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Jay Kerner
Publisher/Quiet Lover
You have to pity poor Thomas Crapper.
Here he goes and invents improvements for the
modern fush toilet and the public forever links
his name with scatological humor.
As unfair as this seems, Id like to suggest
a similar fate for the inventor of the micro-chip.
You know, those tiny wafer-thin electronic
components that operate everything around us.
Complex functions that used to require trans-
formers, transistors, resistors and who knows
what-all, are now carried out by a little deal
smaller than a postage stamp.
Technology, created to make devices smaller and smaller, has so de-valued
itself, that disposable versions are now embedded in greeting cards. A cute pic-
ture and a heartfelt message are no longer enough. Now youre not sending the
very best, unless your card opens to 8 seconds of Bad to the Bone, or You are the
Sunshine of my Life.
But if you really want an example of the proliferation of these insidious
devices, spend some time with small children and their toys.
Take stuffed animals. From Teddy Bears to Gingham Dogs and Calico Cats,
a little cloth, some stuffng and a couple of button-eyes used to be the standard.
Not any more, boy! Today, everything talks, plays music or both!
The stick horse whinnies. The rub-
ber duck quacks. Even a simple rattle
isnt simple anymore. Instead of a hol-
low handle flled with beads, were now
talking about a fully integrated shak-
ing system, with multicolored LED
lights, 16 different voice options and 99
assorted rhythms programmed in.
Child care providers from earlier
generations were forced to read story
books. Now the books read themselves
to you. A coloring book and a box of
crayons provided hours of activity and
promoted artistic expression. Todays
digital versions color themselves when
you pass the light wand over them. No
mess and heck, you cant go outside the
lines, even if you want to. Hit send and
automatically distribute the fnished
product to the refrigerator art app on
grandma and grandpas smart phones.
The toy box speaks several lan-
guages. There has to be a switch some-
where, but apparently only the baby
knows where it is. Hola!, it says,
when you lift the lid. But sometimes
Bonjour!
The baby laptop senses my presence and starts its loop of classic (no royal-
ties to pay) tunes. Frere Jacques seems to be a popular choice. Are you sleeping?
Are you sleeping, brother John, brother John? Heck no! Nobodys sleeping with
all this racket!
The sensor in the plastic snail picks up the light and sound from the Activ-
ity and Learning Desk. Which sets off the Little Princess keyboard. Pretty soon
theyre all going at once, egging each other on.
Camptown Races, in a mashup with Jimmy Crack Corn and a generous
helping of Shell be Comin Round the Mountin! Its an aural onslaught.
And its not just the toys. Kids toothbrushes talk and play music. So do
their potty chairs.
Im sorry, but I guess Im just an old fogey. I worry about this trend. Why
do you need a musical potty? I fear for future generations who wont be able to
perform without it. I picture a row of dudes at the urinal, all humming variations
of Polly Wolly Doodle before they can do their business.
So I blame you Robert Noyce. I know you were merely advancing the sci-
ence. Its what we do.
But science has responsibilities too. Remember Jurassic Park?
I sit here in the nursery, as the toys perform independently, and realize Im
essentially superfuous to the whole operation. Except for replacing batteries.
Noyse Pollution
We need your help.
The Regular Joe is what we like to call a
community contribution paper.
The more diverse the content that comes
in, the better the paper. The more different-
voices we can dig up, the better chance we
can offer something for almost everybody.
Remember, we like stories that are for
things as opposed to against things. Our
favorites are stories that turn the reader on
to something. A favorite movie, book or al-
bum. A locally owned restaurant you love.
And pictures. We want em! Your shots
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people out and about, doing northland stuff.
Thanks,
Joe
Dear Joes,
Contact The Regular Joe
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Danny R. Phillips
Regular Joe Music Guy
It is truly the end of
an era. The last surviving
original member of punk
rock archetypes The Ra-
mones has died. Tommy
Ramone (born Tommy
Erdelyi) died on July 11
at the age of 65 after bat-
tling bile duct cancer.
