Torpedoes

See the red things in the above picture? They are an obscure item which the internet says aren’t even used any more, and they are called railroad torpedoes. I saw one once, back in 1966. When I was a university student, I lived in a men’s dormitory on campus. One of my friends there worked for the railroad during the summer months as a rear-end brakeman, which meant he would ride in the caboose at the back end of the freight train. After returning to campus in September, he showed us a torpedo that he had liberated from the railroad. If anyone needed to alert the engineer, who drove from the locomotive at the front of the train, that he needed to stop the train because of an emergency, you would clip a torpedo on to the railroad track. It sat on top of the track, and the pressure of the train wheel passing over it would cause it to explode. You all know how loud a train’s diesel engine is when it’s roaring along the tracks, so it’s not hard to imagine how extremely loud the explosion of the torpedo would have to be in order to be heard by the engineer over the sound of the engine. That was how my friend explained it all to us.

Our dormitory building was 3 stories tall, with a stairwell that ran from the basement level all the way up to the top floor. The stairs and landings were concrete, and the walls were masonry, with no windows in the entire stairwell. One evening, after a bunch of us were well-lubricated with adult beverages, this guy decided that we should detonate the torpedo in the stairwell. He said it would have to be struck with tremendous force for it to explode. Well, none of us were going to do something as stupid as hitting it with a hammer, and since there was no locomotive handy we had to come up with an alternative method to strike it. One of the geniuses in our group wondered if dropping a heavy rock on it from above would do the trick – it seemed like it should work, right?

One of the guys went outside and fetched a big rock, probably a foot across and weighing a good 20 pounds. We set the torpedo flat on the concrete floor and climbed  up enough stairs so that we could lob the rock down on to it. It wasn’t a drop straight down but a few feet over and a good 10 feet down. Our friend said that if it worked, it should be really loud. Rather timidly, we tossed the rock down and it missed the target. Down we went and retrieved the rock, bringing it up again for a second try which also missed. The next couple of tries also missed, although it seemed like we clipped the edge of it once. By then, we had relaxed our guard a bit and were becoming somewhat impatient. On a final try, the rock hit the torpedo squarely. There was a bright flash and a deafening roar as it exploded. We were stunned by how loud it was, and amazed – it had exceeded our wildest expectations! Down we went to see the result. A big black mark and a slight indentation in the concrete was proof that our stunt had worked. Everyone in the building heard the explosion and came looking. By then we had removed the rock and cleaned up the debris. Good thing nobody had walked through that exterior door down by the torpedo when it went off. Of course none of us were thinking that far ahead.

At A Loss For Words

Several years ago, I was climbing an easy peak with a group comprised of men, women and a number of children. It was a family sort of outing, and everyone was in good spirits. The weather was sunny and pleasantly warm. Then, tragedy struck within a hundred feet of the summit. One of the men had taken a daring route, apart from the rest of us, and had fallen to his death. I watched him fall, and was quite shattered by the experience. Three different helicopters attempted to retrieve his body, only the third one being successful (it was piloted by a group of US Marines who were experienced in such rescue operations). Several hours had passed by the time his body was flown to the base of the mountain and transferred to a waiting ambulance.

Back at our large campsite, we were all in a state of shock. I climbed a nearby hill to get enough of a signal to be able to make a cell-phone call to my wife, as I wanted her to hear the story from me first rather than learning it on the evening news. It was hard, telling her what had happened. Back in camp, the man’s wife was resting at a friend’s trailer. I brought her a plate of supper. I knew her and her husband quite well, and when I saw her I hardly knew what to say. It was a very emotional moment, and words failed me.

Baldwin Street

I was really curious to visit Baldwin Street. My tourist’s guide to New Zealand mentioned it as a must-see in Dunedin. Since I was already on the South Island in 1992 and heading down to that fair city, it was only a matter of time before I’d be there in person. Why would anyone go out of their way to visit a street? Was there some famous attraction to be seen there? Actually no – there was just the street itself. Once settled in to a backpacker’s hostel, I took a city bus which went along North Road and dropped me right at the start of Baldwin Street. It ran uphill in a southeasterly direction, and I took this picture.

