Saturday, July 13, 2013

Massive Wild West Collection of Artifacts To Go On Auction Block Monday July 15

Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, Wild West collection faces auction hammer

By Michael Sadowski
Harrisburg, Pennsylvania (Reuters) - Thousands of Wild Westartifacts, collected by a former mayor for a museum that never materialized, will be auctioned off next week by the capital city of Pennsylvania to help pay down more than $300 million in debt.
The long-awaited auction is part of Harrisburg's efforts to recoup some of the city funds spent by former Mayor Stephen Reed to acquire the rare artifacts for a tourist-drawing Wild West museum. Featuring items ranging from the very valuable to knick-knacks, it is scheduled to start Monday and continue through the week.
Arlan Ettinger, president of Guernsey's auction house in New York City, said the sale was the largest of its kind. "I've said it a few times, that it's the largest auction of Wild West items ever, and no one has challenged me on it," he said. "So we're sticking with it."
Joanne Grant, the auctioneer who cataloged each item, said about 6,700 people had signed up to bid online(www.proxibid.com). By Monday, she said, that number could be as high as 10,000. That does not include people who will be at the live auction at Harrisburg's City Island from Monday through July 21.
Bidders will see a warehouse packed to the rafters with vintage Wild West artifacts and other items related to the 19th Century conquest of the American West and figures like Buffalo Bill Cody, Wyatt Earp, Jesse James and Doc Holliday.
There also are artifacts from Native American tribes, a collection of pieces relating to the Battle of Little Big Horn and more than 500 vintage firearms, as well as a Stetson hat belonging to former President Lyndon B. Johnson.
Other historical items to go on the block include Teddy Roosevelt's three-barreled rifle, hand-written notes from George Washington and John Hancock and the uniform worn by General George Patton in World War Two.
Arnold Duke, owner of the Ruidoso River Museum in Ruidoso, New Mexico, flew to Pennsylvania for last week's public preview and was flabbergasted at the selection.
"The collection is vast. It's staggering," he said. "It would have made an incredible museum. I'm not sure the best place for it was Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, but it would have been impressive."
Reed's huge collection was stored in warehouses at the Harrisburg Department of Public Works.
The auction is not expected to solve Harrisburg's massive debt problem, caused by a costly and mismanaged incinerator project. Ettinger, the auctioneer, would not say how much he believed the collection to be worth. What it can bring is an end to the long-debated Wild West museum idea.
"It will be closure for a lot of people for a project they never really understood," said Brian Enterline, 38, a Harrisburg collector who viewed the selection on Thursday. "By next week, hopefully we can all put this behind us and focus on moving the city forward."
(Reporting by Michael Sadowski; Editing by Arlene Getz and Dan Grebler)

Saturday, June 22, 2013

History With A San Francisco and Stockton Connection

Unpretentious spot with a gory history

Published 8:33 pm, Friday, June 14, 2013
  • An undated picture shows two muzzle-loading dueling pistols believed to be the weapons used in the famous, if pointless, Broderick-Terry duel. Photo: Associated Press
    An undated picture shows two muzzle-loading dueling pistols believed to be the weapons used in the famous, if pointless, Broderick-Terry duel. Photo: Associated Press
One of San One of San Francisco's more surreal historic sites is actually located a few yards beyond the city limits, near the southern end of Lake Merced in Daly City.
Down a little dead-end street, near an unexpected gated community and just beyond a forlorn picnic area, there's a small ravine. In this obscure spot, at 7 a.m. on Sept. 13, 1859, the chief justice of California, David Terry, shot and mortally wounded U.S. Sen. David Broderick in a duel.
Two old stone obelisks mark where the antagonists stood, terrifyingly close to each other - the site of one of California's most pointless tragedies.
The death - some called it murder - of David Broderick felt disturbingly preordained.
San Franciscans talked about the likelihood that he would be killed long before he actually was. Broderick himself was aware of his impending doom: Six months before Terry shot him, as he was leaving Washington to return to California, he told a friend, "I feel, my dear friend, I go home to die. I shall be challenged, I shall fight, and I shall be killed."
Yet, with an inevitability that recalls Greek tragedy, the 39-year-old senator did nothing to avert his doom.

