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Outpost camp consisted of 1 large 15'x30' Combination kitchen and dining tent - dirt floor and open shelves for cupboard and storage space. Six 8'x10' bedroom accomodation tents; two steel cots and an orange crate bedside table with a candle and tin wash-basin for each of them. Bedding was laundered by boiling water in an oldfashioned copper wash boiler, rubbed on a rub board, and line dried in the sun. Once upon a time, there was a gasoline powered washing machine up there, but it ended up as a target for sharp shooting vandals. Waitresses, busgirls, dishwashers, and kitchen helpers were our two daughters, Deanne age 11 and Donna age 7. Hard workers they were too. Dean was busy working at the Portals, but came up mid-afternoon on Wednsdays and Saturdays to cut and split the stove wood. His hiking time from the Portals was 55 min. (time for average hiker 1 hr 20 or 30 min.). Forest guard, Chuck Short, nicknamed him "Tarzan". Happy Day when a large wood cook stove, with workable oven, was brought up on a canvas pallet via mule back to replace the worn out hulk that I had struggled with for the first month. Now I could add hot biscuits, cornbread, pies, and other goodies to the menu. I became noted for the home made pies - Apple, Cherry, berry, and pumpkin. Had repeat customers that hiked the 4 miles from the Portals just for pie and coffee, price 25 cents. Sometimes, a serving would sell a whole pie, price $1.00. Over Labor Day in 1950, I baked 20 pies for the Sierra Club on their annual climb of Mt. Whitney. All groceries were brought up by pack train; usually at least twice a week. Once the pack train was deployed elsewhere for 10 days, and I was down to serving coffee, canned fruit, and turkey sandwiches for breakfast. The refrigerator was a near-by snow drift. Cooler was shelves hung from a tree limb and enclosed with wet gunny sacks. "Running" water was procured from a small stream by the back door. Met most interesting hikers, mountain climbers, and would-be mountain climbers from all over the world, including a hardy girl from Sweden that went skinny-dipping in the icy waters of Consultation Lake after a sucessful climb of Mt. Whitney. The saddest experience, while there, was the fatal fall from the east face of Mt. Whitney of the son of R.J. (Lucky Strike tobacco) Reynolds and his companion Steve Wasserman. The boys were spending their summer holidays working at one of the active mines in the Inyos owned by Wasserman's father. They assured me that they were experienced climbers having climbed several peaks with ropes and pitons in the Swiss Alps. Fate was aginst them this time as they only made it about 2/3 of the way up before their accident. Since we were the last people to talk to the boys, the girls and I were interviewed on the T.V. News as their bodies were being brought down via pack mules. Most embarrasing Moment: Early one morning three boys, newly arrived from Germany, stopped in for tea and toast. When the first one finished, he arose and asked a question. I did not understand so asked him to repeat. This time he looked at his lighted cigarette, the floor, and toward the dish cupboard and repeated the question. Again, I did not understand, so he asked again. In the mean time, the other two were very quiet and offered no help. Even though we had a dirt floor, I decided since he kept looking at the dish cupboard, that he must want an ash tray, so I went to the cupboard, picked up a shot glass, and handed it to him. When I did this, the other two came unglued, slapped the table with their hands, and went into convulsive laughter. I knew I had made a mistake, so once again I said "I'm sorry, you will have to speak very slowly". He rolled it around and around on his tongue and came out with "Res Room?". Thank heavens for a very dim lantern light to hide my chagrin, for with acres of bushes outside, and it not yet daylight, I was very naive about his wishes. Most anxious moments. There was a report of a strange-acting character spinning circles, smelling trees, and dancing up the Mt. Whitney trail. The packer alerted Dean, who came up to spend the night as a protector. The character didn't show until the next morning after Dean had gone down to his work at the Portals. Later, two men reported that they were sleeping in a pup tent, thought that they were crowding each other, and awoke the next morning to find Little Moron (as we dubbed him) as a bed-fellow. He stopped in, ate an enormous breakfast, then continued his climb to the top of Whitney. I was quite concerned when he did not return that night; he had no bedroll or even a jacket. The next day a packer reported he spent the night on top of the mountain and loaned Little Moron a saddle blanket. Later in the afternoon, he arrived at camp whimpering that his feet hurt because of rocks in his shoes. When asked why, he didn't remove them he replied "I'll just wait til I get to the bottom!" He was evidently harmless, but I heaved a sigh of relief as I watched him spin his circles down the trail to the Portals. Because of Sierra Club pressure, Outpost camp was permanently closed in 1950. |