handy for the raised-bed vegetable garden (yet another deposit in The Project Bank) I’m planning for the back yard. The engine on the tiller is not stuck and being a Briggs & Stratton I’m sure it will run so I’m leaving it in The Bank for safe keeping.

I will never be bored or lonely. My Project Bank is overflowing with cool things that need time and attention. After I level the back yard I’m going to build a shear wall for the shed, then I need to get back on the Zed. After that I’d like to pop a 6-cylinder + AX15 transmission into Brumby the Jeep. The Suburban needs new paint; I’m going to change it from black to white so it will be cooler inside. Better yet I’ll fix the air-conditioner, it’s all there except for the compressor. I really need a second rain barrel, too, as I’m leaving water on the table with only 2500 gallons of storage.

The projects pile one atop the other and the magnitude of the undertaking gives me a great sense of importance. When I die I want to be buried like a Viking in his ship except my grave will be filled with all the unfinished projects that kept me company while I was alive. You really can take it with you, mainly because no one else wants your junk.

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Fighting Mud With Mud

By Joe Gresh 

ExhaustNotes readers may think I pour a lot of concrete but that’s not really true. I do pour concrete frequently but only a little at a time. My limiting factor is how much total work I can get done in one day. That number dwindles as I grow older. I pour 30 to 40 60-pound bags of 4000 psi concrete on average. Any more and I start to have problems keeping up the finish work and any less is not worth getting the tools dirty. Cleanup takes a lot of time and if you don’t wash everything each time your tools become encrusted with dried concrete. It’s never fun to work with heavy, dirty tools.

Take my latest project, the driveway in front of the little shack we call The Carriage House.  In an attempt to class up the place I am removing the existing driveway, which consisted of remnants of old rugs thrown over dirt. We acquired the rugs from a Physical Therapy training center. The PT rugs were in great condition and very sturdily constructed. Best of all they were free. The rugs served us well for many years by adding a semi-pervious layer between our feet and the dirt below. Engineered earth is the technical term, I think, for fabric-supported fill.

Of course, old rugs aren’t the most perfect solution for driveways or everyone would be using them. You’d see them in Beverly Hills or New York City, not just in poverty stricken rural areas. After several years the rugs become impregnated with dirt and are impossible to vacuum, much less shampoo. Being semi-pervious you still get mud underneath the rug although you don’t sink in as far as you would if going bare earth.

For this driveway I’m using a decorative finishing method called No Need To Square.  No Need To Square means just that: the concrete is formed and finished in a random pattern giving the illusion of being made from many individual pavers. No Need To Square frees the concrete from The Man’s rigid, conformist hierarchy. It allows the finisher to follow the jagged contours found in the crystalline structure of cast Iron like you see in those electron-microscope photographs. The only constant is the slope that steers water runoff towards the drainage ditch running alongside The Carriage House.

Just as a cubist must master fine arts before experimenting with abstract art, the concrete finisher must master the square before leaving it far behind. Unfortunately, I am neither an artist nor a concrete finisher so things can go pear shaped quickly if you don’t mind your grades.

I’ve purchased a new tool for this driveway project: a belt-mounted tie wire spool. Tie wire is used to tie rebar together so that it doesn’t shift position when the concrete pours into the form or clumsy finishers kick it around when striking off. I owned a spool many years ago when I was a construction worker. My old one was more open, like a cage. You could see the wire in the spool, unlike this new one. I don’t know what happened to that old spool.

You’d think as often as I do little concrete pours I would have bought a wire spool sooner and I would have except for the price. The things are like $47 at Home Depot for an off-brand spool. I found a Klein brand spool on Amazon for only a dollar more than the clone version at HD. I’ve seen cheaper, plastic versions and they probably work fine.

There are basically two types of ties for re-bar: the saddle for tying re-bars that cross at right angles and the plain old loop for tying straight pieces together. I like to make up a bunch of each type before starting to tie. Real iron workers make up saddles and loops as they go so because it’s faster and they don’t have to carry a bunch of little, pre-made bits.  I’m never in a hurry. Sitting in a chair with New Mexico’s warm, winter sun shining down on me gives the pre-tying process a sort of Zen-like quality. Sometimes I fall into a trance and end up making 600 of the things.

If you’ve tied much wire you know how easily an unspooled roll of wire can unwind and get tangled up. Pulling wire from the center results in a pig’s tail that you need to straighten out before using. I always double up my wires, as a single strand is easy to break when twisting the rebar tight. The doubling method uses twice as much wire but it makes for a secure grid of rebar. It’s also easy to get stabbed with tie wire and the spool allows you to wind it back inside for the safety of everyone involved on the project.

I’m going to tackle the driveway in two parts: the southern and northern wings. I’ll do the southern (higher) side first. That will give CT somewhere to park while I work on the northern (lower) section. I expect to be working on the southern section for a month or so before the weather gets too cold and I take a break and go back to tying up loose ends on motorcycles.

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