Irish roots

Broderick was the kind of San Franciscan found throughout the city's political history. The son of a stonecutter, he grew up in the tough Irish neighborhoods of New York City, where he learned to play hardball Tammany Hall politics. Drawn by gold fever to San Francisco in 1849, shrewd and ambitious, he quickly became the city's political boss - mastering the arts of patronage and strong-arming.
By 1857, Broderick had maneuvered his way to a seat in the U.S. Senate, where he became an outspoken opponent of slavery.
Terry was also a classic San Francisco character, but of a type that did not endure.
In the city's early years, its "better classes" were dominated by Southerners, many of whom regarded New York Irish like Broderick as lower-class rabble and subscribed to a code of honor under which duels were an acceptable means of righting a personal wrong.
Terry himself was a veritable caricature of a proud, thin-skinned Southerner. The Texas native stood 6-foot-6 and weighed 250 pounds, and claimed to have killed a Mexican officer during the Texas Revolution with a bowie knife to the heart. The claim is dubious - Terry was 13 years old when Texas fought its war for independence - but his later career was filled with more than enough bloodshed to make up for that stretcher.
In one infamous incident, Terry stabbed a man in the neck, later shouting that it was outrageous that someone of his stature should be arrested "merely for sticking a knife into a damn little Yankee well-borer."
He came to California in 1849, established a law practice in Stockton and was elected to the state Supreme Court in 1855. Two years later, he became chief justice.
Chief Justice David Terry killed his rival. Photo: Anonymous, ASSOCIATED PRESS


Promoting slavery

Terry was a member of the so-called "Chivalry Democrats," derisively called the "Chivs" by their opponents. As the country was convulsed by the issue of slavery, Terry and his fellow "Chivs" were determined that California would become a slave state.
That put Terry on a collision course with Broderick, and eventually he lashed out at the senator in a speech. Terry said his political enemies were "the followers of one man, the personal chattels of an individual whom they are ashamed of" - Broderick.
Broderick was breakfasting at the International Hotel in San Francisco when he read what Terry had said. Ashen with rage, Broderick shouted, "I have said that I consider Terry the only honest man on the Supreme bench, but I now take it all back!"
When Terry got wind of what the senator had said, he immediately challenged him to a duel. Broderick, who had had time to reflect, now decided that he was the target of a political plot, and declined the challenge on the grounds that he was engaged in an election campaign.

Persistent challenger

But Terry was determined to fight Broderick. As one historian put it, "For the next three months, Terry stalked Broderick as a hunter pursues a stag."
He announced his intention to challenge his enemy again as soon as the election ended. And Broderick, unwilling to "dishonor" himself, depressed and reportedly ill with pneumonia, acquiesced like a lamb going to the slaughter. When Terry challenged him again, he accepted.
Terry, Broderick, their seconds and 80 spectators met at a dairy farm near Lake Merced. The weapons were two Belgian pistols.
Terry had been practicing with the guns for two months. The distance was 10 paces. When the call "fire one" was given, Broderick raised his gun, but his shot went into the ground. At "fire two," Terry took careful aim and shot Broderick through the chest.
The senator collapsed and was carried to the Haskell House at Fort Mason, where he died three days later. (The house still stands at the foot of Franklin Street.)
The fatal encounter turned Broderick into a martyr and made a pariah of Terry. In an ending that also seems preordained, Terry himself was shot to death near Stockton by the bodyguard of a U.S. Supreme Court justice in 1889. Terry had been feuding with the justice, and a chance encounter in a train station led to a violent confrontation and Terry's demise.

Dueling out of favor

The San Francisco tragedy's only positive outcome was that it spelled the end of dueling in California. Broderick's death turned popular sentiment against the practice, and the Legislature eventually outlawed it.

Editor's note

Every corner in San Francisco has an astonishing story to tell. Every Saturday, Gary Kamiya's "Portals of the Past" will tell one of those lost stories, using a specific location to illuminate San Francisco's extraordinary history - from the days when giant mammoths wandered through what is now North Beach, to the Gold Rush delirium, the dot-com madness and beyond.

Trivia time

Last week's trivia question was: What animal-related incident factored heavily in the creation of Golden Gate Park?
Answer: Inhospitable sand dunes were the biggest obstacle to creating the park. When a horse's feedbag of barley spilled and quickly sprouted, workers realized they could use barley to stabilize the sand.
This week's trivia question: At the very end of the Beatles' last concert, on Aug. 29, 1966, at Candlestick Park, John Lennon teasingly played the opening bars of what song?
Gary Kamiya is a freelance writer and Bay Area native. His new book, "Cool Gray City of Love: 49 Views of San Francisco," will be published by Bloomsbury in August. E-mail:metro@sfchronicle.com

