Burnt Mill Spring

The summer sun was rising just south of St. Peters Dome, its’ bright, piercing rays sliced through the early morning mountain mist. The mountain meadow grass was glistening with the heavy morning dew. The early risers were fanning the smoldering remnants of the camp fire into life. Soon the old cook would start the morning meal, there are always a lot of hungry bellies to satisfy when you’re at mountain camp, and the days are filled from sunup until well after dark. It was always the same, but always different, up before the sun, a good hearty meal and then into the day.

He was just barely old enough to go work with the men, being the youngest, his mother wasn’t too sure that it was a very good idea for her darling little boy to spend the summer in the woods with the men. His brothers and cousins had started about his age and the effects of this early and often rough life in the log woods soon were popping up like the mushrooms and toad stools after the mountain rains began. The men all thought it was rather humorous when Cousin Willie let loose with a string of adjectives that were everyday language in the log woods. The last one had been a crude comment about not wanting to eat his beans because it would cause the flatulistic results on him as they did on a billy goat. These colorful, but crude comments were laughed at in the log woods, but usually were left in the woods because mom and the aunts didn’t approve of this type of crude language at home.

The men had always worked in the woods, they were sawmill people when they were in Nevada and Southern Utah, and they would still be there if the mines hadn’t played out. The lumber business in the North Eastern Arizona White Mountains was wonderful. The virgin growth of trees was as good could be found. The trees were so massive that they were hauled one tree at a time down the north slopes of Greens Peak, St Peters Dome, and the numerous volcanic cones that popped out of this portion of the White Mountains like gopher mounds in a manicured garden. These trees were placed on a pair of massive wagon wheels, and taken one at a time to the family sawmill on the Little Colorado, many miles to the north east at Richville.

There was only one problem with the lumber business, everyone was so poor, there just wasn’t any money to pay for the lumber. The barter system was alright to a point, but how many sacks of beans could you eat or how much was needed of any number of the every day items that were often all the poor farmer had to pay for the load of lumber. Lumber that would keep the freezing north wind from silently and swiftly wrenching away his beloved young, sweet, but vulnerable family before its’ life had hardly begun.

L.P. as he was known to friends and family, Lawrence Parker Sherwood to others, or his mother when she really wanted his attention as often mothers do, had on more than one occasion overheard his dad and mother talking in low tones by the fireplace, discussing the shortage of money and the tremendous amount of credit that they had extended to the struggling poor settlers in these frontier communities. It was a combination of pride and compassion that kept the Sherwood Mill supplying the area with lumber. Pride kept the family from announcing how poor their owned financial shape was, compassion kept them extending credit to those that they knew couldn’t pay and probably would never be able to pay.

This was that wonderful, warm, summer of life, when the cold struggles of winter were months away and the glow of youth and summer was present in everything. The grass, the beautiful white quakies with their shimmering green leaves that gently rippled with the slightest summer breeze, and often gave the appearance of ripples on a still pond. The blue spruce trees, so clean and fresh with the droplets of morning dew glistening from each needle. The doe with her fawn concealed in the lush vegetation close by, the three wild turkey hens with their combined brood of twenty plus chicks, the magical way that the whole flock could vanish into nowhere at the slightest hint of danger. To this young, handsome mommas’ pride, it was just one of the wonderful, intriguing mysteries of nature. He had a unsatisfiable quest to absorb every drop of this fascinating, and ever changing world.

The mornings were the best of the best, the freshness, the newness, the energy renewed in his strong young body. Mom fed them all well, fresh milk, butter, cheese, wonderful biscuits, good fattened beef, cornbread, crisp fresh vegetables from the garden. The fertile, rich, black mountain dirt of the Richville Valley grew the finest of crops. The Sherwood brothers had the good fortune of getting the early pick and this protected little valley on the Little Colorado River was a great spot to start over. There were good, flowing springs on every side of the protected valley. The Sherwood - Richey clan were not by any means the first to discover the virtues of this wonderful place. It was the site of a small outpost when the first government surveyors mapped out this land in the late 1870’s and early 1880’s. Before them, generations of Indians made this fertile valley home. The Sherwood homes and out buildings were literally built on the ruins of these prior cultures. Some of the same stones that reflected the warmth of the Indians' cooking fire were incorporated into the warming fireplaces of the sturdy Sherwood homes. If these stones could speak, they would probably tell stories of the good hunting in the mountains, the abundance of deer, turkey, big horn sheep, and antelope that supplemented their storehouses filled with corn, beans, and squash, that sustained these early dwellers of the Richville Valley.

The same crops and meats continued to sustain this next wave of humanity on this valley’s eternal seas of time. The Little Colorado River was a good provider and had unselfishly provided ample good water for the crops and orchards of many, but at heart the Sherwoods' were sawmill people, not farmers. The smell of fresh cut lumber was one of the many things that kept them coming back to this brutally hard way of life. It wasn’t ever all roses, in fact many times it was quite the opposite, like when the young hard working youth fell into the unforgiving Giant saw and it sliced through his young body. The family buried him on the mountain near Little Giant Spring. Little Giant Spring was named after their portable saw mill who was manufactured by Little Giant. Years later L.P., who was a young man when this tragic event occurred, located the lonely grave and had it reburied with the rest of the family in the St. Johns cemetery.

This was the some of the bitter that has, and always will, come with the sweet, but on this wonderful, energizing summer morning, life was a great thing to be experiencing, and L.P. could feel the energy and vitality that the cool, crisp, clean mountain air generated in his body.

After a hardy breakfast that would power the razor sharp, double bitted axes and the giant two-man saws, the work would begin. The ring of sharp axes striking their mark on the massive trees, would echo through the still morning air.

For hours, wood chips the size of a thick slice of Mom’s homemade whole wheat bread, would fly from the rhythmic swings of the woodsman’s ax. Then finally, that exciting moment came, when that last swing severed the remaining fibers which would pop like the crack of a rifle and the gigantic tree, who had withstood years of the forces of nature, would succumb to the steady, precise swing of that woodsman’s unrelenting ax.

Not many years down the road, another young man smelled the fresh morning mountain air of the meadows surrounding Green’s Peak, and watched the sun chase the morning dew from the fresh green mountain grass. This mountain grass was what his summer employment depended upon. The old Mexican sheep herder could be heard mumbling some unrepeatable Mexican phrases, as he labored to get the morning fire burning and make the usual breakfast of salt pork, potatoes, tortillas, and the ever present chili, onions, and lots of garlic. Strong sheep herder coffee, boiled in the blackened old coffee pot was an essential item of survival in sheep camp. Following the sheep all day wasn’t really that hard, except it meant long hours of constant alertness. There were wolves, coyotes, mountain lions, and the ever present black bears. All of these ferocious, furry mountain critters loved fresh mutton, and they all seemed to love the challenge of grabbing a stray sheep that an inattentive herder had let wander too far. Byron loved this mountain dearly, but the challenges of herding sheep he was somewhat less endeared too. These sheep watered at the same spring, now called Burnt Mill Spring, that had supplied the original Sherwood Saw Mill. The old Mexican herder was either a little loco or a sadistic old social misfit that got pleasure from the intimidation of young white boys. The night the old man waved his 45 pistol around and threatened to shoot him, Byron experienced a fear that stuck in his mind the rest of his life.

In spite of the hardships encountered by his young body and mind, William Byron Heap, Gramp to us grandkids, Barn Heaps to his Mexican workers, who had as hard a time with English as us gringos do with Spanish, didn’t let this one bad experience spoil the beautiful barrel of apples that lay ahead in Byron’s exciting and interesting life. Gramp lived and loved a lifetime of cattle and horses, ranches, farms, and the fine art of spoiling his grandkids and many “adopted” grandkids. One trait that Gramp had will always bring pleasant childhood memories to my mind. This trait was his love for food and especially providing abundant treats for all the kids that worked for him. Gramp didn’t spare any expense in keeping the cardboard box in the middle of his pickup seat well stocked with candy bars and other treats. His favorite ones were Planters Peanut bars and Big Hunk candy bars. In additional to candy, he always had crackers, bologna, cheese, bread, and a complete assortment of lunch fixin’s. He thoroughly enjoyed watching us candy starved kids dig through his wonderful box of goodies, like hungry pups at feeding time. Gramp took great pleasure in working kids from large, poor families that were struggling to just put food on the table. These kids weren’t limited to us white boys, many of my Mexican friends still speak fondly of the days spent working for “Barn Heaps” as they called him. They all remember the same things, he was always paid them well, treated them well, and fed them well. In my older years I have time to contemplate the lives and traits of the great people I have been privileged to know and learn from. I am beginning to discover which are the real and lasting traits we need to pass on to the generations to come.

