Mark's Off Road Warehouse Fire Thread (14 Viewers)

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Our memorial weekend gathering was interesting, to say the least. It marked the first time that the core of the tribe had gathered without restrictions since 2020. As I predicted to my friend Wayne in April of 2020, the pandemic was the proverbial 800lb gorilla in the room, the subtext of every conversation.

Part of what made it interesting to me was how many people were counting on ME being there, the most vocal opponent of the over-reaction, the overreach, and a lifelong anti-vaxer. Having me be part of the mix again signaled for everyone a return to ‘normal’, as if we ever were normal! I bit my cheek on several occasions, as several of our group are former Amgen biotechs, wedded to that public embarrassment commonly referred to as ‘science.’

I took a major walkabout that encompassed two canyons and an intermediate plateau totaling 15.5 miles, for which I will likely lose another toenail (I’ve only just now devised a homemade splint to prevent this) and my spirits were high. I came away from the weekend feeling as Nietzsche put it: that which does not kill us makes us stronger. I am now apparently the musical ringleader of this tribe.

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As a sidebar (at this point) I find it interesting that more and more things have come up on my radar recently supporting my decision to unplug the TV twenty years ago. For instance, I just discovered that Abraham Maslow considered it an essential element on the road to self-realization.

And the makers of the newest conspiracy ‘documentary’ on The Great Reset consider it a vital defense against the barrage of propaganda coming out of the world’s capitals.

I would love to have a discussion about such weighty matters; unfortunately, those days on MUD are gone.

 

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Time for another update. We have been on three more glamping trips (parking our van near friends’ homes) and enjoying getting away from the gloom/ heat of typical early summers in LA. I’ve started training again for another stab at the PCT even though it’s late in the season. Took a peek at an 11 mile section near Big Bear over the holiday weekend and started making plans to walk around 70 miles of the high country at the end of the month.

Made an early morning drive to the Mt. Wilson area today and toted a 22# pack around for 18 miles (6&1/2 hours) before heading back to the shop. Got a good pic of the gloom from Newcomb Saddle

 

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Was pretty toasted by the time I got back to the rig. The last 5 miles accounted for 1600’ of the gain. The best part for me was discovering that I managed to keep up with my fluid intake, only losing one pound of water weight on an 18 mile hike. That improves my odds for doing the PCT.

So does having a trail angel.

 

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I had a nice Zoom chat with my sisters yesterday, commemorating our mother's passing 3 years ago. They both commented on how often she volunteered to help other people, with one sister sharing an anecdote of her own. I have told anyone who would listen ever since I got involved in land use issues that I know I owe my volunteer spirit to her. But I doubt if I ever shared with you a story she told me about HER father.

As I recall it, Isaac (his Anglicized name was Harry) was struck by polio as an adult, something that was more frequent in the early 20th century. He was no longer able to walk, but could get around by bicycle at first, then eventually only by wheelchair.

Anyhow, after one of the bombings of London, a neighbor's house was turned into a pile of rubble. Isaac showed up, found several bystanders milling around, and asked if anyone knew whether all the occupants had gotten out. No one did.

With that, he crawled out of the wheelchair and onto the pile of rubble and started tossing bricks off the pile! Eventually the other neighbors were basically shamed into taking up the task by a man who, while he could not do much, knew he could still do SOMETHING.

Witnessing that was one of the things that instilled the volunteer spirit in my mother.

Not everyone can file successful legal challenges against the government like I do. But we can all do something. Long after the memory of the faces in the old photographs has left me, I can and will remember her volunteer spirit, part of what made her a great mother to me, and a great grandmother to my children.

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PCT 2023
Some of you may have noticed that I blocked out a week of vacation time recently. The gals I had planned to hike a portion of the Pct with two years ago (but missed out on because of my leg injury) set their sights on a section high in the San Bernardino Mountains near big Bear that looked to have reasonable temps for this time of year. So I spent a few weeks training with heavier pack weights and set my sights on joining them. The fact that a mutual friend who lives in the area also happens to be a 20 year veteran pct trail angel didn’t hurt our plans either.