Sunday, June 9, 2013

Richard Diebenkorn's Exhibit Coming Soon

Seawall, 1957
Richard Diebenkorn, Seawall, 1957. Oil on canvas, 20 x 26 inches. Fine Arts Museums of San Francisco, gift of Phyllis G. Diebenkorn, 1995.96 © 2013 The Richard Diebenkorn Foundation

Richard Diebenkorn: The Berkeley Years, 1953–1966

HERBST EXHIBITION GALLERIES
June 22, 2013 - September 29, 2013
This exhibition will examine one of the most complex periods in the distinguished career of Richard Diebenkorn, exploring his shifting conceptions of abstraction and figuration through 131 paintings and works on paper, and emphasizing the formal evolution of these diverse works, their interrelationships, and their possible meanings for the artist.
Although Diebenkorn (1922–1993) was born in Portland, Oregon, he grew up in San Francisco’s Ingleside Terraces neighborhood and attended Lowell High School, Stanford University, and UC Berkeley. He lived in Sausalito from 1947 to 1949 and was both a student and instructor at the California School of Fine Arts (today the San Francisco Art Institute). After sojourns in Albuquerque, New Mexico; and Urbana, Illinois, Diebenkorn returned to the Bay Area in 1953 and settled in Berkeley, where he stayed for 13 years.
This exhibition is the first to focus specifically on this fertile period for the artist. His artistic evolution during what is now known as the “Berkeley period” yielded many of his best-known works and marked this era as one of the most interesting chapters in postwar American art. The Berkeley period included an abstract phase (1953–1956) and a figurative phase (ca. 1955–1967) that included landscapes, figures, interiors, and still lifes.
Featuring vibrant and varied works that are both abstract and representational, this unique selection traces the artist’s dramatic stylistic and thematic transformations during this pivotal period through well-known pieces as well as striking recent discoveries rarely or never before seen in public. The Fine Arts Museums of San Francisco have been longstanding supporters of Diebenkorn: his first solo museum exhibition was held at the Legion of Honor in 1948, and the permanent collection houses key works from his Berkeley period including Berkeley #3 (1953) andSeawall (1957). The exhibition features loans from many prestigious public and private collections, including that of the Diebenkorn family.

The exhibition is organized by the Fine Arts Museums of San Francisco, in collaboration with the Palm Springs Art Museum. President’s Circle: Ednah Root Foundation. Curators Circle: Koret Foundation. Conservators Circle: Christie’s. Benefactors Circle: National Endowment for the Arts. Supported by an indemnity from the Federal Council on the Arts and the Humanities.

Monday, June 3, 2013

Acorns, Native Americans in California and Julia Parker

Indian weaving to be shown in Yosemite

Sharing Traditions exhibit opens at museum Tuesday to show richness of native life


































June 2, 2013
Yosemite National Park --
The wood bark shelters and grinding stones at the American Indian village behind the
Yosemite Museum represent to Julia Parker her awakening as a Native American.
Parker, 84, is one of the country's most celebrated basket weavers, a traditional craft
that is also one of the last remaining expressions of indigenous culture, spiritualism
and art in America.
She learned the art from Yosemite Indians who had carried the craft down
through the generations. It has made her Yosemite National Park's
most prominent representative
of a culture dating back thousands of years, a connection that makes her both
proud and emotional.
"This is one of the last sites of the Ahwahneechee people," said Parker,
as she walked last week
through the village, pointing out the roundhouse and granary painstakingly
duplicated from
historic photos of remnant Indian structures still standing in the 19th century.
Parker's intricate work will be featured at the museum along with artifacts,
baskets and other collected pieces from renowned Yosemite Indian
weavers during a new exhibit called
Sharing Traditions, opening Tuesday. The exhibit, paid for with
$102,000 from
the Yosemite Conservancy, is celebrating 84 years of basket weaving
and American Indian
cultural outreach at Yosemite National Park.
"It's an important piece of American history," said Mike Tollefson,
president of the conservancy. "The exhibit focuses on 80 years,
but really it goes back to the first people who occupied the valley
and carried that tradition forward."
Parker, who has spent much of her adult life in the village behind
 he museum demonstrating weaving techniques and pounding acorns, 
is an unlikely representative of that history. How she got to this point
is a remarkable story that is representative of the displacement, 
cultural disintegration and loss of identity suffered by many Native
Americans during the 20th century.
It all began in the small Sonoma County town of Graton, where she was
born in 1929. She and her four siblings were Coast Miwok and Pomo Indians,
but she never knew that. She was a young girl, around 5 years old, 
when both of her parents died. How they died was never revealed, 
but she and her siblings soon found themselves living on a farm with foster
parents, milking cows and doing other chores.