I frst heard The
Ramones the same way
I would hear many of the
bands that would, in one
way or another, shape
my life and view of the
world: a friend in history
class gave me a dubbed TDK cassette of the Ramones debut. Many say great-
ness lies within that record but for me it took a couple more. Rocket to Russia,
in the frst few notes of Cretin Hop, is the one that hooked me for life. Driven
like a stolen hot rod, The Ramones were a modern wonder: primal sound, lack of
technical musicianship, geeky atypical singer, speed of light guitar. As a band,
they contradicted everything that 1970s rock embodied. No synthesizer solos,
no overly long drum parts, no bloated, self-indulgent cocaine fueled records (see
Fleetwood Macs Tusk or anything from Yes or The Alan Parsons Project for
a torturous example). In my opinion, the 70s are mostly a boring musical waste-
land until the bruddahs from Queens came along to slap the world back to reality.
Taking their love of 1960s girl group pop like that of The Shangri-Las,
The Crystals and The Ronettes (most notably on I Wanna Be Your Boyfriend),
comic books, horror movies and all things schlock, Rocket to Russia, on the sur-
face, is an album for glue sniffng teenage burnouts. However, therein lays the
genius. They are all catchy tunes, furious and contagious, deeper than what is on
the surface and refuse to leave your head for days. The Ramones were kings of
taking the everyday, the normal person on the street and giving him or her voice
in a time and society that far too often overlooked or blatantly ignored the com-
mon man.
Blowing out of the gate with Cretin Hop and going into my personal fa-
vorite Rockaway Beach, Rocket to Russia is nothing less than The Beach Boys
brand pop on industrial grade methamphetamines; fast yet melodic, ferce with a
hidden beauty. Sheena is a Punk Rocker is the story of a girl going to do her
own thing, Were a Happy Family documents the collapse of the nuclear family
and covers of Bobby Freemans Do You Wanna Dance? and The Trashmens
garage classic Surfn Bird further show the bands love of 50s and 60s pop
music.
The enduring greatness and legacy of The Ramones was their ability to
create a music that sounded like anyone could play it but no one could play as
well as they did. They created the game, were the grand masters and anyone that
stepped up to the challenge of taking them on was only ever playing for second.
Im not old enough to have seen the original lineup in all their nerd king
glory but I did catch them on an oppressively hot Midwestern summer day in
1996 at Lollapalooza. It is something I will never forget. Standing on a hill away
from the crowd, I saw 50,000+ people bouncing in unison, the crowd inhaling
and exhaling as one, all in awe of the four guys on stage wearing black leather
jackets, heat be damned.
Rest in Peace Tommy, Joey, Dee Dee and Johnny. Go have a beer at Heav-
ens Gate Canteen and catch up at the reunion. Now, I do believe it is time to play
a record. 1,2,3,4!
From the Shelf: The Ramones Rocket to Russia
Joe Music -5
Matt Meier
Ive been a Beatles fan since in utero.
The early rockin sounds like Twist and
Shout, the upbeat happiness of Ticket to
Ride, the melancholy of While My Guitar
Gently Weeps. These songs, and many oth-
ers by the Fab Four, have practically come
to defne my musical tastes since birth.
So it is without surprise that I have
spent a great deal of time watching and
learning about the worlds greatest rock
band, from their evolution in The Cavern
and their Germany days, to world superstars,
and fnally studio musician geniuses. I have
my mother to thank for this unique love for
a band and for each of its members into their
post-Beatles days.
There is a huge dearth of material
out there for anyone to check out to learn about how the Beatles became the
Beatles, their rise to stardom, and their internal strife they experienced in later
years. The Beatles frst feature flm, A Hard Days Night, is a quaint and come-
dic look at the Beatles, involving a fctional story of the men on their way to a
performance. Their follow up Help! manages to keep the laughs coming, with a
ridiculous plot involving Ringo, a ring, and an Indian death cult. While not on
the same plateau as Hard Days Night, Help! is certainly a fun flm to watch on
a slow day.
The 1970 flm Let It Be is perhaps the most striking piece in the Beatles
catalogue of appearances. What was envisioned to be an insightful look into
the Beatles recording of an album, the flm warped to become something of
a sad vision of the Beatles literally falling apart before the audience. Though
the turmoil within the group was plainly seen during the course of Let It Be,
the group did manage to toss aside their quibbles and have an unannounced
rockin fnal performance on a rooftop, dubbed the Rooftop Concert (cre-
ative, isnt it?), which became the Beatles fnal live performance before their
breakup in April 1970.