The original plan was for the women to start a day earlier, on the Palm Springs side of Onyx Summit and spend two days making their way to Hwy 18 on the north side of Big Bear. I would start a day later at the summit, taking most of my pack weight and long legs mostly downhill for a quick 15 mile day hike, catching them at the Hwy.

Well that WAS the plan.

When I got to the trail angel’s house I discovered that the women had abandoned the ascent, and had left with the intention of taking two days to do the same 15 miles. The odds of my catching were substantially diminished. But more importantly, the long overdue monsoon season had finally blown in, turning the weather into a wild card.

Sure enough we were treated to a fantastic electrical storm Sunday night, and I awoke Monday morning to overcast skies and a damp sleeping bag, having slept in the back of my truck. I got dropped off at the summit at 6:40 AM and started the long meandering descent towards Erwin Lake. Even with two breaks and a nominal ascent of 400’, I made it to Burns Canyon, 11 miles from the start in 3.5 hours. At this point I was not at all discouraged by the fact that it had started raining a half hour earlier, or the fact that neither my gear or I were in anyway waterproof!

I crossed Burns Canyon at a well marked spot, saw two more trail markers, and trudged off, believing that I only had four miles left to reach the highway, where our trail angel had agreed to meet us. Alas, it was not to be.

I had a very accurate, semi-waterproof map indicating that a turn to the west would occur within half a mile of crossing Burns Canyon. That turn never materialized. I kept hiking along, still undeterred by the rain, until I summited Nelson Ridge (didn’t know it for what it was at the time). I had lost confidence in the trail at that point (in hindsight i realize it was a bridal trail) and hiked back to Burns Canyon, determined to double check my bearings. Mind you at this point both me and my pack were soaking wet, adding several pounds of weight to the adventure.

Having reconfirmed my bearings and the initial trail markers, I took the ridge a second time, seeing Baldwin Lake to my left (west) but no sign of a trail going in that direction. I could also see the high desert community of Lucerne Valley to the north in the distance, which reconfirmed my bearings. However, when I pulled out my cellphone and opened the app with the compass, to my great dismay I discovered that the compass said I was heading south! I had not for a moment considered the possibility that the technology might fail me!

And to make matters worse, when I checked the lat long coordinates against my map, they indicated that I was still back at Burns Canyon!!!

I had a choice to make. I decided to press on, hoping for that great left turn to magically appear in the rain. It never did.

I descended the ridge, all the time believing that I was heading NE (I was) until I came to a second, very well graded dirt road (Burns being the first) heading NW/SE. It only took me a few minutes on this road to conclude that while it would eventually take me to the highway, the odds were that it would be several miles beyond the pickup point and, most importantly, beyond cell service. And my mood was changing.

So I hiked up the ridge a third time and headed back to Burns Canyon, which I knew would at least lead me over to the ‘right’ side of Bear Valley. And cell service.

Interestingly, once I reached Burns Canyon, the compass started working again This is when I discovered a new and thoroughly disconcerting fact. My fingers were SO soaking wet that the keypad on the phone was non-responsive. I literally jabbed at alpha-numeric jibberish and got nothing.

So I just packed my way up Burns Canyon, knowing it would at least get me closer to town than my three previous climbs.

After summiting Burns and seeing the welcome sight of Baldwin Lake my phone rang! My friends were checking up on me! I told them I had lost the trail and was hiking out Burns Canyon. After a total of 20 miles, mostly packing in the rain, I got a ride, just under 7 hours after starting the adventure.

I spent the rest of the day drying all my gear out. By 8AM the next day, we were back on the trail. Though my muscles were a little sore, I was in high spirits just knowing that I could do what I had just done and still have the stamina to start again. TBC

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[65swb45]

Oops. Forgot to finish!