Liz Hafalia, The Chronicle
Julia Parker walks in the replica Indian village at Yosemite with its roundhouse and granary carefully duplicated from historic photos of remnant Indian structures still standing in the 19th century. Parker has been here since she was a teen: "This is one of the last sites of the Ahwahneechee people."

'I just accepted it'

When Parker was an adolescent, her foster mother announced that she could no longer take care of them.
"When she couldn't take care of us anymore, I never felt sad. I just accepted it," Parker said. "I remember my foster parent said to me, 'Don't ever forget you are
a little Indian girl,' but she never
said what type of Indian."
Parker was sent to the Stewart Indian School in Nevada, the primary boarding school for American Indians in the West between 1890 and 1980.
The school's 83 buildings are now listed on the
National Register of Historic Places.
She became friends with a group of Indian children from Yosemite
at the school and remembers ringing a bell at the school to celebrate
the end of World War II. When she was 16, she left to find work
during the summer, but her friends persuaded her to come with them
to Yosemite.
Parker said she remembers the sound of Cascade Falls when
they first reached the valley.
"I didn't know anything about Yosemite at the time, and I'll always
remember that sound," she said. "It impressed me. I was stunned, 
but it felt like I belonged. I felt like this place was waiting for me,
 like a mother."

Liz Hafalia, The Chronicle
Melvin Mann and his wife Esther Mann (right) listen to Julia Parker as she weaves her basket at the Yosemite museum in Yosemite Valley, Calif., on Wednesday, May 29, 2013. Parker moved to Yosemite at the age of 17 and quickly began learning the craft of basket weaving from her husbandÕs grandmother and premier basket weaver, Lucy Telles.

Married at 18

After graduating from the Indian School at age 18, she married Ralph Parker, the grandson of Lucy Telles, who is believed to be the last full-blood Mono Lake Paiute. The Ahwahneechee, the original inhabitants of Yosemite who are believed to have been Miwok, mixed with and traded extensively with the Mono Lake Paiutes, before being driven out of the valley by soldiers in the 1850s. The mother of Chief Tenaya, the most famous Ahwahneechee chief, was a Mono Paiute.
Telles was a famous weaver who spent five years making a
36-inch-wide basket that won a competition at the 1939
Golden Gate International Exposition in San Francisco
 She and other tribal elders took Parker in and taught her how to
collect and weave a basket out of sedge roots, willow and redbud.
"When I went into their village is when I became an Indian,"
 she said. "I was told when I finished my first basket,
'Give it away and then you will be a weaver.' "
Weaving, Parker learned, is only one part of making a basket.
She was taught to stake out her own special area for
collecting plants, to offer a prayer and song when taking from the
earth and to "scrape the willows until they sing to you."
She learned never to make a basket after a death in the family,
"because if you are sad  your sadness will go into the basket
while you are weaving it."
When her baskets are complete, Parker gives something back
to the earth in the form of an offering.
Preparing food also has its intricacies. She learned the importance
of offering the first acorn to the fire spirit and the proper way 
to peel and pound acorns into mash. She was taught how to 
cook in the baskets using hot rocks.
Parker has since studied Indian baskets at the Oakland Museum,
the Phoebe A. Hearst Museum of Anthropology at UC Berkeley and
the National Museum of the American Indian in Washington, D.C.
She has developed her own style, but she maintains the traditional Yosemite
Indian methods and uses local materials.
"When people look at a basket, they don't realize that there is
so much more to it than what you can see," she said.
"I feel each basket comes with a personality and a story. It is the story
 about the plants that live along the river and grow up with their feet
 in the water. It is the story about the culture that gave birth to the basket."