Gramp, in the eyes of the world lived what may have been called a simple life, but he left a legacy of hard work , honesty, integrity and a love of the land. One of the great and lasting traits is and will always be his generosity and concern for the less fortunate. I believe that Gramps’ big kind heart developed and expanded because of his own humble beginnings. I know from the stories he told me that he entered the work force early and was putting a mans’ day of labor in at age 14. He was working a fine team of horses pulling, a fresno digging the Berry Cut, which is where the Lyman Canal cuts through a rise in the terrain between St. Johns and Salado.

Gramp spent a lifetime trying to assemble his life long dream of a good ranch, stocked with good cattle and horses. This dream was attained in his older years and he eventually sold it to his son Dan, who also had his fathers love for the land.

I awoke just as the sun was peeking through the trees east of St Peters Dome, anxiously awaiting another glorious day at the Heap‘s annual reunion located at Burnt Mill Springs. Nature was calling me and the calls were getting louder, but I sure didn’t want to leave my warm camp bed in the back of Gramps' old Chevy pickup with the make shift shelter. This shelter consisted of a heavy old army tarp thrown over a pipe frame, that was placed on top of the pickup stock racks. Stock racks are a pipe framework built to fit upon the pickup bed, the pipes are spaced close enough together and tall enough to haul cattle or horses in the back of the pickup. Most ranchers preferred stock racks to horse trailers because they always had them with them. Every good saddle horse was trained to jump into the back of a pickup, and seemed to enjoy riding there as much as our present day dogs do. It was a simple matter to add V shaped pipes (to shed the ever present summer rain) across the top of these stock racks, and to throw an old army tarp over them to create a nice little shelter. Looking into the ceiling of this shelter I felt life was as good as it gets for me. My old Gramp really knew how to camp, he had spent much of his life in one type of camp or another. He had walked much of this same mountain following a band of sheep in his youth. Byron was an avid hunter and trapper, he knew the White Mountains better than most. He had made a living trapping and building fence. One of the family treats was rabbit pot pie, and he always shot the cottontail through the eye so he didn’t ruin any meat. The pickup bed was a good warm, dry place of security and it was peaceful sleeping next to my old Gramp. The scary bear stories didn’t keep me up all night with Gramp snoring beside me. The smell of the army canvas, the wood smoke, the pine trees, the coffee, the sour dough biscuits, and frying bacon are things that are branded so deeply into the very core of my being, that after fifty years they are experienced once again as my mind re-lives these vivid and sweet memories.

Soon after a delicious camp breakfast, I would join my numerous Heap Reunion cousins for hours filled with exciting activities that were usually centered around the chasing of chipmunks and squirrels. Then after a hearty camp dinner, we spent several hours playing card games, with all the cousins crammed into someone’s tent, stinking feet and stinky farts and all.

My two grand fathers, who were really my fathers, with a whole lot of Grandness added, had many things in common and yet several interests that took them down separate forks in life’s road. L.P. being the baby boy had opportunities that older brothers often don’t get , Grandpappy as he was known to us grandkids, loved education of all types, but biology, botany, chemistry, and all subjects that explained the science of living things topped the list. Very seldom did he not know the name of any of our native plants. I say very seldom in an attempt to not appear to that I am canonizing him as “Saint Lawrence” of the world of botany. Byron, on the other hand grew up early, didn’t have the opportunity to get the formal education, but obtained as good an education in the important things of life as any scholar has ever obtained .

I have had the opportunity in my lifetime of law enforcement to deal with people from all walks of life, from the chains of poverty, to the abundance and excesses of the super rich. Without exception, those that have spent their lives (rich or poor) learning in the “school of life” are the ones that have gained a solid foundation in the true meaning of life.

It was only a few short years later that I was providing the shelter and helping my wife cook the meals at the Heap Reunion near Burnt Mill Spring, for my son and four daughters to experience the same exciting activities and beauties of this mountain heaven on earth. Their days were filled with many of the same activities and games. These very often took place at our camp, under a large canopy and lasted well into the night.

The summer sun was rising just south of St. Peters Dome, its’ bright, piercing rays slice through the early morning mountain mist. Now approximately fifty years later, my wife and I are once again camped in the shadows of Greens Peak with our son and four daughters and their children, and watch with great joy as our posterity experience the same soul expanding marvels of nature. I can once again live the thrill, through their eyes, as they spend enchanting hours experiencing the wonders of this special corner of God’s great handiwork. They watch the same beautiful sunrise, as that ball of energy again casts it’s life sustaining rays upon this earth and all of us. This all would cease to exist without that morning sunrise.

Caught Again

It was a crisp winter day on the Cold Springs Ranch. Most of the snow in Copper Basin had melted, but a lot of the hills were pretty slick with mud, and in Copper Basin, there were plenty of hills. The Cold Springs Ranch was owned by Eddie and Madge Balmes who are my wife’s parents . It was located just west of Prescott and covered a large area starting in the high ponderosa pines and ending in the scrub oak almost to Skull Valley.

It was a good ranch if you were young enough and tough enough to endure many hours in the saddle, fighting your way through the scrub oak, following some old spoiled cow that knew she could squeeze under and through places that a man and a horse could not. But with a couple of trusty dogs things got evened out. I had only been married a couple of years and thought I was a pretty good cowboy, little did I know what being a cowboy in tough country was.

The ranch was dissected by one bladed dirt road that started on the west boundary of Prescott wound up climbing up through the pines past Cold Spring and the old ranch house. It contuned to the top of the rim which looked out over Copper Basin. Copper Basin is a large deep valley, with a creek in the bottom, the valley is filled with old mines and mine shafts. Phelps Dodge owns most of the mineral rights now, but it has been mined for years and has produced lots of gold. An old hermit couple lived in a shack on the north end of Copper Basin. Bee White and his lovely lady Belle were an interesting couple. When I rode horseback by their place, I always let them know it was me, and they still met me with a gun. Bee always would me show the gold he had found, but Bee and Belle could be a whole story in themselves.

At the rim of Copper Basin the road split, one followed the rim passing the interesting geological formation called Thumb Butte and eventually wound up back in Prescott. The Copper Basin road dropped off the rim and was literally cut out of the side of the mountain. It was the type of road often is called a white knuckle road , this road was the type of road you would highly recommend if you immensely disliked the person you were sending over it, especially in the winter. It was usually impassable in the winter, when we got a lot of snow on the mountain.

As I stood there in the crisp afternoon air, I had a lot of thoughts, but the most pressing thought, was how the hell do I allow myself to get in these predicaments. I could tell by the position of the sun it wasn’t too long until it went down. I wondered how cold it would get be for morning, I was dressed in a Levi shirt and Wranglers, and knew my warm coat was on the seat of my pickup, but may as well have been hanging at the ranch house for all the good it was going to do me when it got down below freezing tonight.

As I stood there contemplating my predicament, I thought of a funny story my brother Link had told me about him and Grandpap. They had been hauling cattle from the livestock sale in Phoenix to St. Johns. It was funny, but possibly it could be of use in my situation. Link said they had a flat tire on the trailer with a load of cattle on a busy city street in downtown Mesa. They had jacked the trailer but when they tried to let it down, the jack wouldn‘t function. There are a few items that every cowboy cannot live with out and one is a “cowboy jack “, the other is a good pocketknife. For you that have not had the pleasure of using a cowboy jack, which are wonderful when they work, but a tool of the Devil when they decide to be obstinate, I will give you a little information to help clarify the rest of the story.

The jack was originally called a Handyman Jack, it was first produced in 1905, and the name was later changed to HI -Lift Jack. They are 48 inches high and will lift several tons, today nearly anyone that gets off the road or in the backwoods has at least one with him. They are really good for a number of functions, but getting you out of the stuck is what they do best. To still be in production 105 years later and be very much in demand they must be good.

Well, Link’s Handyman Jack was siding with the devil that particular day, any one that has used one much knows is there are certain tricks to persuading them to cooperate. One that usually works is giving them a drink, water is usually the best choice, but anything will do in an emergency, and this trailer stuck on the jack in heavy traffic was an emergency. Lacking any water the second choice is right handy and usually readily available. Now out on the ranch, it is nothing to unzip your pants and give the jack a good hosing down, but in city traffic it is another matter. The thought of the old man standing there hosing down the Devil brought a smile to my face. Link had told me the story and we had had a good chuckle, but I had not thought to ask Link why he didn’t do it himself. Possibly to the do-gooder city folks, an old man could get by with it, where a young man might get arrested if some bible thumping, man-hating biddy happened to see some young cowboy watering his jack while his nervous load of cattle painted their fine city street green.

