Written By Ken Kinder
I was visiting with my brother Neal the other day, and we began talking about the past. Especially during the times we drove truck. We haven’t driven trucks since the early sixties, but we meet at least once a year with a group of the guy’s, we once drove with for breakfast and B.S. At these meetings all kinds of past experiences are related, and I will share a couple with you.
One of these fellows we worked with was a guy named Charlie Hampton. The only way I can describe this guy is if you had killed a bear and were gutting it, you would be staring at the form of Charlie. He was a powerfully built man with no perceivable neck, just a head placed on his shoulders. Charlie was frightened beyond belief of the dark, and on the occasions that he had to load after dark, in explanation of loading, we were hauling lumber, and at night and on weekends we had to drive the forklifts and load ourselves. Any way he was so afraid of the dark, he would carry a deer rifle with him on the forklift, and was so goosey you did not want to surprise him in fear of getting shot. If he was back in the woods and had to relieve his bladder or bowels after dark, he would wait for one of us other drivers to stop and be on watch for bears, snakes, and lord knows what else. On these occasions we would always stop and many times while he was squatting and dumping we would roll up a newspaper and rattle it against the truck, and poor old Charlie would think it was a rattle snake and just about have a heart attack. It’s not that we didn’t have sympathy for him, but it was just to good of an opportunity to let pass. Poor old Charlie died to young in his life, but I suspect it was due to his over indulgence in alcohol, tobacco, and prescription drugs.
Another guy we had many laughs about was Kenny Caples. He was the direct opposite of Charlie in build and demeanor. Kenny was so skinny he made Don Knotts look like Charles Atlas. His arms were so skinny, he wore long sleeve shirts year around to hide them. He also was an embarrassment when we were eating in a restaurant, as it was his habit to sit himself where the waitress had to bend over towards him to wash the dishes. Consequently he would get an eyefull of her breasts. We had stopped at Moxley’s truck stop in Redding, California to fuel, weigh our loads, and have breakfast. Well good old Kenny Caples positioned himself in his usual spot, and this particular waitress was aware of his habits, and was ready for him. When she delivered his pancakes, bacon, and eggs, she waited until he had buttered his pancakes, and was starting to pour on the syrup when she leaned forward to wash the dishes.
Kenny was getting a real good look while he thought he was spreading syrup on his pancakes, but in reality he was pouring maple syrup all over his expensive Pendleton shirts long sleeves. The rest of the drivers were aware of what was happening, and roared in laughter when he discovered what he had done to himself. Caples was a whiner and crybaby, and not to many of the other drivers cared for him so he didn’t last long working for most trucking companies. About the only way he could keep a job was to buy a truck and be his own boss. There was a rumor going around that he was so miserable to get along with that he fired himself.
This will be a story about one of my personal experiences. In the spring and fall of the year, it is the practice of some cattle growers to utilize federal lands on which to graze or feed their cattle. The cowboy’s would drive or herd their cattle into the mountains or high country in the spring, and drive them back to the valley ranches in the fall before the snow would fall prior to winter.
During my years of driving truck I had witnessed this occurrence on many occasions. Especially when I was driving a logging truck. In the spring, summer, and fall of 1950 I was hauling logs from high in the Sierra Nevada Mts. down to Jerry Dodges sawmill in North Columbia, California. This particular logging show was located very far back in the woods, and in order to keep the men there so they would haul more logs, the logging contractor set up a base camp in Graniteville. This was a town that was built during the gold rush era, and was in dire need of restoring. Most of the men didn't like staying there, but they needed the work. Some of the loggers would have a contest on crosscutting logs to let off steam and unwind.
The place our camp was located, was in a burnt out hotel that was constructed during the 1800 hundreds. The fire had destroyed the upper stories of the hotel, leaving the second story floor to be used as a ceiling over our heads. We had cots to sleep on, a portable propane shower, and a great cook to prepare our meals. This was the only way they could keep the drivers out of the bars in town, and hauling logs in the woods.
They had great difficulty in waking me in the early morning hours, as someone would usually have to physically shake my cot in order to bring me to life. The cook was the first person to arise and after he had breakfast almost prepared, he would shake this cowbell that would wake the dead, but it didn’t faze old Ken. It was in the fall of the year that the cowboy’s were driving the cattle down to the low country, and they would put in some long day’s and nights working well into the night and starting long before day break. It was on just such an occasion, that they were driving their cattle down the dirt roads of town about two o’clock in the morning, with many of the cows having bells around their necks ringing loudly that the loggers began to arise ready for a hearty breakfast. They were a pretty ugly bunch when they discovered it was a false alarm, but it didn’t bother me because I slept thru the whole episode.
In this small town there were a few summer homes that belonged to people, mainly from the city (Sacramento, San Francisco, etc.) and the owners would come up to spend the summers. These buildings were void of running water and electricity on the most part. Some had a well and portable generator, but most relied on kerosine lamps, spring water, and outhouses.
Now they were a pretty fussy bunch of mostly senior citizens, that were constantly complaining about the dust we generated while we were driving thru town on it’s dirt road. The logging contractor kept a water truck in town and watered down the road twice a day, but that was not enough for them. Some of these folks would come over to our modest abode in the evenings to gripe about the dusty situation, and on some occasions got down right obnoxious. One of the drivers by the name of Smokey got really perturbed at them and he said I will make them wish they had left well enough alone. We didn’t know what old Smokey had in mind, until the next day when we found out that he had stopped a short distance from town, cut some large branches from the trees, and tied them on to the back of his logging dolly with a long rope. Well let me tell you fellers when Smokey cranked up a full head of steam in that Kenworth, steered back and forth whipsawing those branches behind him, those townsfolks didn’t know what dust looked like before. They sent over a peace patrol that night, apologized, and begged us to practice our old policy once again.
Those people should have known what kind of person they were dealing with if they had taken the time to analyze his clothing. Smokey dressed like something from the Beverly Hillbilly’s. His old hat looked like a cow patty left on a rock, and the sun hatched it, and his pants hadn’t had the oil changed in a decade. His boots didn’t contain enough leather to make a pair of shoe strings, but his best clothing feature was his vest. Old Smokey had this vest that he claimed was made from unborn calfskin, well the hair on that vest was so long I would swear that calf lived at least two years before it was slaughtered. Anyone in their right mind could size this man, and realize he ain’t playing with a full deck. Any way I’m here to tell you this is a true story and the people treated us real nice from that time until the end of logging season. So till next time, keep your powder dry.
Malakoff
Diggins State Historic Park is the site of California’s largest "hydraulic"
mine. Visitors can see huge cliffs carved by mighty streams of water, results of the
goldmining technique of washing away entire mountains to find the precious metal. Legal
battles between mine owners and downstream farmers ended this method. The park also
contains a 7,847 foot bedrock tunnel that served as a drain. The visitor center has
exhibits on life in the old mining town of North Bloomfield. This state park was not here when I was hauling logs, but the town of North Bloomfield was, not much to speak of at that time.