Baskets at museums

Her baskets are on display at museums, including the Smithsonian Institution.
She once made a basket for Queen Elizabeth. She has been employed by
Yosemite National Park as a cultural demonstrator since 1960,
following in the footsteps of Telles and, before that, Maggie Howard,
who began showing tourists weaving and food preparation skills at
Yosemite Museum in 1929. They, too, are part of the new exhibit.
Parker has taught the traditional ways to her sons and her daughter, Lucy,
who is expected to take over for her mother as a park interpreter
when she retires.
Her reputation as a master weaver actually helped her discover
her own heritage about a decade ago. She had been asked by
the Federated Indians of Graton Rancheria to teach basket weaving. 
When she arrived in Graton, she recognized her childhood home
and neighborhood. The memories came flooding back, including
an image of a woman wailing on the ground next to a pair of boots
during the funeral ceremony for her father.
She learned only then that she was Coast Miwok and Kashaya Pomo.
"It turns out I lived on Parker Hill Road," she said, with a laugh,
 "and I ended up being a Parker."
It is a life that has come full circle, but Parker said her heart remains in
the historic village behind the museum near the Merced River
where the original inhabitants of Yosemite Valley once lived.
"I think about these ladies who came before me," she said, her eyes
 welling up as she stood next to a grinding rock used by generations
 of Indians. "Their baskets are still here and they say to me,
 'Don't forget me. Don't forget me.' I never will."
Peter Fimrite is a San Francisco Chronicle staff writer. E-mail: pfimrite@sfchronicle.comTwitter: @pfimrite

Monday, May 13, 2013

An Unsung Woman


DISPATCH

Alice E. Kober, 43; Lost to History No More




I RESCUE lost souls
Little did I realize six years ago, when I began work on a new book about the decipherment of an ancient script, that I would encounter the greatest backstage player I have ever written about: a woman who helped illuminate a world that flourished 3,000 years ago.
The woman was Alice Kober, an overworked, underpaid classics professor at Brooklyn College. In the mid-20th century, though hardly anyone knew it, Dr. Kober, working quietly and methodically at her dining table in Flatbush, helped solve one of the most tantalizing mysteries of the modern age.
The mystery centered on a long-lost script from Aegean antiquity known as Linear B. Inscribed on clay tablets around 1450 B.C., Linear B was unearthed in 1900 on Crete, amid the ruins of a lavish Bronze Age palace. The script, which teemed with pictograms in the shape of arrows, chariots and horses’ heads, resembled no writing ever seen. No one knew what language it recorded, much less what it said.
An unknown language in an unknown script is the linguistic equivalent of a locked-room mystery, and despite the efforts of investigators around the globe, Linear B endured for more than 50 years as one of the world’s great unsolved puzzles.
Then, in 1952, against all odds, the script was deciphered — seemingly in a single stroke. The decipherer was an amateur, Michael Ventris, a brilliant, melancholic English architect who had been obsessed with Linear B since he was a boy. He discovered that the script was used to write a very early dialect of Greek; set down in wet clay centuries before the advent of the Greek alphabet, it recorded the day-to-day workings of the first Greek civilization.
Though Mr. Ventris’s achievement brought him worldwide acclaim, it also left many unanswered questions. He had planned to write an account of his work, describing the incremental steps that led to his inspired solution. But he was unable to do so before he died in 1956, at 34, in a swift, strange car crash that may have been suicide. As a result, the story of one of the most breathtaking intellectual achievements in history remained incomplete for more than half a century.
Like so many canonical narratives of achievement, this story has a quiet backstage figure behind the towering public one. And here, too, as in other such stories (recall Rosalind Franklin, whose work, long unacknowledged, informed the mapping of the structure of DNA by Francis Crick and James Watson), that figure is a woman.
Alice Elizabeth Kober was born in Manhattan on Dec. 23, 1906, the daughter of recent immigrants from Hungary. A brilliant student, she earned a bachelor’s degree in classics from Hunter College, and it was there, in a course on early Greek life, that she appears to have encountered Linear B.
Enthralled — and already confident of her own blazing intellect — she announced on her graduation that she would one day decipher the script. She came within a hair’s breadth of doing so before her own untimely death, at 43, just two years before Mr. Ventris cracked the code.
Dr. Kober never married, nor do her hundreds of pages of correspondence reveal the faintest glimmer of a personal life. Each night, after her classes were taught and her papers graded, she sat at the table in the house she shared with her widowed mother and, cigarette burning beside her, sifted the strange Cretan inscriptions.
It was Dr. Kober who cataloged every word and every character of Linear B on homemade index cards, cut painstakingly by hand from whatever she could find. (During World War II and afterward, paper was scarce, and she scissored her ersatz cards — 180,000 of them — from old greeting cards, church circulars and checkout slips she discreetly pinched from the Brooklyn College library.)
On her cards, she noted statistics about every character of the script — its frequency at the beginnings and ends of words, and its relation to every other character — with the meticulousness of a cryptographer. Sorting the cards night after night, Dr. Kober homed in on patterns of symbols that illuminated the structure of the words on the tablets. For as she, more than any other investigator, understood, it was internal evidence — the repeated configurations of characters that lay hidden within the inscriptions themselves — that would furnish the key to decipherment.
DR. KOBER and Mr. Ventris met only once, and by all accounts did not like each other. But through her few, rigorous published articles, which together form a how-to manual for deciphering an unknown script, she handed him the key to the locked room. After her death, using the methods she devised, he attacked the mystery with renewed vigor and brought about its solution.
It is now clear that without Dr. Kober’s work, Mr. Ventris could never have deciphered Linear B when he did, if ever. Yet because history is always written by the victors — and the story of Linear B has long been a British masculine triumphal narrative — the contributions of this brilliant American woman have been all but lost to time.
By fortunate coincidence, an archive of Dr. Kober’s papers had opened at the University of Texas shortly before I began my research. As a result, I was the first journalist to have the privilege of seeing her groundbreaking analysis of the script in full.
Dr. Kober’s work on Linear B spanned more than a decade, and the archive includes sheaves of her correspondence with the few would-be decipherers she respected, plus her tens of thousands of homemade index cards, fitted neatly into “file boxes” made from empty cigarette cartons. Like so much of women’s lives at midcentury, all this — which reveals the steps Mr. Ventris took in his triumphant decipherment — had long existed outside the reach of posterity.
I am not certain how Dr. Kober would feel about her role in the decipherment being brought to light today. “The important thing is the solution of the problem, not who solves it,” she wrote to a young American colleague in 1949. But I prefer to take my cue from a letter she wrote two years earlier, on the publication in an academic journal of her scathing critique of another scholar’s misguided attempt to decipher Linear B.
“I hope he will not be too annoyed with my review,” Dr. Kober wrote. “But I feel that in scholarly matters the truth must always be told.”
So, too, in obits. After Dr. Kober died, on May 16, 1950, The Times published a short obituary article under the headline, “Prof. Alice Kober of Brooklyn Staff.” The article — the dutiful roster of job titles and professional memberships that typified obituaries of the period — devotes less than a sentence to her work on Linear B.
And so to redeem my profession, to correct a gaping omission in the story of one of the world’s great intellectual puzzles and to narrate a vital piece of American women’s history, I have chosen to reconstitute this singular unsung heroine at length, at last.
Margalit Fox is a senior obituary writer for The New York Times and the author of “The Riddle of the Labyrinth: The Quest to Crack an Ancient Code.”