It was getting colder by the minute and I was soon going to be in the dark and cold. The little side road I was on sometimes didn’t see two cars a week, so my chances of someone helping me out of this fix, were pretty slim. The thought of my finger in the coyote trap as a kid came to mind. This story, which I wrote for my Grandkids for Christmas this year, also talked about a three-legged muskrat, the option of the three legged muskrat. Thinking of that muskrat saving himself at the expense of one leg, I instantly felt for my pocket knife, thinking if things got really desperate, I may have to shorten that poor unlucky digit that always was the one that got beat up. I had sick feeling remembering my pocket knife was on the seat of the pickup where I had had my lunch. My options were getting slimmer by the minute.

I tugged on my index finger, hoping that by some miracle it would come free from the working mechanism of the jack. The jack had the full weight of my pickup on it and my finger felt like it had a lot of the pick up weight on IT. It looked like the jack may have won this round.

I had slipped off the road on a slick muddy hill and was using the jack to get me out. My problem was, in my haste, I had manipulated the wrong pin in the working mechanism of the jack and now had that same dang index finger solidly trapped, as it had been in the coyote trap when I was eleven years old. The weight of the pickup was holding the jack firmly in place. At least the finger was getting pretty numb, which gave me a thought of one more option, I thought that if I put enough pressure on the jack handle maybe it will sever the finger and I will be free (like the three-legged muskrat). This may sound like I was getting pretty desperate, well I was, I knew how freezing cold it would get in a few hours. I really thought losing the end of my finger was better than the other option which was very likely freezing.

It sounded like a great idea, but the infliction of pain on yourself is not really my thing. As I exerted pressure, the mechanism moved just enough for me to extract the poor abused finger out of a trap one more time. This time, I wasn’t as lucky as I was as a kid with my finger it the coyote trap. It didn’t take a doctor to see the first joint of my index finger was smashed and mangled. Little did I realize this time would be a lifetime reminder of keeping fingers and other body parts, like your nose, out of where they should not be.

However, lessons in life sometimes take some of us a lifetime to learn, if we survive that long. In my sixty years I have known many who died learning their lessons. I have had a much harder time in learning some lessons than most, because my job paid me to know everything that was going on. My “have to know” personality drove me to the wide open jaws of danger, teasing them to snap closed on me. My quest for excitement took me on adventures that more cautious individuals would never experience. I am not advocating this course of action, in fact, I am urging my children and grandchildren and any person that would like to live a long and happy life, to avoid this path. Too many risks taken and you are destined to get into that fatal trap from which there is no return.

I am not so much speaking on the obvious crazy risks, but more so on some of those we may not readily see as traps, like running with friends that are making foolish mistakes, and will attempt to have you join them in those mistakes. A large portion of why I retired and let some younger adventurer put his life on the line, is that I had that inner premonition that the odds were getting slimmer every time I tracked some killer or crazy person, and that the next trap would be the fatal one.

Often when following some armed, crazy person, who had just murdered someone, my left index finger would get to throbbing (usually because of the cold), and that lifelong reminder was throbbing its’ warning. This throbbing would initiate that familiar concern of stumbling into that one last final trap.

I had, and I still have that daily reminder on my left hand, of what happens when we get reckless and don’t pay attention, whether out of ignorance, or more often, because we fail to slow down and think it through before we hastily jump in.

If there is a lesson to be learned from my poor index finger, it is that we will all have to pay for the consequences of our actions. My quest in life has been, “What adventure lies just around the bend or over the next hill“, it always has been, and appears that maybe it always will be. The key is to know when we have reached the limit and be smart enough to not let ourselves be drawn over that line. We must remember, with some things in life there is not that second chance that we all grow to expect to be there waiting for us like our faithful dog.

My Memories of Tio Wallie

A few short years ago, (actually about 20), I received an early morning phone call, the conversation began something like this, “Hey Sherwood, lets go to Mexico!”. This was the beginning of one of the many adventures I have been blessed with sharing with my uncle, Wallace B. Heap, Tio Wallie to me. I guess I always felt special kinship with Wallace, and as I contemplate his passing, my mind attempts to understand this special relationship I feel we had. Very possibly having the same blood flowing through bodies and minds had a lot to do with it , but it was more than that.

It seems we thought alike about in so many areas of life. I have never personally known another soul that loved to travel the way Wallace did. The wonderful part, he liked to travel the way I did. My wife Debbie has a big heart and the patience of my old gopher catching cat Susie Pickles, who will wait hours at a fresh gopher hole for the moment the rascal pops his head up. But she just can’t get into traveling the way Wallace and I did.

The aforementioned mini adventure started as a simple trip to see the Copper Canyon in Mexico and ended in a 10 day tour to the bottom of Mexico. Wallace was a pleasure to travel with, he didn’t mind traveling “on the cheap” as he referred to getting the most out of our traveling dollars. This meant traveling on the bus, eating where the bus drivers did ,and very often sleeping on the bus while traveling at night, to allow the days for seeing the sights. This method of saving a motel bill now and then allowed us to see more, and stay longer.

With these stories, I could fill pages, and still wouldn’t do justice to the real experience. The hours on the train to Copper Canyon. The entertainment we both derived as we watched several Mexican men attempting to fix a flat with out tools, in one of the most primitive places in Mexico. In retrospect I wonder how they even got that truck there with no roads, no towns, only an old wornout 1930’s railroad, with a train running twice a day. I have wondered since how many people would have enjoyed, as much as we did, watching the working of the human minds and body’s in overcoming this chore, that would been simple in civilization, but became a major undertaking here.

The freedom we both felt when Wallace asked if I wanted to go on to Oaxaca, kinda like, “shall we stop by the store on the way home?“, was exhilarating. This poor old farm boy had no idea it was at the lower tip of Mexico, a hard days bus ride from Mexico City, which was 2 to 3 hard days on train and or bus ride from where we were. But being able to have the freedom, and the wherewith, to set out on an adventure with a good trusty travel companion, is something I think lots of people will never experience.

A one day stop over in Guadalajara, then two in Mexico City, and a few more around Oaxaca. I say around because we used the local “chicken bus” to provide transportation to the wonderful archeological sites within a few miles of town. These were special days with my personal tour guide, and it was incredible to have the time to read every word, see every artifact and quiz every stranger. In short, absorb every detail about these amazing civilizations.

I have learned from touring with larger groups that the attention span for most groups is closer to that of a teenage kid, with the “we saw it, now lets go” attitude. Wallace had been to the sites before ,but never with anyone who had just as much interest, if not more, and relished in the wonderful facts and sights that we experienced.

The Mietla Ruin site was reached on a one way local bus which required some faith, and a little apprehension, as to how we would go about getting home the 30 miles to our hotel. We ended up hitchhiking in the late afternoon and a guy in a Volkswagen bus, gave us a ride all the way back to Oaxaca. Little details like this still remain bright in my memory, though it was around 20 years ago.

While in Oaxaca, we experienced the La Dia Del Muerto and sampled chili powdered crickets, or grass hoppers, which were not something I would not try again, unless I was pretty hungry, the stickery legs didn‘t swallow well.

These long hours we spent on the bus’s and trains seeing the real Mexico also gave way to hours of story telling and other conversation. I was able to hear the real side of Wallace, a side that I had not known or heard. Wallace told of his younger years, and the difficulty of working his way through college, we discussed his world travels, and his deep very belief in the Gospel of Jesus Christ. His mission years were a pleasurable subject for him to tell, and for me to listen to. Spend ten days hour after hour with someone and you will get to know a lot about a person as us married folks can attest to. What I learned about the real Wallace Heap was all good. Wallace had many of the same struggles that I have had, but he had the deep rooted faith to overcome them, as each of us hope we can.

The struggle to make a living and just survive was immense, without your parents or family’s help, because they too were struggling to just get by, but it has been said the stronger the wind the better timber. Wallace told me his job while at college was working at a frat house where he was literally the paid servant of the rich students, who had the money to pay the poor students to do any thing they were too lazy to do themselves. But it put food on the table, (their leftovers) and he told me that he was dang glad to have what he got.

The stories of Wallace’s life were interesting and educational, but they had one central theme, he felt very blessed to have had the opportunity to have faced, what many today would throw up their hands in despair, and whine to the world they didn’t have a chance.