I would say the quintessential piece for any Beatles fan to watch would
be 1995s superb documentary, The Beatles Anthology. This series is likely
the most complete look at the Beatles, from their very roots to their very end
(and then some). No other documentary has come close to matching the depth
that The Beatles Anthology had on the band.
After reviewing many of these pieces, I felt as though I had a fairly solid
grasp of the band. Turns out Ive been proven wrong recently.
Out of the woodwork comes 2013s Good Ol Freda, a look at the life
of Freda Kelly, the sole secretary for the Beatles fanclub. Aside from being
an amazing woman, in this documentary Freda shares some of her personal
stories about the band whilst hinting at others. From her years as a teenager
to that fateful April 1970, Freda bared the responsibility of teeming to the
millions of worldwide fans of the Fab Four. From writing letters on behalf of
Paul, John, George, and Ringo, to even supplying hair clippings of the band
for some more audacious fans, Freda ensured that everyone had a connection to
the Beatles in one form or another.
The Beatles are unique in the history of music and cinema. It seems that no
matter how old people may get, or how many generations may pass, they con-
tinue to remain relevant in the years to come. Whether youre the diehard enthu-
siast or a young teenager discovering the Beatles for your frst time, rest assured
that there is a wealth of material out there to sink your teeth into and enjoy.
Good Ol Freda is available through Netfix streaming and can be pur-
chased through most digital streaming services.
Some random Beatles facts:
- The term ffth Beatle refers to a multitude of people that are seen as be-
ing a ffth member of the Beatles. Members include Eric Clapton, Billy Preston,
and producer George Martin.
- During the flming of Help!, the band members discovered marijuana
during flming and would often sneak off set to enjoy its qualities. George Har-
rison also discovered Hinduism during flming.
- Pattie Boyd has likely had more notable songs written about her than any
other woman. Pattie met George Harrison on the set of A Hard Days Night and
the two later married. Harrisons songs Something and I Need You were
dedicated to her. Eric Clapton later fell in love and married Pattie and also dedi-
cated a few of his hits to her, including Wonderful Tonight and Layla.
- The fnal Beatles song released was Free as a Bird. Originally con-
ceived as a demo song recorded by John Lennon, the remaining three members
recorded supporting tracks to Lennons original and released the song in late
1995.
Matt on Movies Good Ol Freda
Shannon Bond
The planning is done, the dates are Sept. 26 to the
29th and its time to pack the gear. Join us for our Katy
Trail peddling adventure and cap the trip off with a Mis-
souri River train ride. Register by Sept. 1 to guarantee
a spot. We meet in Sedalia Friday, Sept. 26, at 9a.m. to
start our journey. We will stay in hotels and B&Bs in
Boonville, Hartsburg and Rhineland (this last one may
change depending upon the number of riders) and we
will end our trip in historic Hermann, Missouri. Amtrak
will give us and our bikes a lift back from there. We will
have lunch in scenic little towns along the way, like Hermann and Rocheport and
there will be plenty of time for pictures and sightseeing. The pace will be light but
you still need a level of ftness to ride 38 to 48 miles per day on fat terrain. The
cost of travel for 2 riders will be $450 for couples or $400 for a single rider. This
includes snacks, lodging and the train ride back from Hermann for you and your
bike. Click the link below to join us!
Join Us for our KATY Trail Bike Adventure
Brew Top Pub
North
8614 N. Boardwalk
All Shows 10pm unless indicated
Fri 8/1 Dolewite
Sat 8/2 Transients
Fri 8/8 Hazard County
Sat 8/9 RetroActive
Fri 8/15 Noe Palma
Sat 8/16 Disappointments
Fri 8/22 KC Groove Therapy
Sat 8/23 Cherry Bomb
Fri 8/29 Wonder Fuzz
Sat 8/30 Stolen Winebegos
Fat Fish Blue
7260 NW 87th
in Zona Rosa
Fri 8/1 Supermatics
Sat 8/2 Az One
Sat 8/9 Old No. 5s
Fri 8/15 The Mighty Wax
Sat 8/16 71 South
Fri 8/22 Kyle Sexton Band
Sat 8/23 Da Truth
Fri 8/29 Rivertown
Sat 8/30 Not a Planet
Pats Pub
1315 Swift in NKC
Every Wed nite Open Jam hosted by Rob Gray
Sherlocks Underground
858 S 291 in Liberty
Every Wed at 8pm Oasis
The Hideout 6948 N. Oak
Every Thursday is Bike Nite with
Dave HayesBand, Levee Town, and Blue 88
Open blues
Live Music Hi-Lites across the Northland
9
Shannon Bond
The Tatanka 100 mountain bike race did not
start or end well for me. As far as I can tell, it didnt
go well for a lot of other folks either. The misfortune
started before we ever lined up for the start. We had
decided to combine the race trip with a family vaca-
tion and were behind schedule after touring the Bad-
lands so we ended up rushing to the pre-ride meeting.