Friday, May 10, 2013

Yosemite Photo

Looking Above Yosemite Valley--A Photo













A dramatic display of lightning illuminates the sky at Yosemite National Park.  The peak time for thunderstorms in the central Sierra is mid-June to early July.

       Above our camp, a lightning bolt harpooned the rim of Yosemite Valley.  Like the flash of a strobe, it lit up the night sky and the north wall.   Moments later, thunder cracked above us that sounded like the Earth was splitting apart, then boomed and reverberated across the canyon walls.   You could feel it down to your toes.  The mountain air tinged with  burning ozone, a smell you never forget.  The downpour that followed was so intense that it looked like raindrops the size of silver dollars were bouncing off the water pooling around us, as we huddled under our makeshift tarp, roped to the trees.

         A personal memory from a docent:  "Years ago, my brother and I back-packed into the Desolation Wilderness Area near Echo Summit.  We went with his 2 sons accompanying us.  At the end of 15 miles into the wilderness, we suggested setting up our camp near a pretty little lake nestled among the pines all around.  But, the boys drove us on by saying that we could go some more.  So, after 10 miles more, we finally stopped near the top of the tree line, before the landscape becomes nearly 100% granite boulders.  Then, an afternoon thunderstorm struck with sudden fury and we quickly stretched a tarp across a rope tied between 2 trees.  We secured the corners down to the ground forming a perfect A-frame tent with a canvas as the floor.  It then became our task to dig those effective Boy Scout trenches all around the rectangle.  The water draining down the hill found the path around our shelter and passed us by, leaving us dry enough until the storm subsided, which was shortly afterward.  As we drove home the next day, the boys shouted, 'We conquered that wilderness'. "

           The above photo nicely illustrates the path to the top of the Half Dome which has become an overly popular hike for young people.  My brother and I were lucky enough to do it on a day when only about 9 people went to the top.  Top of the dome is reached by hiking past Vernal Falls at bottom, then hiking past Nevada Falls which is on the right.  Then, the trail leads behind the two granite knolls in the center and you hike left toward the bottom of Half Dome.  Slightly around the bottom of the Dome on the other side is found the base of the Dome with its famed cable-ladder to take you to the top, where the cables are no longer needed to walk upright.  An adventure not to be forgotten.