I know Wallace has recorded many of his growing up experiences and he has done so in a very professional and readable manner. I have copies, as I am sure many family members do, so I won’t even attempt to retell his life story. My sole intent is to honor a great man, with some of my humble, but vivid impressions of the memorable times we spent together, doing what we both loved nearly as dearly as our families, our friends and our God.

Those times consisted of admiring and discovering the varied and magnificent creations our God has placed here for our enjoyment and edification. To all of the world that doesn’t know it, Wallace B. Heap did love this big exciting world, and lived out a lifelong quest, attempting to see as much of it as possible in the years he was allowed to spend on this earth.

Those that know me, know I’m doing my best to follow his quest. I may never become the well read, well traveled, font of knowledge that Tio Wallie was, but I’ll continue to give it my best shot, God and Debbie willing.

Of Boulders and Men

From the top of the Mogollon Rim it seems you can see forever, and equally amazing is what you can see. To this ole’ country boy it is one of the prettier sights, in this big wide beautiful world. One of my preferred overviews is on the Heber to Payson Highway ( Hwy. 260). The highway winds across the relatively flat top of the Rim from Heber to the edge of the Rim above Christopher Creek, and then drops suddenly and steeply down the rugged and colorful pine covered rock formations to the beautifully clear, oak lined Christopher Creek.

I often stop for an old man break and admire the view. It seems you are standing at the top of the world, you literally look down on the tops of the tall ponderosa pine trees, and on a clear day can see for miles. On a cloudy day I often feel, as I look through the clouds and mist, as God possibly felt looking over his newly created world, so clean , fresh and beautiful. It is the most impressive after a summer rain and everything is so sparkling clean and seems to touch my very soul.

This is often enhanced by the sun filtering through the clouds, and mist like a promise of a wonderful day to come. A few miles on down the road is another impressive view , this one is southwest of Camp Creek as the highway finally drops into the high desert and a few miles further we see the ribbon of green, the Verde River Valley. There is a huge pile of immense granite boulders that the highway literally cuts through. These boulders are impressive to most, and to me they look like they were placed at the edge of the desert floor to limit passage from the hot, often barren, and always unforgiving desert, into the cool life-giving sanctuary of the mountains.

These boulders, as impressive as they may appear from the highway to travelers, have a much greater awe to some of us that know what important, life changing events were played out in, over and around them. As I ponder the events of which I am personally acquainted with, I feel that very probably over the centuries of time, other events may and probably did occur among the massive, unmovable monuments of time and nature. Very possibly an Indian fleeing General Crook and his bloody campaign to exterminate the renegade bands that took refuge in and around the Tonto Basin and Mogollon Rim, took refuge there. Or possibly a hot, thirsty explorer finally reached the life giving shade an protection from the blistering summer sun that shows no mercy on man nor beast, and always has and will be the supreme ruler of the Arizona desert. My thoughts and imaginations could ramble for pages on what may have happened over the ages of time, but what I personally know did happen at those rocks is something that needs to be recorded for all future generations to understand and contemplate.

All of us from a very early age start to make decisions that affect our entire lives to come. As we reach young adulthood these decisions become tougher and more important in determining our future lives. These decisions don’t fade away as our adolescent pimples do, but they often become more important and life determining. Who we marry, where we live , what our professions are, how many children we are blessed with and what role we let God play in our lives. What we eat, who we choose for friends, the list could go on and on.

A family man with some heavy, life determining decisions fought a tough battle here among these rocks and won, and continues to win . We can use his struggles and eventual triumph over these obstacles in our lives, they can and should be an inspiration to all of us, especially his family and posterity.

Things hadn’t gone as planned in the farming and ranching business, eventually high interest and low prices took it’s toll. The loss of the farm wasn’t from the lack of work, I personally can remember many mornings when he had irrigated the fields all night and followed up doing his other ranch and farm chores all day. This often went on day after day, with very little sleep. His kids, and most of mine, learned what the meaning of hard work was from his example, and sometimes from his other methods of getting his point across. It has to be one of the most traumatic and life effecting events for a man to watch his life long dreams, as well as the all the work and sacrifices of your time and youth, wilt and die like the wonderful desert vegetation after a wet spring gives up to the blistering, life sapping, desert sun.

Lesser men would allow these setbacks and dream smashing obstacles to whip them. but not Lincoln R. Sherwood, he was cut from the same timber as his father and grandfather. Link did what us damn hard headed Sherwood’s do, made up his mind to do something and then did it. His quest was that he would make it all back and more. This wasn’t just an idle dream, it became a life consuming quest. (This is a brothers observation), I watched Link struggle with a ranch foreman job in Utah, then to livestock trading on the Navajo Reservation, but these weren’t getting him to where he promised himself he would be. A small opportunity came up to build a section of highway fence on the Black Ridge west of St. Johns, it wasn’t much, but a foot in the door. Then a big break came along, a contractor who had bit off more than he could chew, couldn’t complete the contract and Link was called in to take the contract over. Several miles of highway right of way fence through the boulders south of Camp Creek was a job that would test the metal of any man and most would come out losers, if they were foolish enough to attempt it.

Fence building under any condition is tough, but over and through granite boulders bigger than a pickup goes well beyond tough. Throw in months spanning triple digits heat and every kind of desert plant. Those of you not privileged to have worked among these plants may not realize that they all have some sort of defensive armor, usually sharp thorns that poke in with the slightest pressure and usually break off at skin level or just under the skin. They all must have some sort of chemical that amplifies the pain the second they enter your flesh. You add the rattle snakes, the hot sun in the day and the cold desert nights, all of this is on the ridge line that transforms the rolling high desert into the foot hills that rim the desert. There isn’t a machine that can traverse this terrain. The only way fence gets built here is by sheer guts, sweat , perseverance, and tenacity.

Next time you are at your home town hardware store, or Home Depot for you city dwellers, throw a big roll of barbed wire on your shoulder, just walk up and down the aisle a few times with it, while you’re doing this, think what it would be like carrying it over cactus, rocks and all manner of obstacles, and all types of weather. Don’t forget the rattle snakes that are ever present, and after seeing (and hearing) the first two or three of the day, you naturally get so jumpy that you start seeing them under every bush.

I often forget that some of our kids haven’t had the blessing of farm and ranch work, so I thought maybe a brief description of fence building was in order, pages could be written about the difficulty of fence building and still not convey the true challenges. I am not saying or implying that Link conquered the massive undertaking alone, he had some good help, one being his brother-in-law Mike Udall, who has a heart as big the rest of is body (and that’s pretty big), but when it all comes down to where the buck stops, Link’s name was on the line, and that means more than most people will ever know. When an old time cowboy gives his word, he will go to the ends of the earth in defense of his good name, which is built upon living up to his word. A man’s name and his word used to be, and in Link’s mind still is, inseparable.

Tenacity is something that I feel I have become somewhat of an expert on, in my colorful and sometimes slightly twisted path. It can either get you where you where you want to go, or sometimes places you should not be. Link used his to get where he always planned to be, it wasn’t a rapid or easy climb, but most things in life of value come with a price. All of my life Link has told me of his love for ranches, fine horses and good cattle and through sheer guts he has earned them all. One of the very significant points that I think needs to be brought out here, is what happened when Link finally conquered these massive boulders. A whole world of opportunity opened up for him, he became known as the man that could get any job done, an was rewarded for his tenacity and integrity with many more difficult, but monetarily rewarding, State and Federal jobs. Equally important, was that he proved to the world (and more important to himself) that he had what it takes to come out the winner.

At some time in our lives we will all have some pretty large boulders to climb over, and most of us have our share of thorns to dislodge, but when we conquer these boulders, and endure the thorns, we also will have gained an inner strength and confidence to succeed in the opportunities and challenges that surely will come.

Link has climbed some immense boulders the past couple of years, but he has what it takes to get over these also, it makes me proud to call him my brother.

So next time you take the Highway between Payson and Phoenix, look at the massive boulders and imagine the difficulty of climbing over and through them with rolls of barbed wire and steel posts, not to mention the difficulties encountered getting the posts set into the ground ,or more often the case, into solid rock. Then take a little side trip to the Panhandle country of North East Texas, and you will see one of the nicer cattle ranches around. He has put together a herd of some of the finest Brangus cattle, and as good a set of corrals as I have ever been in. Massive sprinkler wheels irrigate the long rolling green fields, a dream come true.

But more important than all this, he has proved to the community that he is a man of his word. When the people in that small Texas town learned I was Lincoln Sherwood’s brother, they welcomed me into the community like I had been raised there, which is very seldom the case in small towns.