Of course in our mad dash to Sturgis we ran into a
violent hail storm. We thought about stopping when
the visibility dropped to an alarming distance but de-
cided that it was safe enough to press on, even with
dollar signs fashing through our minds as the bikes
on top were pelted with dime-sized hail. We were
only 10 minutes late in the end and discovered that
we hadnt missed much.
I walked in and found my training partner in
the crowd at the meeting. The revelation was that the
race centered mostly around the runners since it was
also an ultra running event. We learned that yes it
was raining, no it probably wouldnt be canceled or
postponed and the trail was marked fairly well. We
left feeling apprehensive at best. It got worse when
we woke up to even more rain. I thought for sure that
they would postpone for at least a day since it was
supposed to be sunny and nice the next but that was
not the case.
Nearly 70 riders gathered at 4:30 a.m. in the
parking lot of a local ball feld. It was dark, cold
and I knew my light windbreaker would be soaked
through in moments. We stamped our feet and bus-
ied ourselves with our gear to keep our minds off the
misery. My loyal support crew (translate that to dedi-
cated wife who endures and supports my continuing
efforts to fnd new ways to suffer) huddled with me
under the shelter of our SUV cargo door. She planned
to pick up the rest of the family at the hotel and meet
me at the third checkpoint. I had enough food and
supplies to make the 30 miles it would take.
Even with 4,000 foot of climbing, I fgured it
would take me between 3 to 4 hours. The only vari-
able was the altitude and my ability to breathe. We
had signed up for this race seven months earlier and
had been training for it and the Dirty Kanza 200, so I
wasnt worried too much about the ftness challenge.
I wouldnt be the fastest guy out there but I can slog
along for quite a while as long as I dont get too am-
bitious.
After fnalizing our plan and lining up with the
rest of the riders in the pouring rain, we were fnally
off. The race organizers had told us that even though
it was raining, the Black Hills should be ridable and
they chose not to postpone once again. We didnt
think about any of that as the initial adrenaline in-
jection elevated our spirits and energized our legs.
Things went well behind the police escort out of
town and up the multiple mile gravel climb.
I was even in good spirits an hour later after
battling through mud up the slopes of some formi-
dable single and double track. The frst checkpoint
was cheerful and the rain had fnally stopped. They
warned me that the fve creek crossings to come were
thigh high due to the rain. I was looking forward to
the added adventure so I didnt even get off my bike.
Little did I know that the next checkpoint at mile 18
would be a different story.
The crossings were fun and had even offered an
opportunity to dip our bikes in the fast moving water
in an attempt to dislodge some of the more stubborn
mud. Ropes had been strung across the water as from
bank to bank since the water was so formidable. Af-
ter the last crossing though, we were met by a con-
tinual climb full of switchbacks and high mud.
I decided to press on. The thought of not fnish-
ing had not taken hold completely yet. I had never
failed to fnish a race.
In a slow gradual way which consisted of my
bike failing to roll completely about 3 miles out from
checkpoint 2 I realized that I wasnt going to be able
to fnish. My bike was out of commission. It was full
of clay and pine needles and I was slogging through
deep mud dragging it rather than riding it. I stopped
about every 50 feet to jam sticks in various places to
free up the moving parts but was never able to ride.
I was done.
My focus shifted to reaching the checkpoint. In
my state of physical and mental stress and fatigue I
didnt realize what it would take to reach the next
checkpoint on foot while dragging a heavy mud lad-
en bike. I was just anxious to get back and salvage
the day with my family by visiting Mount Rushmore.
