Heh, I know those guys: Sister Hope and nephew Will ride in the Stampede parade in Helena. And you can tell that Will, who’s 8 1/2, is going to be as tall as his dad, Matt. And three cheers for these two horses: It was their first trip to town and, as Hope said, their first encounter with “pavement, curbs, manhole covers and folks!”
Pat Houghton, loyal friend to many, the talkative red-haired guy with the irrepressible grin and photographic memory, died Sunday at home in Vancouver, Washington, from kidney cancer. He was 60. My best to his wife, Judy, who took care of him, kept us all informed and deserves a rest.
Up in heaven, I’m sure photographic-memory Pat is already storing names and birthdates in the data banks under the unruly hair and ball cap.
But you went too early, Pat. And Judy told us of your struggle. So, Sierra Nevada or even higher, I am hoping still for another reunion.
(Notices and conversations about Pat can be found at www.caringbridge.org).
Happy birthday, Jane. You sure do sit a horse well. Here’s to staying in the saddle and many more goals. Love, John
I can’t fault him. He’s waiting on me.
Good morning, Pat. Hope you are comfortable today. Wish we could be having breakfast again with Bob. At least we managed the reunion in 2012. The Sierra Nevada were very good to us, no? Especially when you’re in camp and not yet climbing that east slope.
Housekeeping for me includes trimming Cooper’s tail feathers and seeing how many times I can trip myself with an electrical cord.
Too scratchy from work to read. Did open up Remnick on Putin and the Ukraine at lunch, but my first experience with reading The New Yorker on an iPad made me want to hold the magazine and turn the pages without some smart-aleck computer chip in between. Remnick’s erudition and travel schedule are daunting enough.
House is fairly clean as the sun goes down. I may try fiction on paper.
Cabezon sunset from home at the end of the week. Clearest the evening sky has been in a week. Heat returning for the weekend after several days of good monsoon rain. Pat Houghton’s wife, Judy, posted CaringBridge.org that he decided to go on hospice. I’m sure it was hard for her to write. I know it was hard to read.
Heh Pat: I doubt that you have forgotten any detail of this date 42 years ago. Absent your company, I have to go back to my journal. And here’s what I noted on July 12, 1972, starting with the ride into Chicken Spring Lake.
I note that we packed in enough food and built that evaporative cooler fast enough that we were able to have fried chicken for dinner on the second night in. Or, I don’t know, maybe on the first night we stashed the chicken in a milk can in the creek.
Note the exciting elements of trail building here, as in repeated references to “rock moving.” Remember how excited we were when the explosives arrived? (Although I still wonder about the extent of our blasting). I actually own a rock bar today, but try never to touch it, and laugh when I do.
Meanwhile, I’m sure you recall how broke we were, federal fire overtime or not. I guess was pinching pennies enough that I recorded expenses on our trip with Matt to Santa Fe for fiestas in September 1972.
I guess we were able to get away during fire season because we were working 10-days on, four-days off on the trail job. (And did we make it from Bishop to Santa Fe and back in four days or did we get Labor Day because we were on a USFS job?) It’s also hard to believe I got lunch in Milan, N.M., for 62 cents.
Your lunch tab in Milan probably would have been double mine. You had a huge appetite in those days, as I recall, even though you were pretty skinny for a firefighting, trail-building machine.
Hope you are feeling better today. And thanks to Judy for her journal posts on CaringBridge.com.
Here’s to my old friend and crew mate, Pat Houghton, who’s struggling with cancer up in Vancouver, Washington. Young and healthy, he’s manning a Cobra drill here in the High Sierra in 1972, with Hugh Provost to the left. Looks like the drill, one of our two, actually was working this day and there was time to use it without dodging lightning strikes at 11,000 feet on our 5-mile stretch of Pacific Crest Trail construction on the Inyo National Forest. (And, Pat, is that your blue helmet I see about 10 feet up the slope?)
And here you are, below, with our pal Matt Stothart, high above Big Whitney Meadows sometime before we got snowed down to Lone Pine in October. My guess is you were on one those evening hikes after a big camp meal served up by Roy Crane or Red Jarvis at Chicken Spring Lake. I don’t know how you did it on full stomachs. I preferred, as you know, to stay warm in the cook tent and lose money (penny ante) at cards to Jack Alexander and the rest.
And the gang’s all here, Pat, with you front and center on bright morning with new snow at Chicken Spring. (In case anyone’s forgotten: Left to right, Hugh Provost, Matt Stothart, Steve Evers, Bob Heberle, Pat Houghton, Ron Smith, Chet Baker, your’s truly, and Steve Willoughby. Not sure where WJK and Jackman were at the time. And probably only you would remember). It was quite a cast of characters, but you were the life of the party. (Thanks to Bob Heberle for the photos).
And on July 12, 2012, the same date as our first trip in 40 years earlier, a few of us struggled — well, maybe not Chet — back up the trail. (Pat, Bob, Chet and JR). Chicken Spring Lake looked the same, even if we didn’t. Nice work organizing the reunion, Pat. It was worth it, for sure.
Scenes from the Fourth. Cooper and I are taking care of Sara. Cooper is a good host and she’s a good guest.
dreamranch 