One of my favorite quotes from Henry Wadsworth Longfellow says it all,
“The heights by great men reached and kept
Were not attained by sudden flight,
But they, while their companions slept,
Were toiling upward in the night.”

If you think Link got lucky, think again, he has literally climbed boulders his whole life to become the man he is, and attain what he has, and we should let his example be a lesson to us all. Thanks brother, for the example of integrity, strength, and tenacity.

Lincoln Rogers Sherwood WW II 1945

Lincoln Rogers Sherwood was the oldest living son of L.P. and Clara Sherwood. Lincoln was born October 26th, 1922, and raised in St.Johns Arizona. He spent most of his time working on the family farm, or helping his dad build a family Home. Lincoln and his younger brother Gleason, learned what hard work was early in life, and grew into strong Arizona farm boys. The strength was both in body and mind, which would help them endure the hardships that were soon to come upon both of them.

Lincoln went to war first as a Thunder Bolt pilot. The Thunder Bolt pilots were considered the elite of the elite. The encylopedia Wikipedia states, "The Republic P-47 Thunderbolt, also known as the "Jug," was the biggest, heaviest and most expensive single-engined fighter in history to be powered by a piston engine. [2] It was one of the main United States Army Air Forces (USAAF) fighters of World War II. The P-47 was effective in air combat but proved especially adept at ground attack. It had eight .50-caliber machine guns, four per wing. When fully loaded the P-47 could weigh up to eight tons". It flew 500 miles per hour and could reach altitudes of 25,000 feet.













Younger brother Gleason was offered a hardship deferment to stay home and run the farm, but his brother was over there and it was a noble and just cause, so Gleason followed as an infantry foot soldier. They both were sent to Italy. Lincoln flew 42 missions over Italy before he was shot down behind enemy lines.

Gleason was in some of the most bloody ground fighting in Italy, as they fought their way toward Mussolini’s Chateau. It was in the middle of this bloody fighting that Gleason was informed that his brother Lincoln had made his way back to the safety of the allied side, through the “underground”.

Lincoln was ordered back to the States, this was against his wishes. However, it was not only for his safety that he was to be sent home, but also for the safety of the whole under ground movement, who had made it possible for him to survive behind enemy lines and make it safely back. Eldon Pulsipher of St. Johns entered the service on the same day as Gleason, and was present when Gleason was told of his brothers safe return.

Eldon told me the following," Gleason was in the infantry I was in the heavy artillery, we followed the infantry. That day we went uphill on a narrow road, the Germans had their guns sighted in on the road, and when we started up the hill they opened up. It was a terrible slaughter of our troops. Then when our troops jumped for cover in the bar ditch along the side of the road, it was mined. We took terrible losses, we followed up with the heavy artillery. During a lull in the battle, I was looking for Gleason, I found him sitting on a stump. Head in hands, he couldn't even talk, he was shell shocked or something. It was while I was there that the Red Cross came looking for Gleason Sherwood. I told them that's him sitting there. They wanted to take him back with them to see his brother before they shipped Lincoln home".

Gleason was allowed a pass to spend some time with his brother, this would be there last time together, Gleason returned to the battle and Lincoln went to South Carolina to train more Pilots.


June 12th 1945, Lincoln’s plane went down, ending the two brothers dreams of partnership farm. Gleason made it home and founded Hill Top Dairy in St. Johns.

Eldon feels that this meeting of the two brothers may have saved Gleason’s life because of the terrible fighting that began again shortly after he was taken to see his brother, which may be very true.



Gleason (left)and Lincoln



The following information was obtained from a Carlo Mondani in Italy who is putting together information on fighter pilots shot down in Italy during WWII. Mr Mondani has told me in his communication that he is putting this together out of appreciation for the pilots and their roles in the liberation of Italy.

Mr. Mondani also gave the following data:
Date of enlistment: October 28, 1942
Place of enlistment: Phoenix, Az.
Branch: Air Corps
P-47 fighter pilot with 66th Fighter Squadron, 57th Fighter Group
Serial Number 0-774327
P-47 serial: 44-20140

And the following history in his words: As stated by Missing Air Crew Report #12463, 1st Lt. Lincoln R. Sherwood was shot down SE of Modena (south of the town of Vignola) on 22 February, 1945 during a dive bombing mission. He landed safely by parachute in enemy territory and after some weeks returned to his organization. (page of 66th Fighter Squadron war diary). I suppose he received some help by partisans or Italian farmers. On 22 February, 1945 the front line was located near 30km south. The allied units in that zone were the American 10th Mountain Division (Gen. George P. Hays) and Brazilian 1st Infantry Division.

My posterity and I will be forever thankful to the great sacrifices these two brothers made. We are grateful as well, for this small town St. Johns, which is filled with many unsung Heroes.

May the Good Lord in Heaven bless them and all of us who are the beneficiary of their great sacrifice, in many cases, was the ultimate sacrifice…that of their lives.

Roots Run Deep

To a seven year old kid, it was something that made an impression that has escaped the fading effects that the years of time usually bring. I can still see it in my mind. It was something this young fertile mind spent considerable time and thought contemplating. It was long and yellow, it was the only one he had, it looked to me like a single kernel of field corn that somehow survived the shelling, when the ear was sent thru the sheller.

The absence of any other teeth caused my curious mind to wonder how this yellow old monolith, emerging from a puckered mouth surrounded by a few scraggly, yellowed with tobacco stain gray whiskers, had managed to survive.

At the time, I wasn't sure of his national decent, but thought he was Mexican because of his limited English. He would occasionally help on my grandfathers ranch. My grandfather (Gramp) would get him to fix fence or if a new fence needed to be built it was usually Juan that was hired to build it.

Juan lived in an old adobe shack in a run down portion of the town that was first settled in the 1880s. This shack was on Water Street close to the river in St.Johns. This was the oldest part of town and many of the adobe houses were melting back into the red earth from which they had been formed.

Juan always smelled strongly of a variety of smells, tobacco was the strongest to my young tender nostrils. Body order mixed right in there for first place in the most overpowering smell. Wood smoke, garlic, onion, and as I learned later, cheap wine rounded off the odors that emitted from Juan's lone toothed mouth and body.

To a young, protected country boy, these strong odors on a cold morning, on the way to the ranch, branded into my mind a memory that has stayed with me over 50 years.

Juan was good at fence building and often filled in as a babysitter, if Gramp had his trusty, old gray horse "Roller", and needed to check the cows. Juan must have seen how these short babysitting stints scared me, because he did things that in these later years I realize were just a silly old man having a little fun with this white, pale, scared little Mormito gringo kid. He would give me a crazy stare, or holler something in Spanish, or make funny twisted faces. I'm sure it was the most entertainment he had seen since the last payday, when he got Rosie drunk on cheap wine and they showed everybody how to dance the real Mexican two-step.

In the retrospect that comes with age and experience, I realize the noble qualities of my grandfather, Byron Heap. He knew Juan's faults, he smelled the same smells I did, and contrary to many in the world then and today, he looked past these unpleasantries, and recognized Juan's strengths.

Gramp had grown up a poor farm boy and always had a soft spot for those less fortunate than himself. He had quit school at 14 and gone to work. This was common when you were part of a large family. When you were old enough to work, you paid your own way and usually helped mom and dad if you had a good job.

All of my life I have had people tell me how they loved working for Gramps, their comments are usually along the same theme, "He treated me good, he fed me good, and he always paid me well...". This is a lesson to all of us, our kind, unselfish deeds to those less fortunate live on long after we have passed on. Unfortunately the reverse of this is also true, if we take advantage of others, they and everyone else in a small community, will remember well after we are dead and gone, how we mistreated people.

I have on more than one occasion heard people ask old Juan why he didn't get the sole yellow tooth pulled. His answer was always the same, "Too tight, it's too tight", this meaning the roots were too deep.

My ancestors roots run deep, my roots run deep, my posterity's roots run deep.
These strong roots that we sink into our family's and our community's, will live as will the memories we all leave. These memories will either bless our name in the eyes of our family, and community, or they may stir up thoughts of our faults, if we have treated others poorly.

When the forces of the world attempt to rip us away from the strong anchor of our integrity and the principles that make up our very soul, may we be like Old Juan's tooth, steadfast and stubborn in resisting the pliers of the Adversary.