As the time wore on though, I cursed the bike, the
mud and begged the wheels to roll. After four hours
of hiking, slipping, pulling and dragging my bike, I
came to the 30 mile mark. This is where the check-
point was supposed to be, except that it wasnt. In
the pre-ride meeting they had told us to focus on
the third checkpoint at the 30 mile mark. I was fed
up and envious of the runners that were passing me
without dragging a 50 pound brick. Even their well-
intentioned sympathy didnt help but I appreciated
the thought.
I fnally fipped my bike over for the fnal time
and decided to pry as much mud out as possible. It
looked like there was a long downhill stretch and I
was going to try to roll again. My gear was a mess, I
was a mess and there wasnt an inch of clean surface
anywhere to be seen. Even the zippers on my feed
bag and camelback were stuck with mud. Using my
tool and a stick I was fnally able to free up the wheels
and one gear. I couldnt shift and I didnt know if it
would last but I was going to take advantage.
It was nice to stop for a moment and I took in
the Black Hills. The countryside was inspiring and I
loved being in the back country. There was no sound
of human existence. I took pictures of the valley, the
trail, the mud and my bike. After that it was time to
roll. For a brief moment I was liberated and it wasnt
long before I heard signs of civilization. This was it, I
was going to fnally get to the checkpoint and put this
all behind me. But, the thought of behind me was ac-
centuated by the sudden sliding of my back end and
the sound of rushing air. I had a fat.
I didnt want to try to pull this wheel apart
through all of the caked mud and change a tire, espe-
cially within ear shot of salvation. I was tubeless so
I peddled harder to seal the hole but it didnt work. I
stopped, pumped air into the tire and peddled it up-
side down before jumping trying to peddle fast again.
In my haste I took a wrong turn and had to backtrack
and the tire was still pouring air out. I fnally gave
up and pulled the rim off and pulled a tube out. It
was a mess and harder than it should have been but I
managed it within demoralizing earshot of the check-
point, which was actually about 32 or so miles, not
30 (a very big deal when you are miserable). It had
taken me about 7 hours to make it 32 miles. I was
disgusted like most of the other riders.
I learned later that only 20 riders fnished while
the rest of us had damaged bikes and mixed feel-
ings. After abusing the hotel shower with an endless
stream of mud, we fnally made it to Mount Rush-
more. It turned into a great day with the family after
all and it still felt good to put the Tatanka behind me.
Later as I was sharing photos with friends I discov-
ered the images of my last stop in the Black Hills. I
was surprised to see that I was smiling. Even a bad
day in the woods on a bike is better than a good day
in what we call civilization.
Nothing Wrong with a Little Disaster
Jay Kerner
Ive been lucky enough to have seen a lot of my musical icons in person
over the years. I missed the Beatles but caught Paul a couple times. Ive seen
multiple shows from the Stones, Pink Floyd, and both Whos, (The Guess and
The).
Ive seen Tony Bennett and Frank Zappa. (Not together, but I bet it would
have rocked!)
I could fll a column with all the famous names, but for the sake of argu-
ment, lets say that Ive seen the vast majority of the contemporary artist of my
time.
At this point, I pretty much only go if its an artist on my icon list that
I havent caught for whatever reason. Opportunity hasnt always aligned with
economics.
Anyway, we heard Willie Nelson was coming. Love Willie! (Who doesnt
love Willie?) But Id never seen him in person.
Bought his 8-tracks, cassettes, albums and cds. Played bad versions of his
hits on my guitar for captive audiences in times of bad weather. (Imagine eyes of
every color, crying in the rain.)
I was looking forward to the show before I talked to my nephew over the
Fourth holiday. Hed caught the tour at Radio City Music Hall and came away
less than impressed.
I didnt believe it. I fgured a kid his age, (40) just couldnt appreciate the
older artist. Willies 81 for gosh sake. You cant go in expecting the Red Headed
Stranger. He existed in an earlier time, pressed into wax and preserved in analog
for our aural and (for some) spiritual enjoyment.
The Willie that took the stage the other night was somebodys grey headed
uncle. The one youre always worried will trip over something in your living
room and break a hip.
I immediately thought back to meeting Levon Helm of The Band after a KC
show a couple of summers back. Hed surrounded himself with a killer band and
only had to sing the frst couple of words to the bigger hits. He saved his wind
while the audience screamed out the lyrics in mass. He was a tired, sick old man,
driving down the rock and roll highway till the very last mile. I wasnt surprised
at all when I heard hed passed only a few months later.
