sonora2sonoma

by Tim Konrad

Chapter Three

The onset of shorter days and cooler nights that is part and parcel of early November brings to mind the smell of burning leaves—an activity my father routinely performed this time of year back before air pollution caused the practice to be evaluated and subsequently prohibited. We had a number of large-leafed trees on our lot—mostly walnuts and sycamores—that each year produced large volumes of leaves in need of disposal. At that time, city residents had the option to dump their leaves and other yard debris on the side of the street, where city work crews would periodically come by and haul them off free of charge.  As noted previously, it was a simpler time.

Anyway, for reasons I never fully explored, my father sometimes chose to round up the expired vegetable matter and instead burn it in his burning barrel. The device consisted of a recycled 50 gallon drum with the top removed and a small vent hole piercing the side near the bottom to provide better air circulation and thereby more efficient combustion. The top was covered by a suitably sized piece of heavy metal mesh designed to prevent sparks from escaping. Just as the startling displays of color provided each year by autumn foliage signal the approach of winter, the smell of leaves burning became forever associated in my mind with the onset of autumn.

As the memories of summer became more distant and weather patterns favored rain, part of the annual ritual of the seasons dictated that exposed water pipes be inspected to make sure their newspaper wrappings were in good enough order to withstand the winter temperatures. Back in the 1950s, the weather was colder in Sonora and hard freezes were more the norm than the exception they are today. Snowfall was more frequent and significant then as well, and it was not uncommon for the careless or ill-prepared to wake up to discover their water pipes frozen or burst open.

In December of 1955, it rained for two whole weeks without stopping. It rained so much it washed away the Highway 49 bridge spanning the Stanislaus River at Melones about a half-hour after my father drove across it. The storm also caused significant flooding around Sacramento. The Yolo Causeway was constructed afterward in response to this flood. The reason I remember this event so vividly is because the dates of the rainstorm corresponded with the two week break from school we schoolchildren got off for Christmas vacation. Because my mother would never let me play outside when it was raining, that was one very long and boring and frustrating vacation. The time was thereafter regarded as the Christmas Floods.

Another local casualty of the flooding was the loss of an historic covered bridge that used to span the South Fork of the Stanislaus River at Pine Log, behind Columbia. The site was only accessible via a steep and strenuous hiking trail that descended the canyon from the lower end of Experimental Gulch Road. The site of a thriving mining camp back during the Gold Rush, few people these days have likely ever heard of Pine Log Crossing.

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I crossed this bridge on a hike my father took me along on in the summer of 1954, en route to a place called Crystal Cave, a limestone cave with several levels that extends deep underground.  There was a ramshackle cabin not far from the bridge my father told me was inhabited by an old hermit who avoided people when they came around. I recall seeing someone dart off into the bushes when we came by the place. A year or two afterward I saw a news item in the local paper saying the remains of someone—likely the old hermit—had been discovered in the vicinity by some deer hunters.

The entrance to Crystal Cave was set into the side of a gully part way up the mountain atop which sat the American Camp Fire Lookout tower. The foundation outline was all that remained of what once had been a house situated in a pleasant meadow a couple hundred yards uphill from the cave’s entrance. Some years later, I had the opportunity to meet in Columbia with an old woman who had lived in that house as a young bride back in the 19^th century. She told me her husband had discovered the cave while rabbit hunting when he was led to its entrance by a rabbit he had shot and wounded. She also recounted a time in which her husband had made the long trek to Columbia for provisions and she was home by herself when an Indian man came by. She said she was frightened and told the man her husband was off working nearby to dissuade him from trying any “funny business.”