The ole Tracker still Cut-N-Wind

Planting Tomatos

Be careful of what you dream, because those dreams sometimes come true. This is close to a quote I heard once. The truth of this statement is brought to my attention very often. One of the lasting impressions I have from my San Carlos sailing experiences, is often brought to my mind, as I am doing some hot, dirty chore here in our nice winter home, (that we usually turn into our summer home because we are up north in the frozen country when we should be here).

It is May 15 and the temperature has been over 100 for the past few days, a real jolt to your system when you have just returned from a week in San Diego at 65 nights and 75 days.

When the little invisible critter, (often referred to as the sail bug) bites, it often causes some major life altering changes. It seems to raise the most havoc with the poor desert land lubbers like me. I, for one, could spend hours expounding on the life altering changes it has and continues to make in my life.
Roger Kunzler my trusty accountant son-in-law, (who is one of the most careful and wise persons I know under normal conditions) got bit a few years ago and had to have a major bad experience to get a partial cure. But that's his story to tell if he wishes to tell it.

The spring of 2008, I had a lot of my family visit and sail with me in San Carlos, Mexico. It was during this time that I met couple that had just purchased a boat in Mazatlan, Mexico. To you dry land lubbers, that is several days sailing south of San Carlos, with miles and miles of open water. Most sailboats are capable of 7 to 8 knots (8 to 9 miles) per hr. This speed reached under ideal conditions, which are about as common as a promised check in the mail from a dead beat. This couple had purchased a good boat and had gotten, what seemed to be a good deal. I met this nice couple through my wonderful, outgoing sister-in-law Allison, who never met a stranger. She knew more people on the docks at Marina Real in the few days they were there, than I did in the whole 6 weeks I was there.

These fine folks told me the following story. They lived in the Pacific North West, they had retired and headed out to live their dream. They had bought a boat near their home, that they thought would be perfect with a little work. On their maiden voyage they had numerous problems and sold this original boat somewhere in mid California. They were more careful in buying the replacement boat.

The boat of their dreams was waiting for them in the beautiful resort city of Mazatlan, Mexico. Having spent several wonderful vacations there, I can relate with them. They found this dream boat in a city in which dreams are realized and enjoyed. This boat was ready to tour the world, it had everything just like someone got it ready to sail the world and for some reason decided to sell it all and walked away.

My new found sailbug bitten friends gave me a complete tour of their boat. They weren't wrong about it being ready to tour the world, I have had this sailbug illness for several years and have come to know a good deal and the cost of outfitting a boat correctly and this one had been someones' money hole. Some previous owner had liberally poured money in and then jumped ship for some unknown reason. My sail-ail friends told me they had a broker from San Carlos Yacht Sales coming by tomorrow to list their boat for sale.

Being the naturally curious person that I am, (after all those years spent as a cop digging through other peoples minds and deeds) I couldn't keep myself from trying to complete the mystery of why they were so quickly and decisively terminating the love and dream of retiring and sailing the world. The answer was soon discovered. The trip from Mazatlan had gone from a dream voyage to the stuff nightmares are made of. The weather turned foul, they fought rough seas and strong head winds for days, (at sea the motion and sound never stop. It's you and the ocean and you learn very soon how small and weak you really are).

Picture this, we have a middle age couple (60ish), full of dreams, but after many long hard hours, riding out the hour after hour of pounding that the sea can give to a 40 foot sail boat, you wear down, (often very quickly if sea sickness knocks you into overpowering, heaving, "I wish I could die and feel better" sickness). Many of you may have experienced a touch of this feeling while at an amusement park or carnival. Imagine a moment, this amusement ride lasting HOURS or sometimes even DAYS, without any possibility of getting off.

This motion and crashing of waves can go on for days and with a crew of two old, soft, retired city folks, things can get pretty grim, even life threatening. To make matters worse, the wife was overcome with sea sickness and fear, the husband had not only the boat to worry about, but also, his lovely bride of 40 years, who has suddenly been stricken by this rabid hate for the sea, the boat, the wind, the noise, the ever present fear of not seeing land again....., (Sound a little negative? it can be damned negative when your are the reason your loving spouse is there in the first place.) In this weakened condition, you may learn a lot of pent up feelings, but it is still just the two of you and the gut wrenching fear that hours of constant pounding and exhaustion can bring.

I think you probably can get the picture so I won't go into any more specifics except the Captain's loving wife spent many hours on the floor of her dream boat wondering why she ever agreed to being part of this dream gone nightmare, and promising herself and God that this would be her last time at sea if she could only make it to land alive. The Captain, with his longtime dreams in tatters, like his main sail, (after he made a major sailing error that he opted to not tell anyone about), other than to ask me, "Do you know where I can get my sail repaired soon because I'm selling the boat".

His parting words to me was, "ALL I WANT TO DO, IS GO HOME AND PLANT MY TOMATOES".

As I'm here digging in the hot desert soil, planting my tomatoes, the realization is brought home, that my oneness with the land may be my ultimate dream.

When all is said and done, this is a marvelous, interesting and exciting world, but, in the end there is nothing that comes close to the fulfillment that comes from being with my loving family, friends, and the warm, safe comfort of HOME.

The salty ole tracker still Cut-N-Wind to the end

Sitt'n on the porch Cut-Wind

As I get older, I plan to have more and more porch time, but I plan for that time to be on the porch of my sailboat Cut-N-Wind and I my even get a little sun while I'm at it, but I'll be trying not to shock and offend the neighbors, there are plenty of other ways to do that.

Growing older isn't always fun, but a lot of fun is there for the taking along the way if we just put out a little effort and take it.

I really like to go to San Carlos, Mexico. There are many reasons, but one of the big ones is that I am surrounded by people very much like me. The really neat thing is, I'm one of the younger of the crowd, and often asked where I work. When I tell them I retired at 52, they assume it was a medical retirement and I have to explain that I wanted to live a little before they set me in a chair on the porch.

One of the fears as we, (I think) most of us have if we live long enough is the one of getting old and the unpleasant things that come with age.

Some, or possibly many, aren't too sure we will live long enough to get old. If in a depressed moment we see an old person and think ,someday that could be me, we lose that thought very quickly.

This thought erasure is usually caused by distraction, this distraction can be a deliberate act like, "I don't like thinking about something as unpleasant as old age and the major life changes that come with it."

The other way the thought gets changed is by something more exciting, grabbing our attention, an example this actually happened to me a few years ago when we as a family went to Cancun.

Debbie and I were walking down the beach and got to a hotel that was a favorite of Europeans. You have probably already guessed the rest, but you may be wrong for assuming too quickly.

Yes there was a topless lady, (or maybe female might be a better description).

There were a couple of minor problems ,the first was, I really didn't notice she was topless. I can hear you all now, "Oh sure, a topless lady on the beach in Cancun and the ole country boy Tracker didn't notice."

There are two things that I must mention a this point. The first is sometimes when you see something really shocking, your mind just doesn't register or compute what you are seeing, the second in this case it was so different in appearance.

I say different, and you ask what are you talking about? Well, this tourist was well aged, or maybe I should say looked like she had seen lots of years and some pretty hard miles with all those years. This fine specimen of an old withered female was tanned beyond tan, she had the appearance of well worn leather except this leather was a lot more wrinkled than well tanned leather.

At first, I thought she had two dark brown leather wine flasks hanging down her front, she had on the skimpiest thong bikini bottoms,to put it mildly the sight was beyond shocking...appalling is the closest word I can come up with, but it doesn't even portray what I saw. It took a long stare to try to analyse and compute in my mind.

The image must have really burnt in to those memory cells, because it is still there, this was about ten years ago and it hasn't dimmed much.

We are getting closer to old age, but the hot desert sun hasn't cooked my brain to the point that I can make myself believe that burnt, withered, dried, wrinkled on our old, less than perfect bodies is anything but disgusting.

And if I feel that way, think what young people must feel when they are forced to see this sight of old age with out any shame. And I might add, one of their first thoughts must be, "Are these old geezers nuts or what?"

I can't say that the thought of old age doesn't go through my mind a little more often than few years ago, but I can say that I have made myself some promises and a few of them are discussed in the following paragraphs.

Old men with beer belly's should leave their shirts on, except when showering, or in the dark of night, in the privacy of their own homes. The problem with old men with pot bellies, is they never look in a mirror, except one to shave or comb the few hardy hairs that are fighting hard to live, but loosing the battle with old father time.

What really hit me hard about how down right disgusting old balding guys are. The hair loss battle is on their heads, except for the nose, eyebrows, and ears, which between the three of them could put the best of wire brushes to shame.

If these coarse, wiry, plentiful brush like hairs could be harvested some of the finest of industrial grade brushes could be produced.