The similarity hit home with Willies opening number, Whiskey River, may-
be the quintessential Nelson tune. Except tonight hes doing it an octave lower
than youre used to hearing it, and he talks most of the lines instead of singing
them.
Lots of artists with extensive catalogues semi-satisfy their loyal fan bases
with a medley like the one Willie offered up. No crime in that. The problem was
hearing all your old favorites done at so much less than the way they live in your
head and in your heart.
The crowd cut him a bunch of slack. They helped him out by singing along
to almost everything. On the ever popular, Mamas Dont Let Your Babies Grow
Up to be Cowboys, all he really had to sing was Mamas. The crowd did the
rest..
His guitar playing always had a unique improvisational
style. The fngers still seem pretty nimble, but often he seemed
to drift away in the moment, leaving his bandmates scrambling
to anticipate his fuctuating timing.
It made me sad.
It was like the ancient skeletal ballplayers in uniform for
Old Timers Day. Its nice to cheer for them again, but putting
them in the batters box just seems cruel.
Maybe he needs the cash. I thought he got straight with
the IRS but who knows? If this show is any indication, hes
still raking it in. The place was packed and the line for the
T-shirts was crazy. The most popular choice, the one with the
logo for the Willie Nelson strain of high-end medical (and now
recreational) marijuana. The slogan on the front encourages
his followers to Roll Me Up and Smoke Me!
Like Willie himself, the crowd was grayer too. It has
been a while since I was this close to the mid-point on age at
a show.
Bottom line is that Willie deserves to do whatever Willie
wants. But I for one choose to remember the vintage version
instead of the cardboard cutout on the road, yet again. To para-
phrase the man himself, It aint the least bit funny, when time
slips away.
The Grey Headed Stranger
11
Dr. Robert Corder
For most of the Civil War, N.W. Missouri had been spared the large-scale
destruction and carnage that occurred almost exclusively east of the Mississippi
River. Some might argue, however, that guerilla depredations and the effects of
General Order 11 in August 1863 left the Missouri border counties of Bates, Cass,
Jackson and Vernon worse off than if there had been large-scale engagements of
North and South combatants. Be that as it may, large scale warfare was to remind
Missourians what had been happening in the rest of the nation beyond St. Louis
for the previous 3 years.
In the fall of 1864, General Sterling Prce, from the safety of Arkansas, as-
sembled and planned to take his army of 12,000 back into Missouri in order to
obtain much needed supplies, recruit additional soldiers, and generally disrupt
the Union hold on the border state. In doing so, his ultimate goals would be to get
Missouri to join the south and open a second front in the West. He also hoped that
a confederate victory would prevent Lincoln from being re-elected and accelerate
an end to the war with conditions favorable to the South.
Price intended a counter clock-wise movement through the state with his
frst objective, taking the Union arsenal at Ptosi. Then attack, and perhaps take
St. Louis. If unable to complete those objectives, he planned to head upstream
along the Missouri River toward Jeff City and then Westport.
Advance scouts of the Southern Army in Arkansas came to our area in early
May 1864. Their intent was to recruit additional troops to help disrupt the North-
ern response to the impending invasion of Sterling Prices army in the fall. Fi-
nally a force of about 200 bushwackers and Paw Paws were organized by Col.
John Caldwell Calhoun Thorton, a former lawyer from St. Joseph. Paw Paws
were previously captured rebels who wore the Union blue in order to avoid pris-
on. Many Paw Paws gladly changed back into butternut and joined the invasion
force. These forces captured Parkville on the 7th of July. The Paw Paw force
there gave no resistance. Thorton then sent a demand for surrender to Platte City
which capitulated again with no resistance on the 8th. These forces set fre to
several businesses in Platte City marked as being Northern sympathizers. Most
of the garrison of Paw Paws changed their allegiance back to the South, hence the
term Paw Paw rebellion.
Meanwhile, General Curtis commanding the Northern forces in Northwest
Missouri was moving troops north from Ft. Leavenworth and Westport. The sec-
ond Colorado regiment under
Gen. Rosecrans (after whom
our airport is named) directed
those troops to occupy Weston.
