Rear view volume II

water hazards in the area. So, slightly embarrassed, I chuckled, disrobed, and joined the

group. It was pleasant enough, but slightly warmer than I had expected.
When our Caracas visit was concluding Carol and I decided a stopover in Cuba during our return to the U.S. would be interesting, so we booked a flight into Havana. That time

was shortly after Castro’s revolutionary uprising had overthrown the existing dictator’s government, and Castro had begun his rule as the new dictator.Then the U.S. had not yet become aware of Castro’s plans for a communist rule, and neither the U.S. nor Castro had any objections to visits between countries by their citizens. Cuba, in fact, then warmly welcomed visitors, especially those who had cash to spend, since the normal supply of tourists had dwindled considerably during Castro’s military activities. So Carol and I had no trouble getting a very classy hotel room at one of Havana’s most elegant hostelries, the Hotel Nacional.

One unusual feature was that for several weeks Castro had issued invitations to all of Cuba’s campesinos (lower class rural-dwelling farmers, sugar cane workers, etc.) to come and visit Havana for a couple days and enjoy the sights and city environment most had never seen before, at government expense.They would be free to roam anywhere, inspect anything, and their food and lodging would be provided at some government-selected locations. Not being aware of this upon our arrival, we were surprised by the crowds of ill-dressed people on the streets who seemed to be simply “rubber-necking”. And later in the hotel, there were more of the same in the lobby, and the elevator up to our room was also loaded with sightseers who were obviously just enjoying their first elevator rides.

* * * *
We retrieved our kids as soon as we were back in Tulsa. They both reported having had fine times, and no one got lonesome (as they said some of the others did). Kappy had written us a few times during our South American visit and kept us informed about her activities. (Before we left we had given them the business offices’ addresses in Bogota and Caracas.) And early in our trip we had a nice very comprehensive missive from J.M.

sent to us in Bogota. But he concluded his letter with a footnote that he didn’t have any more stamps and couldn’t get any at camp, so if we wanted to hear from him again we’d have to mail him some. We found it a bit hard to buy U.S. stamps anywhere during our trip, so we didn’t hear from him except that once.
One of Jerry M.’s primary interests at Camp Lincoln was sailing. After he and we were home he enjoyed explaining to us the techniques of sailboat operation, and finally decided he would like to have one of his own. The Sea Sled had lost status as a boating vehicle, and after quite a bit of discussion with Carol and me on the subject we agreed to let him have one built to order. He had somehow learned of an independent boat builder named John Bougio (spelling is questionable, but it sounded like “Boo-joe”) and he contracted with Bougio to build a Crescent model. I don’t remember the price, but much of the money came from J.M.’s saved allowance funds and birthday gifts. It was large enough to seat two or three very comfortably, and the initial voyage on a large lake near Tulsa was a memorable event! It subsequently had many voyages and lasted well for a couple years or so, until it suffered damage when moored during a a violent storm. The guy wires broke, the mast tipped and rather gutted the boat. Subsequently Bill Smatlak, during a visit by him and Yvonne, agreed to take it. They towed it back to Rice Lake, Bill repaired it and used it a few years before finally having to dispose of it. But he did retain

the mast which he erected in the back yard overlooking the lake, and adorned it with lots of Christmas tree lights which made an attractive holiday decoration.

In October of 1959 I again embarked on an extended geophysical journey. My first business stop was a seismic operation in Turkey, to be followed by a similar visit to Libya. The flight from Rome landed in Istanbul (called Constantinople until 1453) where I was met by a company plane which flew me across Turkey, with a stopover in Ankara,

very near the Syrian border. The crew was working in one of the few flatland spots for miles around. Results were looking good, and the supervising operator wanted to extend the survey a few miles into Syria to provide some marginal control for a very interesting anticlinal structure they were working on. I was sorry to have to dissuade him, pointing out that we had no authority from Syria to do so, and if we were caught sneaking in with a seismic crew there would likely be some embarrassing repercussions from the Syrians. Incidentally, I never did later learn whether that prospect had been leased from Turkey and drilled, but if so it was probably a dry hole since I’ve never heard of any oil or gas production being developed in that area.

“Ucuz-dihr” she replied. (oo-JOOZ –deer: It’s cheap.) “On sekiz lira” (OAN say-KEEZ LEE-ra.”: Only eighteen lira.)

A lira was then worth about 60 cents in American money, so the price was $10.80 in U.S. currency. I said “Satin almak istiyorum.” (sa-TIN ahl-MAHK ee-stee-YO-room: I

want to buy it.) And I did. After I paid her she smiled and said, “Tesekkur ederim.” (tesh-ek-KYOOR ay-DAY-reem: Thank you.) And I replied as I left, “Bir sey degil” (beer SHAY day-YEEL: You’re welcome.) “Allaha ismarladik.” (ahl-LA-ha ees-MAR-la-dihk.Good-by.)

“Well, Arabic must be tough to learn. How you doing?”

the anwer!”