So our plan for Day 2 was to end up at a hiker's campground in Holcomb Creek, at a point where the forest service road crosses the PCT...and where our trail angel could meet (and party!) with us. The plan worked, mostly. Unfortunately, the long and late rainy season contributed to both a large increase in the growth of the underbrush, and a dramatic reduction in the number of people using the PCT this year. Both the gals elected to wear shorts, as you can see in the previous pic, and got pretty cut up during the course of the day.

Stepping through a clump of brush about half a mile from our destination, one of the gals turned her ankle and fell. We took our time administering first aid (mostly sportstape from my volleyball days), got her on her feet, and agreed that because we were so close to camp, we would leave her backpack, get her to camp (where hopefully our trail angel would be...with a vehicle!) and come back for the pack.

She literally took six steps from where we got her on her feet and screamed!

We turned just in time to see her as she appeared to be falling backwards, as we both assumed she was. We grabbed her even as she was pointing: there was a HUGE snake in the trail not five feet in front of her!

The snake was dark grey in color, 2" thick and in excess of 5' long. It moved into the brush alongside a dark grey log before we could snap a good pic of it. I calmly told them that since the snake was moving steadily in one direction, it was unlikely to turn back, and we proceeded without further excitement.

I spent the entire remaining half mile to camp alternating between telling her jokes and pestering her to slow down so she wouldn't aggravate her injury. Side note: she's only two weeks younger than me, and just as stubbornly Taurus, refusing to acknowledge an injury any more than absolutely necessary.

We got to the camp at exactly the same time as our trail angel. We washed up, set up camp and commenced partying, our friend having brought frosty adult beverages sufficient to the task. She also brought a guitar, so I ended up serenading them all until it was time to go to bed.

The forecast had not called for any more rain, and I hadn't really paid attention to the temperature part of the forecast, considering it was August. I didn't put the rainfly on my tent.

And it rained.

And the overnight temp dropped to 48. And I was in a bag liner, with no sleeping bag, because I was SO sure it was going to be warm. I had to shiver myself warm four times in the night, taking catnaps in between...in a damp fleece liner. Everyone else slept fine.

The next morning we decided on a new game plan: our injured comrade would return to Big Bear with our trail angel, where she would pick up her own vehicle and drive out to meet us at another road crossing 11 miles beyond. THAT hike was truly uneventful, other than the fact that mutual friends intercepted her and followed her to our rendezvous point. Well, THEY wanted to party, so I bet you can guess what happened next!

All in all, it had to be the most unusual backpacking trip I've ever been on!

 

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Meanwhile, back in Tennessee, the grandchildren seem well-adjusted.

 

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I'm just realizing that I've left out the long, dull process of repairing the office from last winter's record rainfall. The south-facing front wall that I had sandblasted at the beginning of this adventure was restuccoed by my son during the time he moved back in with us six years ago. I painted it afterwords, and it went through the next five winters without issue. Of course last winter took a toll on a lot of things, and I came to work one Monday to find huge paint blisters on the inside of that wall.

I peeled and tossed all the paint and have looked at the stained wall ever since, knowing that there was no point in pursuing repairs until I was sure the outside was properly sealed.

Other than the sandblasting, the biggest change was that I had breached the wall to install an air conditioner before I moved into the office, and much of the blistered paint was in that specific area. So I resolved to breach the wall a second time and add a fully integrated awning over the air conditioner. Owig to the fact that I had acquiesced to the tenant's request to have insulation blown into the attic, I also found that when I went to consider running a new circuit in the building, I couldn't find anything up there anymore. Further, the only attic access was on the other end of the building. So I decided that as long as I was going to breach the wall again, I would add an exterior access portal as well.

Owing to my very relaxed, mostly retired schedule, these simple additions took a couple of months. I am just now getting to the point of sealing the wall with three new coats of paint.