The reality of how down right disgusting us fat old potbellied pigs are, was slammed home to me while traveling with a couple of of old guys that had a bigger portable beer holder than I did.

Share a room with one of these potbellied gray steeds, and take a good look at them when they get up, that is if you are feeling strong enough to see yourself as you really are.

If this doesn't make you do two things, you better get some mental help soon. The first thing is often the commitment that "I am really going to work on loosing the 30 pound blob I'm carrying around". The second is, no more shirts off and very seldom any tee shirts.

Topless females should have a full length mirror in each room, and take a sober look before going out, when their years get around 60 years mature, tanning at the salon makes life more pleasant for all of us. The man standing there with his mouth gaping wide might be staring from sheer shock, and not admiration, at a topless senior citizen.

Keep your shirt on, especially if you're at the beach with the family, and some fool gets out the camera. Get that loose fitting, flowered tourist shirt, the one every northern snowbird has a closet full of, and thinks they are a perfect match with his khaki shorts pulled up to his arm pits, and oxford shoes with thin black socks. As your eyes are forced to view this almost comic sight, don't make the mistake of looking at the obscene results of pulling those Walmart khaki shorts as far as they will go.

If I described this unbelievable exhibition of the defying of the very basic laws of nature, I would have to restrict the viewing of this little comment page on us old folks to those over than 18, so I will forgo that for the sake of decency.

To you younger folks, you will get old before you know it, (and may not know it when you are there). To us that are there, use the 3 mile limit rule, leave your shirt on, forget the wifebeater muscle tee shirts (unless you're at least three miles from anyone).

This is what is required on my boat to release any of the sewage held in my toilet holding tank, I must be at least 3 miles from shore. To the eyes of an unsuspecting observer that has the misfortune to see any of us ole pot-bellied pigs in our finest, It ain't pretty, it's in the same class as watching raw sewer bubble out into a beautiful blue ocean paradise, so better yet don't dump it anywhere for the public to have to endure.

The ole fart is still cutting wind

Of Stray Cats and Wild Pigs

Well, my thought for today, centers around the UN-DOMESTICATION of animals.


I mentioned in my first attempt to learn how to do this blog stuff, a little about the operation of this modern device or contraption that my wife is trying to get me trained well enough to do the basic functions, like turn it on,(talk about RE-domestication of THIS animal).


I can hear a few of you giggling, from clear down here in the southern Arizona desert. Those who know me a little better, know it is the truth, but this old dog (or fart) is getting closer to spending more time laying around the porch, and may need more than the newspaper to keep what little sanity there may be in this old hard head.


I have come to believe, after a lifetime of daily of news paper reading, that our papers have become a liberal propaganda device. When they used to put a little of my more so called, conservative views in the articles, I could sort out the good from the bad. But, they lost me when they went to being "Obambo's" personal propaganda paper. I can't take the brainwash stuff, (I use this word "stuff", because who knows who may stumble on to this and realize what a redneck I really am).


Well back to the real thoughts of the day, I really think those "word inventors", who I think I might call those "mean little people that make up words", because it appears they make up names to ostracize people they don't like.


This little area of the desert, where we live part of the time, has an over supply of cats, some cats have owners, others have more than one owner or place of residence like our cat, who stays at one of the two neighbors when we are not around. Then there some that are wild cats, these wild ones live where ever and really do a great job of keeping the rodent population down, but no one owns them and they answer to no one.


The truth of this hit me this morning, a domestic cat turned wild, is a feral cat. A domestic pig that gets tired of being fed slop and treated like a pig, breaks out of his pigpen, starts his new life as a feral pig. When he can find a place to live free and start his own little pig country then he, and those who survive on their own are called feral pigs.


I wondered who this guy "Feral" was, and who he upset so much that someone decided that all those undomesticated (wild and free) cats and pigs should be called "feral". I spent most of my working years, dealing with feral homo sapien animals. Some, like me, were only a little feral. We liked both sides of the fence, it was great to tell ourselves we were free, but it felt good to sneak back to the domestic side for some really good slop, and some nice mud to wallow in.


I guess I better not use the obvious name (homo-pig) for fear of someone misconstruing the meaning of homo. It used to be that "homo" was the the first portion of homo sapien.


The ones that went really wild, we let those "mean little word makers" do their thing again. Those less feral were called "different", others "misfits", "wild" used for some, "outlaws" for those that let their "feralness" get way too far across the line.


I better hurry and get my thoughts said, because I may be slipping toward the thinking of those mean little word makers. I just used the word "feralness, and I don't know if there is such a word, but there is now, if there wasn't a few seconds ago.


I think some of what I have been trying to say is, we all seem to develop some undomestic traits, as we stumble through this crazy, ever changing life. We just try not to get too far away from the pen, (or over the line), or we become called outlaws, or worse yet criminals.

This is where I first started with this line of thinking.

I was trying to show what a fine line there is being wild and being a criminal. If the kids of 2009 were to do some of the things we did in the 1970's they would be criminals for life. We have lost all common sense, and let the liberal philosophy go way too far, in its labeling us homo-ferals.

We are ALL a little bit criminal , don't we all break some laws at will? Like speeding when we think we can get off with it, or have a really good excuse?

So, my hope is, we will try to keep our "feralness" between the lines, (or within the limits) and not get labeled outlaws by those "mean little word makers", or in other words those "little" big guys, who think they are in control.

The Ole Fart Cut-N-Wind

On death...and life

Preface or Introduction

It’s 3:30AM on October 31, 2008 at our Thunderbird Farms home on Esch Trail, outside of Maricopa, Az.

I spent yesterday traveling home from San Carlos, Sonora, Mexico. The travel was another of my mini-adventures, or it’s possible to some of the less adventurous and more sane people, that it may have been referred to in terms less endearing. Maybe even words like wild, crazy, foolhardy, risky, could come to mind, and a portion of some of these words could apply.

In a tired and an often, haphazard, mind of the early morning, half awake, condition I often contemplate the reason’s each of us are what we are, and how we became these, off times, slightly twisted or bent mortals.

This morning was no exception. With the events of the past week, it gave me cause for deeper reflection.

It started on Monday, Oct. 27th, with Clinton Greer’s funeral, Deborah’s birthday, the untimely death of Shane Figueroa ( young LDS cop, return missionary, father, from our old Maricopa Ward) and then finding out Uncle Verl has been put on life support in the hospital. These are but a few of the things weighing on my mind.

My mind bounced to the death of my own Mother and Father a few short miles from our Maricopa desert home. And how that event, in an instant, forever changed the lives of so many people.

There were three good, young, happy, healthy, industrious LDS couples. My Father, Gleason was driving and the horrific carnage resulted from the eternal law of nature that says when a massive train strikes a relatively light passenger car, the occupants of the car stand little chance of surviving, or many times, even being identified….enough of that.

Back to the wandering contemplation of life’s complexities.

Lincoln Robin Sherwood is truly the first born of Gleason R Sherwood and Alma Heap Sherwood. Link (as everyone calls him), in every way looked and has lived the first born part. He was a cute, round cheeked, in every way the All American, freckle faced, ranch/farm boy, from St. Johns, Arizona. Gramps (Byron Heap) loved the little cowboy from birth and tried to make him into the best little cowboy in the world. Link was a natural at ranch related things. He raced his first horse race on a wonderful mare named Falla. I think Link was 6 years old at the time. Grandad, (L. P. Sherwood) had other plans for this firstborn son. These were much different than Gramps’ dreams. Little Link liked the cowboys’ (Gramps) dreams much better than the intellectual leanings of Grandad. This lead to a serious division between the two Grandfathers trying to raise this young grandson.

Child number 2 was little Kathy. She was a beautiful baby, same round cheeks, lot’s of freckles, and perfect in every way. Gramp loved his Little Angel Kathy, and it was so apparent. Kathy loved horses, cattle, pickups, and anything related to the ranch, at the expense of the girl things of house, dolls, etc. This caused considerable friction between Kathy and Nanny (Anona Crosby Heap), her maternal grandmother who she lived with, and lots of contention between Gramp and Nanny.

Then there was Little Kim, he being the 3rd and relatively a lot younger (about 18 months), when his Mommy died, and was a lot like a doggie calf. Literally skinny, sickly, pale, wouldn’t eat, had ear infections, often passed out. The family thought he might die as doggie calves often do, even when they get extra care. A wise old doctor told the family a few things like, give the kid some pineapple juice, he needs some sugar, he hasn’t had any nutrition, he is likely to die. Little Kim (me) didn’t die, but may have developed some lifelong medical problems.