Notice the 2 yellow signs with the exclamation marks: one of them says “For safety reasons, sightseers are requested not to drive up this street.”; the other says “No exit, no turning.” The lower part of the street, paved with asphalt, is not too steep. I decided to walk all the way up it to its end, and I’ve gotta say that once you’re on the concrete portion, that is one bloody steep street. You can read all about it here on this Wikipedia site. There are some quite revealing pictures on that site, which show quite dramatically how steep the street really is. You’ll also read about how, in 2001, a couple of idiot university students decided to roll down the street in a garbage can and one of them was killed in the process – what a wild ride that must have been! In January of 2004, I visited Dunedin once again, this time with my wife Dottie, and we returned to Baldwin Street – it was just as impressive as ever.

Monty’s Revenge

My summer of 1970 was spent driving all around Mexico with my friend Dan in his 1965 Falcon. We had already spent weeks in the country and were heading back north from Mexico City. The plan was to cover a lot of ground that day, but it was not to be. We had only gone about a hundred miles when Dan became horribly sick, so much so that I feared for him. We needed to get him looked at by a doctor, and right away. The next city was Querétaro, and, since it was the state capital, it seemed like our best chance to get him help. Once off the highway, I pulled up to a multi-story hotel and into their underground parking. Luckily, it turned out to be one of the best hotels in the city. When we checked in at the front desk, I asked the manager to call a doctor who would do a house call to our room, and he got right on it.

A short while later, a doctor arrived. He quickly diagnosed Dan’s ailment as what is colloquially known as Montezuma’s Revenge, a type of intestinal disorder which causes nausea, vomiting and diarrhea. He gave us medicine, we thanked and paid him, and he left. I spent time relaxing in the room while Dan slept. The condition is seen as “retribution” for the horrific way the Spanish conquistadores treated the Aztec people. Dan still didn’t feel much like eating, so while he got more rest, that evening I went up to the top floor of the hotel where they had a nice restaurant that looked out over the city. I enjoyed an excellent filet mignon with a bottle of good wine – hey, no point in both of us suffering!

The next day, Dan was feeling better enough that we could start our travels again. We took it easy, making our way to San Luis Potosí, Ciudad Victoria and Monterrey over the next 3 days, a distance of just over 500 miles. Heading west from Monterrey, we soon passed Saltillo. A young fellow by the name of Victor Hugo Martínez was hitchhiking west of town and we stopped to give him a lift in the 104-degree desert heat. He was a student returning home to Torreón to visit his family and was lively company. Before long, though, Dan’s symptoms came back with a vengeance. He curled up in the back seat in the fetal position, suffering terribly, while our passenger rode shotgun. A couple of hours later, we arrived in Torreón and he directed us to his home. We met his parents who were grateful we had helped out their son, and insisted that we be their guests that night. In the meantime, the 3 of us drove to a nearby medical clinic. The place was packed, the lobby standing-room only. Our young friend spoke to the receptionist, and, miraculously, we got moved to first position and went in to see the doctor right away. Well, you guessed it, the same disorder again. The doctor gave Dan some medicine to take and we returned to the home of our newfound friends. The symptoms disappeared in a day or so, and we were soon back in the States where life quickly returned to normal.

There Be Dragons

The bees – I had heard about them from more than one source, so I was taking the warning seriously. Apparently their hive was right at the top of the peak, and it was one I needed to climb – it was on a big list of 400 peaks, and, well, I couldn’t just skip that one and call it good. As climbers, we try to avoid objective hazards, things like avalanches and rockfall, but wildlife – that may have been a first for me. It didn’t hurt any that the peak happened to lie within the confines of the Castle Mountains, certainly one of the most spectacular ranges in Arizona. Not only that, my summit was just uphill from the arch. This beautiful feature had no official name but it certainly held your attention if you were anywhere near it. Those are mature saguaro cacti growing inside the opening, so I’m guessing the span is at least 50 feet tall.

See the steep mountainside rising up on the left side of the photo? It was up past that where the dragon lived, the place the bees called home. After I dawdled a bit under the arch, I set out to climb another 400 feet to the top of Window Benchmark (aptly-named, right?). Along the way, I passed a couple of ancient trincheras, and before long I warily approached the summit. Over the years, I’ve been stung many times by the aggressive bees which have taken over the desert southwest, so I have the greatest respect for them.

I cautiously moved the final feet to the mountaintop, stopping often to listen. Many times you can hear the hum of wild bees before you see them, as they fly to and from the crevice in the rock they call home. So far, nothing. I made it all the way to the highest point, and nary a bee in sight. It had been 3 years since my friend Dave had been there and had a scare, but today, nothing. Finally, I could relax. Hives come and go, and it looked like this one had run its course – the bees had either died out or moved on. Fine by me – this was the first of 5 peaks I hoped to do in one push, and I was happy to move on unscathed.