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My wife and I have been on a few more camping adventures with our van, visiting with our desert friends in different locals. Last weekend found us in the outskirts of Landers, which isn't really even a town to begin with, at a full-blown Halloween party.

One of my friends asked to tag along on one of my typical cross-country strolls and, while we were out, proceeded to tell me that he and his fiance had set a wedding date, and he wondered if I would consider becoming ordained as a minster so that I could marry them!

He said everyone in the tribe agreed that I have a way with words.

I agreed to do it. And it is going to be a very interesting thing because, as I often find myself writing essays about the things that are important to me, I will no doubt write one about my thoughts on relationships and marriage to deliver at the ceremony.

 

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Well, another month has gone by, and a very enjoyable Thanksgiving weekend with our son and his girlfriend. I was all set to write about that. Then I got sucker punched today that my old cruiser friend Morgan, who I occasionally referred to as froggy (because he’s French) is not likely to make it to the end of the week. End stage cancer. 50 years old, with a year and a half old baby.

 

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As if that wasn’t bad enough, my younger sister texted me last Thursday that her husband is in Stage 4.

 

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So, I wasn’t planning on publishing this yet, but circumstances have made me reconsider a few things, including the future of Marks Off Road. So without further ado, here’s my thoughts on relationships, prepared for delivery at the wedding next year.
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I've had a full lifetime of observing, listening to and contemplating relationships, what makes them tick, what doesn't. Those observations and reflections have served to help guide me through the course of my 44 year relationship with my own soulmate. When asked to perform the ceremony of marrying two friends, I set out to write this compilation, even though the wedding is seven months away, as it seems like an appropriate time in life to pen those observations and share them anyways.

The first thing that comes to my mind when I think about two people getting married in middle age is of the cartoon where the two porcupines are trying to kiss without getting prickled. Both the prospective husbands and wives-to -be have lived long enough to have suffered relationship trauma that makes them cautiously optimistic, hopeful but wary. They still seek the warmth of the fire, but are wary of how close they get, because they've been burned before.

I remember having my first thoughts about relationships when I was 12. We were visiting another family, and while I was visiting with their son, our parents were in the living room listening to music. All of sudden the music got much louder, and I came out to investigate. I found my father dancing with the other mom, while my mother and the other dad were standing off to the side.

Beyond wondering why my father would be dancing with anyone other than my mother, I considered for the first time that my mother and the other guy were the quieter two of the foursome, while my father and the other woman were the two more boisterous of the foursome. And I had my first inkling of a long -since-confirmed theory that in most relationships one of the couple would be more dominant than the other in social settings. The couple we are here to celebrate today definitely fits that theory.

My second observation was two years later, at age 14 when my mom's recently divorced older sister moved to town. I was a very typical smart-mouthed adolescent, and I was quickly struck by how equally blunt she also was in speaking her mind. That attraction lasted about four months. Then one day she said something and a little lightbulb went off in my head. I realized that her bluntness betrayed a lack of discretion. And more importantly, that lack of discretion had most likely played a part in the breakup of her marriage. So I put discretion on my checklist.

By the time I met Tina at 18, I had reached one more conclusion about relationships despite the fact that I had been in a total of zero! I wanted to be with someone that I could have fun with (as opposed to just being responsible all the time), but I didn't want to feel vulnerable to them. I had a hunch that it would be better to pair off with someone who came from a family where no one had been divorced, because in my mind, if they had experience in their life of someone who 'walked', it might make it easier for them to consider. After taking all of three weeks to convince myself that everything matched my zero-real-world-experience checklist, I proposed.

Over the course of the ensuing 44 years when I was asked about the ’secret’ of a good marriage, my pat answer was that it only takes two things: commitment and compromise. Obviously the WHOLE truth isn’t that simple. But those were and are two of the pillars in my opinion.

Fast forward 13 years to 1996, and a movie came out called Phenomenon with John Travolta and Robert Duvall. At some point in the movie Travolta’s character asked Duvall’s character for relationship advice, and Duvall quipped: If you make her laugh, you’ve got a life. Lightbulb moment. How did I forget to mention that?