These maybe aren’t limited to physical health problems. It may be like Waylon and Willie’s song, “I might be a little bit crazy, but it keeps me from going insane”. My whole life has been spent trying to prove myself. Athletically, I wasn’t quite as blessed as some of the relatives, but I did have the guts to make up for the lack in physical ability. The taking of the State Wrestling Championship was one of the few highpoints in my youth.

On in life, my career was spent trying to excel. I did in a few areas like tracking, artifact investigations, white collar crime investigations, cattle theft investigations, to name a few.

My bosses saw these abilities and guts to follow them through and gave me free rein of major investigations.

This has or had a cause and effect.

Cause- there are only 24 hours in the day, you can’t spend them all on the job. My family often were without a father in the home. When he was there, he was still on the job, in his mind. My loving wife, Debbie, took on the role of father and mother, the older girls became little Mothers (ShimMa Yazzie, Navajo for little mother).

That job took its’ toll on my mental and physical health. My children, now adults, ask why I never hugged and showed the kind of love some of their friends dad’s did. I can blame the job and the type of investigations I did for that.

Enough said on that one, this little get up and jot down a few thought has evolved into a mini life story. What I started out as a few lines about my firstborn older brother, my beautiful sister, and me, the little sickly doggie calf, went other directions, but it may help my understanding of life to put down on paper my early morning philosophical ponderings. KRS

Don't Let the Banditos Get Ya!!

Well guys Debbie won, as wives often do, and here I am doing what I refused to do in high school,that is sitting in front of a keyboard trying to peck out a few lines.

You would think after 23 years as a cop and the number of reports produced I would have learned how to type, I found it easier to hand write all reports and then con or bribe Debbie or one of the secretaries to do in ten minutes what it would take me hours to do.

Here goes... I keep thinking of old dogs and new tricks.

I don't really understand why but people often treat me like a tour guide, it could be that I had to at least appear to look like I knew what I was doing and where I was going. I have traveled a few roads most people will never see. A couple of times I thought that I had crossed over the line and may not make it back to the safe side.

The one that I often think of, is a few years ago I took four or five trips to a little village in the real out back of Mexico. This little place was near the small town of La Junta it was where the pavement ended on the north side of Copper Canyon.

The place had about 10 to15 adobe houses, one house had part of the front room made into a little store. My pantry right now has more supplies than this little front room had maybe even double the amount.

The reason for going to this little Pueblo was two fold,a witness named Ruban Rodrigus lived there, Ruban had helped his employer steal cattle that is a whole new story that would require pages and my limited typing will stick to the banditos and almost going too far over the line.

On one of these many trips I drove to El Paso, Texas and took the train to Chihuahua city. From there I planned to get the train that goes through La Junta and on through Copper Canyon an ends up going on down the coast west of the Sierra Madres Mountains, which run down the center of Mexico, like The Rockies do in the USA .

Well this ole country boy made a few miscalculations. A couple were just things I can look back on and smile one I thought may cost me my life .

I got on the train at Jurez, Mexico I did' know why there was such a long line 2 hours before the train was to leave. This line was just to buy your ticket, about 30 minutes before the train was scheduled to leave they opened the ticket booth as soon as people got their ticket they hurried to the gate where they boarded the train.

I saw no need to get in any hurry the train wasn't even backed in to load,When the gates opened it was sight like this country boy had never seen, it was like dirt dam broke and flood of brown humanity flooded toward the train. The smaller people were being boosted through the train car windows, the old and crippled were pushed and left behind. It was truly every man for himself, and the devil take the hind most part.

When this ole dumb gringo finally attempted to board the car, I suddenly understood why all the rush. I have ridden a lot of crowded buses and trains but this was the winner by a whole mile. There wasn't even a square foot to stand. I got lucky and someone found a better place and I was able to squeeze between two seats that were back to back.

This has been a few years ago but I well recall thinking, how many hours will we be standing like this and what happens when someone has to pee, especially if that person is me.

By the time we spent a few hours on the train, the train began to look and smell like a refugee train from Bangladesh. Men women, children, people of all ages were sprawled on, over and around each other. There was no silly pride here, these people were exhausted and they began to melt like ice cream.

In thinking back I think the train ride was around 5 hours. After leaving this train, my plan was to catch the train that went west over the Sierra Madres and get off at the closest town to my desitnation pueblo, and take a local bus or taxi into the pueblo.

This is where a person should never assume anything about a place he has never been. I also assumed that I would be able to wait in the train station for the next train west, and the worst assumption was that the train west left from the same station. All three of these assumptions were totally wrong, nearly dead wrong.

The train I was on arrived some where around 10 PM, I immediately went looking for a ticket booth to find the information on the train west. The train I was on, was going on south to Mexico City. After some broken Spanish communication with a taxi driver, I learned that the train West didn't come to this station, and the other station was on the other side of town. The taxi driver also told me that the other train didn't leave until tomorrow.

He did offer to drive me to La Junta, I may be a dumb country boy but I didn't fall for this one. I knew that it was somewhere around 100 miles to the place I was going. I also knew I had no business, somewhere in the wilds of Mexico, with some taxi driver (who are known for being less than honest).

I also felt the guy was trying to see if I had any money. I insisted that he take me to the other station where I planned to wait for the next train. Again, I made a couple of wrong assumptions. We arrived at the station as the train from the west was unloading, but was not leaving until morning to make the return to La Junta and Copper Canyon.

This was a small dark station on the bad side of town , shortly after the train unloaded, they locked the doors, and there I was, Mr. Smart Gringo, somewhere on the bad side of a city known as one of the worst cities in Mexico.

It was getting close to midnight, I was tired and just wanted a safe place to rest. At the train stations in Mexico there always more taxis than fares. The taxi drivers left were hungry, they weren't the most prosperous . I have seen a lot of Mexico taxi drivers, but this was a pretty rough looking bunch. They were all literally looking at this dumb Gringo, for ther next tank of gas and maybe a few tacos, and if they were really lucky, a few cold cervezas to wash the tacos down.

I have in been in a few tight places, and know what an, " oh shit" moment is , this was one of those if I had ever had one. A lot of thoughts flashed through my mind, but I really didn't see any good options. I looked past the 15 to 20 taxi drivers and saw the little taxi driver who had given me the ride from the other station. This the same guy that tried to talk this hard head out of coming here in the first place, he was motioning for me to come over to his taxi.

The faster I walked toward him, the faster the group of hungry drivers walked behind me. Soon it was a fast walk, near a trot... they caught up to me just as me, and the new found friend, taxi driver piled in his little Datson taxi. As we smoked out of the parking lot (literally, the little car probably had 300,000 miles on it), but it was one of the best rides I have ever been in.

The other taxi drivers were less than happy to have last fare for the night, and possibly a lot of easy dollars, drive off in that little smoking,worn out car. The chase was on, they literally chased us through the streets of Chihuahua. We ran a couple of red lights before they gave up the chase.
This was getting more like a very bad dream, my little, new found buddy, told me he knew a motel that was cheap and near the station. By this point in my adventure, my choices had not been very good, and I figured this little guy had come to my rescue and my choices are getting pretty slim.

He took me to a motel on a back street, told me he would be back in a few hours and get me to the station for the morning train. This sounded too good to be true, but it was the best I had to work with.

As I lay in the motel room, the realization of how close to real serious danger I had been, and that it wasn't over yet, started to work on my mind. I started think all the what "if's" of the situation, what if the worst had happened and they made short work of me like a pack of hungry dogs would a rabbit. Would my family ever know what happened to me, or would I be another unsolved case of a missing gringo in Mexico.

As a side distraction, (that would have been funny under different conditions), a real "Latin Lover" had his favorite girl in the adjoining room . The rooms had very little to no insulation, and amplified the goings on next door, (to put it nicely, it would have made a sailor blush), and it went on literally most of the night. I really wanted to see these two, but my taxi actually arrived early in the morning, as promised.

Even as tight as I am, this little taxi driver got a large tip, and a lifelong appreciation that there are good, honest people even among those in the poorest of conditions.

I have always regretted that I did not get some way to contact him later, and maybe send a little Christmas for his kids or something. There is a whole world full of wonderful people out there. I also feel very strongly that a person truly gets rewarded for his helping others in their time of need.

Watch out for those banditos, but don't be afraid to trust people either.

The ole fart better stop Cut-N-Wind for the moment. One last thing for those of you who don't know, CUT-N-WIND is the name of my sailboat in San Carlos, Mexico.