This newly minted force of
Thortons evacuated Platte City
and moved to Camden Point
on the 12th. Later, in Camden
Point, these forces were cel-
ebrating the sack of Platte City
with a picnic, when they were
surprised by a pro-North cav-
alry from Ft. Leavenworth and
soldiers from the Colorado 15th. The attack routed Thortons force which was
encamped north of Camden Point. Only a handful of casualties were sustained by
both sides. All-in-all, about 24 confederates were killed and fve Paw Paws were
executed for their participation in the event.
The commanding colonel from Ft. Leavenworth ordered that Camden Point
be leveled for aiding in the insurrection. The only building that wasnt destroyed
was the church of the same denomination that his wife attended in Leavenworth.
One assumes that the soldiers who changed sides were executed because of
treason. The bushwhackers dispersed back into the countryside to fght another
time.
Footnote: This author attempted to locate the battle of Camden Point in
December of last year. It is not marked by any signage, however, I suspect that it
occurred just north of the city as the rebel dead are buried in a Southern cem-
etery on a low hill west of the main artery as you travel north about a half mile
out of town.
Battle of Camden Point July 13, 1864
(aka The Paw Paw Rebellion)
Reverend Ron
During the summers of my early college years, I worked as a
fshing guide in Yellowstone National Park. I recall walking down to
the West Thumb boat docks early in the mornings, a thin layer of fog
blanketing the lake, bubbling mud pits fanking one side of the walk-
way, and on the other side a parking lot flling with cars and tourist
eager to go fshing. The 21 foot inboard cruiser that I operated waited,
bobbing in the water. The clean mountain air and the smell of the lake
enlivened each step. What joy! To fsh all day and be paid for it.
That was in the early 1960s.
It has been over 50 years. I recently returned from a vacation to
Yellowstone and enjoyed experiencing the park as a tourist rather than
an employee of the Yellowstone Park Company. Much has changed in
the park--new roadways, new buildings, a much-needed focus on the
ecology of the park.
For me, the biggest impact of my visit to Yellowstone was that
the boat docks are no longer at West Thumb. Gone. Not a tracethe
walk way, the parking lot, the row of cabins where we stayed, the mess
hall where we dined, the nurses facility, the ranger station, the general
store--all gone. West Thumb boasts of a new parking lot, a new system
of trails, new public restrooms. Only boardwalks passing through fumerals and
bubbling mud pits remain.
Are memories really that empty? My experiences at West Thumb linger
as the turning point in my life. My encounter with youthful emancipationfor
the frst time being away from the home of my originconfronted me with new
challenges, new adjustments, and new rules for relationships. The whole direc-
tion for my future career took shape at West Thumb. And now, the West Thumb
I knew is no more.
On a sightseeing tour of Yellowstone Lake out of Bridge Bay, I hung on
every word of our tour guide, searching for any mention of West Thumb. None.
When I got home, I found an old map of West Thumb and the activities that
once thrived there. It held little to validate what I recalled.
It feels like some things should be there of the places and times that
have so impacted our lives. To echo the words of Gertrude Stein, there is no
there, there. My updated encounter with Yellowstone raised a host of feelings
and refections. I understand more deeply why people love history and feel the
need to search it. But how real is history? Is there such a thing as backward
causation? Do we create the past by the way we remember it? Indeed, the
place where we used to swim in Firehole River is much smaller than I recall,
the rapids we shot much less sloped, the distance between places much shorter.
So much mystery in history! The old copper drinking fountain in the
hotel at Mammoth hides the story of its origins. The boards of the old boat
houses that once held the early wooden boats over the winters hides in silence
the many conversations they overheard. The remains of a wooden boat sunk on
the banks of Stevenson Island no longer remember the gasps of wonder of its
former passengers.
All over Yellowstone, burnt trees stand above new growth. Fallen logs
of once proud trees return to nourish the landscape. Geysers and boiling pools
emerge and dissolve and move from one location to another. Tiny bones in
bubbling pools and a half eaten carcass attracting a circle of buzzards attest to
spirits that have moved on to new concerns. Even the land itself where glaciers
once crawled and volcanoes once roared changes from one moment to the next,
erasing its past, save for a few scant clues left for the geologist. And all, echo-
ing the sentiments of the Greek Philosopher Heraclitus: You cannot step in the
same river twice.
Nothing is permanent. As clouds marching across the sky shape-shift, so
are the moments of our lives. Perhaps the only thing that is eternally now is
the shifting itself.
The Impact of Impermanence
15
Where to go...
When you come to St. Joe!