That’s third pillar important stuff right there, and it had been there all along. But somehow I had glossed over it. It had been there on Day One, under fun on my original checklist. My own parents had been a shining example of not much fun, too much responsibility, and I think that one of the reasons they questioned my very-early choice to propose to Tina was their concern that it might have been the ‘all fun’ choice.

Well as I stand here today I can say that in the two years that I have known Stevie and Jaime I think that they have one of the best balances of fun and responsibility in any relationship outside of my own. Stevie can make us all laugh when he wants to. But the way he lights up Jaime is nothing short of beautiful. Nobody who knows them has any doubt that these two know how to have fun.

Just as importantly, Stevie won me over the first time I met him as someone who took work seriously, understood responsibility, and had the strength to roll with the punches. And I have to believe that Jaime’s own sense of responsibility, raised in the shadow of her mom’s own discipline as a single parent, helps to tone down some of Stevie’s impulsiveness…at least a little!

In the course of helping another friend sort through his relationship issues back in 2005, I found myself writing for the first time not just a reflection on what I had learned about relationships as I had seen them, but what I considered to be the goal of the best relationships. I called that essay complete man and complete woman. Since meeting and embracing Wendy and Candy as family, I have seen that the man/woman distinction is really irrelevant.

What I think is the essence of completeness in a relationship is to feel safe enough to let ALL three essential parts of you be comfortable: the parent, the lover and the child. There are times when Tina holds me that it is the embrace of a parent, someone who needs to feel needed, be a source of comfort and an ally against the rest of the world. And there are times she holds me like a teddy bear, needing MY strength and reassurance. And then there are the times of passion, overwhelmed at having this other person in your life who loves you for who you are. She is all of those things to me, And I am all of these things for her. I know the value of this because I saw the contrast in my own parents marriage.

That level of security doesn’t come easy, and it doesn’t come fast. But I think that anyone and everyone who takes the time to look inside themselves long enough and deep enough will eventually find that THAT is what they really want.

One of Tina’s friends summed it up nicely: everyone is looking for a soft place to land.

To all: be your partner’s soft place to land.
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[65swb45]

A new year. December was filled with a lot of opportunities for circumspection. The highlight of the month was having a visit from what could be our future in-laws. Our son’s girlfriend’s family all flew here from the Philippines for a vacation. Very nice, down to earth people. Dad is a world-traveled engineer whose specialty is designing oversized windows and frames for commercial buildings. Has literally spent decades in the richer countries of the Middle East.

I have spent most of the month prepping and painting the outside of my shop, something that has not been done since before I moved in 35 years ago (I spent all my time working on the insides to insure approval of my CUP from the city) So far, it has been a very zen experience, spending 1-2 hours a day on the project, during which time I think back on my childhood, my pre- Mark’s Off Road years, and where my friends are at in their lives. I don’t hear the phone ring at all, and that doesn’t bother me. And it’s interesting to me that it doesn’t bother me.

It’s not that I think I’m evolving beyond Mark’s Off Road. But I’m getting perspective on who I am beyond the persona that built the ‘empire of dirt’ (see Nine Inch Nails). I have seen so many people around me, especially in the Landcruiser world, whose identity is completely tied to their business. And to an extent, I know that I used to be too. But I am discovering that I am very much at peace with where I am at right now, while business seems to be slowing to a halt. I don’t know what you folks are doing for parts, but it isn’t calling me. I literally had 10 sales for the month. Que Sera Sera.

 

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Kaleidoscopes

One of my favorite sayings is that we are all broken, beautifully broken, like the bits of broken glass in a kaleidoscope. All of the experiences we have had that 'broke' us, and the time we spent, and the way in which we put ourselves back together determine the shape of the fragments and their colors.

Think of the emotive pallet of colors. Red for determination and anger, yellow for happiness and fear, green for abundance and envy, blue for peace and sorrow, purple for majesty and rage, black for eternity and death, white for purity and emptiness. On and on. The best of us have experienced all the colors, and all the experiences that they represent inside us.

I have no interest in being with transparent people, see-through, one-dimensional people. My friends have all 'fallen' in one way or another. And they have all picked themselves back up. And they have all carried on, treating their wounds as they go, taping the shards of glass back together as best they can. But when the light shines just right, and usually it is from within, you can begin to see their colors.

If you doubt whether you are just broken, or beautifully broken, here is the test. To have been hurt many times and still have the capacity to love, that is the essence of being beautifully broken.

 

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I was interviewed yesterday by Dan Simpson from the FJ40 forum for a podcast which he has now posted. I know nothing of podcasts, but I can see that my iPad will open the link by default in Spotify. I shared some interesting stories about my life, some of which have already been posted to the forum, but some of which you may not have heard. Here’s a link to his thread:

Classic Land Cruisers Podcast

So I am going to be working on @65swb45 to be a guest. But I have figured out what I am going to do for the giveaway. And you will have some time to think about it while I get the prize sorted out. What it is going to be is tell me what your favorite trail snack or trail meal is and tell me on...

forum.ih8mud.com

If you would like to hear more episodes, you should probably register your interest on his thread.

 

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In the meantime, I have been very busy juggling three different construction projects simultaneously. In yet another amazing piece of karma, the time and energy that remain for running Mark’s Off Road now seems to be perfectly matched to the amount of business that I am getting.

The shop painting continues.

 

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So, I realized once I started poking around the forum to find some stories to share with Dan @mtn biker in advance of the first podcast, that my stories are so spread out that they are not necessarily easy for me to find…and I know what I’m looking for! That surely means that it’s even less likely that you’ve seen them all.

Nonetheless, it still took me a whole week to put two and two together and conclude that it’s high time for me to make a single post with links to the stories that I can remember having posted. And, what do you know! Once I started working on a list, I discovered that I never posted Part 2 of the Rite Of Passage story, even though I wrote it out a year ago!

My list (in progress):

Malcolm, Part 1: https://forum.ih8mud.com/threads/ideologies.1225369/
Malcolm, Part 2: https://forum.ih8mud.com/threads/ideologies.1225369/#post-13412219
Malcolm, Part 3: Mark's Off Road Warehouse Fire Thread - https://forum.ih8mud.com/threads/marks-off-road-warehouse-fire-thread.940437/page-40#post-13988292
Rite Of Passage, Part 1: Mark's Off Road Warehouse Fire Thread - https://forum.ih8mud.com/threads/marks-off-road-warehouse-fire-thread.940437/page-44#post-14725137
Rite Of Passage, Part 2: Mark's Off Road Warehouse Fire Thread - https://forum.ih8mud.com/threads/marks-off-road-warehouse-fire-thread.940437/page-45#post-15441180
Tabla Rasa: https://forum.ih8mud.com/threads/tabla-rasa-the-clean-slate.1222365/#post-13307502
Kobayashi Maru: Mark's Off Road Warehouse Fire Thread - https://forum.ih8mud.com/threads/marks-off-road-warehouse-fire-thread.940437/page-40#post-13988292
Markguyver, Part 1: https://forum.ih8mud.com/threads/tales-from-the-east-mojave-part-3-the-legend-of-markguyver.1231168/
Alice’s Restaurant: https://forum.ih8mud.com/threads/my-alices-restaurant-story-getting-my-business-license.1206836/
Christine: https://forum.ih8mud.com/threads/christine.1313163/
Markguyver, Part 2: https://forum.ih8mud.com/threads/the-legend-of-markguyver-part-2.1239825/
A Twist Of Fate: https://forum.ih8mud.com/threads/a-twist-of-fate.1224212/#post-13343999
Hudson’s, Part 2: https://forum.ih8mud.com/threads/a-twist-of-fate.1224212/#post-13343999
How Much Is Enough? (2005): https://forum.ih8mud.com/threads/simplifying-your-life.60672/page-3#post-693986
Whose Compromise Is It Anyways? (Toyota Trails, 2005): http://www.marksoffroad.net/CollectedStories.html#2
For Those Who Play Sports (2006): https://forum.ih8mud.com/threads/for-those-of-you-that-play-sports.92735/#post-13039005
There Is A Special Place (2006): https://forum.ih8mud.com/threads/there-is-a-special-place.117281/
Arriving In Olancha (2009): Arriving in Olancha - https://forum.ih8mud.com/threads/arriving-in-olancha.342253/
What Frequency Are You On?: (2010, pg 10): https://corva.org/Resources/Documents/ORIA 2010-11.pdf
The Gift In The Rocks (2010): https://www.cassp.org/attachments/The_Gift_in_the_Rocks.pdf
Hats (2016): https://forum.ih8mud.com/threads/hats-the-philisophical-kind.956103/
The Quest for ‘Normal’ (2017): https://forum.ih8mud.com/threads/the-elephant-man-the-quest-for-normal.1025768/
Talking Frogs (12/22): https://forum.ih8mud.com/threads/talking-frogs.1300174/
Cowboy Russ (12/22): https://forum.ih8mud.com/threads/the-legend-of-cowboy-russ.1301756/#post-14766417
A Man amongst men (Marlin, 03/23): Mark's Off Road Warehouse Fire Thread - https://forum.ih8mud.com/threads/marks-off-road-warehouse-fire-thread.940437/page-44#post-14875418
Eccentrics: (12/23): https://forum.ih8mud.com/threads/eccentrics.1328181/
Thoughts on Marriage (12/23)): Mark's Off Road Warehouse Fire Thread - https://forum.ih8mud.com/threads/marks-off-road-warehouse-fire-thread.940437/page-45#post-15259768

If you enjoy these stories, please acknowledge that with a bump or a like, as appropriate.

 

[65swb45]

Rite of Passage Part 2-The Crucible

It wasn’t long after I demonstrated that I could produce a piece of jewelry to my father that my grandfather decided it was HIS turn to school me in old-school jewelry-making.

He had my father melt a lump of gold and pour it into a long, shallowly grooved metal crucible that had a coating of motor oil on it. When he poured the gold in, of course it made a lot of smoke and smelled terrible and we had to open the windows. The crucible produced a 5” long, 1/4” square piece of stock, which they quenched in water so we could work with it.

Then we went over to the milling machine to start the reduction process. The two rollers in the mill each had a series of notches across them, in incrementally smaller sizes , an adjuster above them by which you could bring the rollers closer together, and a cranking arm to turn the rollers.

My grandfather had me turn the crank while he ran the stock through the rollers. I couldn’t see any difference at first. In fact, I couldn’t even turn the crank at first: the wheels were too close together for the stock to have any chance of passing through. Gradually the stock got longer and thinner from the compression. By the time we were finished with the mill, the stock was now about a 1/16” square and about 30” long. Most confusing to me was the fact that it was still square. So I asked my my grandfather; he gave me a BIG smile that I could not interpret.

He got a steel plate out of a drawer and clamped it into the vice of a workbench that was in turn very well-anchored to the wall. I had seen this plate before, but didn’t understand what it was for. It was about 10” long, 2” tall, 1/4” thick and most importantly had about 60 holes in it, tapering down from 1/4” to less than 1/32”. Then it was time: he took a step back, handed the stock to my father, and watched as my father repeated for me what he had been taught as a child.

Looking back on this now, I am in awe of the timelessness of this tradition, knowing that it has followed humanity around the world, throughout its ages.

My father filed the end of the stock to a point until he could pass 1” of it through a hole that stopped the rest, grabbed the point with a pair of pliers, and pulled the rest of the stock through the hole. It made a horrible screeching sound. And then the square stock was round. Little bits of gold laid on the jaw of the vice. But it was done.

Now it was my turn. I put the wire in the next hole and pulled. Nothing happened. Wouldn’t budge. I told my dad maybe it needed a finer point. I don’t remember if he filed it or I did; it made no difference. This was a setup. I was sure of it. Even though I had just watched my dad do it. Both my dad and grandfather told me that I just had to pull harder.

Eventually I had one foot on the workbench for leverage, and gave it the best tug I could without losing my grip on the point (I must have had some good hand strength) and the wire finally moved an inch. More or less in unison my father and grandfather both smiled and walked away, and told me to keep pulling. It was then that I understood why the workbench was so heavily secured to the wall.

Once I had drawn what was now a wire down to the size they considered appropriate, my grandfather handed me a large nail and told me to wrap the wire around the nail as tight as I could and cover the nail. I did this. Then he removed the nail from the spiral, sat me down at the workbench and told me to cut down one side of the spiral with the jeweler’s saw. The loops fell into the tray of the workbench, and soon enough I had a decent sized pile. Then he took a couple of pairs of pliers, opened the links, and closed them again around each other the lightbulb went off: I was going to make a gold chain!

I was hella proud! I could do this. The reality was, it didn’t take long to be humbled again. They had me make links out of the entire wire, which was now over 8’ long. I was soon to see why.

One of them (I don’t remember which) ran a small ingot of gold through the flat rollers until it was a sheet, paper thin. Then they literally took a pair of scissors and started cutting it into 1/16” wide strips, still attached at one end, like the tynes of a comb. Then over a small piece of asbestos, they crosscut the sheet, a dozen or so tiny squares of gold now sitting on the asbestos.

Then my father had to demonstrate, his father watching over him, how to solder the links closed. A miniature vice (not more than 4” with a 1” jaw) sat on top of the workbench, also on the small piece of asbestos. The vice was used to hold the link to be soldered.

There was a small glass bottle with a lead acid brush they told me was called glycerin. He put a small dab of glycerin on the link to be soldered, then lit the oxy-acetylene torch, turned the flame down to a pencil tip, waved it over one of the tiny metal clippings, which promptly rolled up in a ball.

He touched the ball with the tip of an ice pick, which dutifully transferred itself to the pick, then moved it over the waiting link, touched it again in proximity of the link with the torch and plop, the little ball dropped onto the link, sealing it closed.

Well, for as good as my hands and eyes were, they weren’t THAT good. It took way more work than necessary for me to get those little snips of metal onto the ice pick. And I destroyed 3/4 of the links before I could get those little blobs to transfer. I went through the entire 8 feet of wire I had painstakingly produced without even a foot of chain to show for it. Adding insult to injury, my grandfather insisted that I had to go through the whole routine again.

And when I was finally done…he had me start another one! He/they kept me busy all summer to produce three chains. I think (though I’m not sure, looking back 50 years) that I had some serious doubts about the motivation for all of this work.

In the fall we took a family Sunday drive to Rosemead, where my grandfather conducted some business with an antique dealer (the father of Art Suel, who I have a story dedicated to). Well to my utter shock and amazement, they put a velvet cloth on top of the counter/display case, and my grandfather proceeded to put my three gold chains on the counter!

My head hurt trying to figure out what as going on. Was this man going to grade my work? I wasn’t particularly proud of it. Though all the links were closed, they were FAR from uniform.

He carefully examined all three, then handed my grandfather some money for one of them, then attached a small black rubber band to each end, took off his glasses, attached them to the rubber band, and PUT THE WHOLE THING BACK ON!

WAIT! WHAT? Me, a ten year old boy, made something an adult would pay money for? And wear?

He explained that he liked the uniqueness of it, the fact that someone could tell it was a handmade thing in an age of mass production. I didn’t understand it then. But I knew I was damn proud. And I’d like to think my dad scored a point or two with his dad that day too.
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