“So how am I going to get back to the hotel?” He scribbled the name on a piece of notebook paper, plus a couple of Arabic words. “When you’re broke and want to leave show this to a cab driver. There’ll be several outside later tonight and one of them will get you there. But just be sure and keep enough money for the taxi ride! And come see us again sometime, hear?”

I enjoyed my Tripoli visit, and before I left was inspired to write another of my classical poetry creations, entitled “Tripping Through Tripoli, or, Thoughts While Squatting On My Oasis”. For any literature lover, I'm including a copy facing this page.

In the spring of 1961 came the big bad news! The Carter Oil Company, long a subsidiary affiliate of Standard Oil of New Jersey, was to be taken over by Humble (also a Jersey affiliate,--Carter's “rich cousin”).This was disappointing, and rather unnerving to many Carter employees who wondered if they might lose their jobs, or if not might at least have to move to Houston since the Tulsa offices might close. I never heard how many, if any, Carterites lost their jobs, but most of all who retained their jobs had to pack up and head for Houston. That included the Kyles. The good news was I would remain Chief of Foreign Geophysics; the bad news was having to leave Tulsa again. And my family and I were getting enough tired of the frequent moves that I considered quitting. But I didn’t; a job was needed to accumulate cash for the kids’ college funds.

As in most of our company moves, my presence at the new location was required a.s.a.p., so I reported for work in mid-May and had Carol join me to house hunt.We assumed the new job assignment would be a relatively short one, as were most of my previous ones, and that we wouldn’t be in Houston long, so our house shopping only took three days. Our assumption as to length of time we’d live in Houston was, of course, a classical error! As I write this I’ve been here over 40 years, about 48% of my lifetime!

A Humble employee was assigned to tour newcomers and suggest some of the best residential locations. He told us school facilities should in our case be an important consideration and that the Spring Branch school district, within the western outskirts (then) of Houston, was quite superior to the more extensive Houston Independent district. The Memorial Forest subdivision looked attractive, and on May 25^th we purchased the third or fourth house we looked at, at 12214 Broken Arrow, for $31,500. (As I write this the tax appraisal is currently nearly ten times that amount!) Our sales contract specified that the seller (John Smith; an unusual name!) give us possession no later than July 1.

Carol returned to Tulsa to arrange for that home to be put on the market, and Humble arranged comfortable temporary quarters for me at a rather classy apartment hostelry called the Savoy Field, in a near-downtown area handy to the office building.

Then a series of sad events began occurring. First, the death of Carol’s father, Earl Snell, on June 1. Carol and I went to Rice Lake for the funeral, leaving J.M. and Kappy to keep house in Tulsa. This they did quite well, I was glad to find on my return. I then continued down to Houston again, but Carol remained in Wisconsin briefly to help Yvonne and their older sister Phyllis help their mother Lu adjust to having to live alone, and was back in Tulsa by June 12. Four months later I lost my mother on October 23^rd, a month after her 76^th birthday, and Carol and I had another sad trip to Wisconsin. Carol then remained in Mom’s home in Menomonie long enough to put her house on the market, and with much help from Yvonne arrange for either the sale, disposal, or packing and shipping to Houston, of household property and furniture.

During that year, prior to my mother's death, we had the pleasure of an extended visit by Carol's nephew David Williamson, then about 13 years old. He is the older of two sons of Phyllis and Jay, who agreed with Carol to have him spend most of the summer with us in Houston. He is about a year younger than Kappy, and hit it off well with our kids who enjoyed the experience of having another "brother" in the family for a few months. He was an active and fun-loving youngster, and evidenced potential athletic ability in his baseball, swimming, and bicycling activities. (And that ability subsequently materialized in his becoming a high school football player good enough to be granted a scholarship to the University of North Dakota. There he became a star quarterback and was eventually awarded the honor of being in that University's Football Hall of Fame.)

In December we had Lu come and stay with us for four months, to help her avoid the cold environment of Wisconsin winter and widowhood. But the following summer, on August 26, Lu also left her life. That time, however, I was on another business trip in Libya (more on that later), and Carol had to make the sad visit north alone, again leaving our kids home as housekeepers. So, in a period of about 14 months, Carol and I lost three of our parents in a very depressing sequence.

* * * *
Our family decided that a Christmas time vacation trip to Mexico would be a very welcome relief from the hassles of moving and getting settled in Houston. Lu had been to Mexico with us in 1953, and opted instead to visit some good friends in Oklahoma City. So we exchanged Christmas gifts early, before Lu left on the train December 14^th.

Our ultimate trip objective was Guadalajara, a major city in southwestern Mexico, which I wanted to show my family since I had spent some time in and out of that area during my WWII assignment in Mexico. I am indebted to Carol for refreshing my memory of many events of our tour, which she wrote shortly after our trip in a file folder document with a wealth of included photos.

group when she attempted to discuss the barbecuing in her feeble Spanish, and ended up ordering the kid’s kidney, without realizing what she was doing.

Carol and Kappy watched us briefly, then decided to stroll around the boat a bit. After awhile we heard an excited yell from Kappy, “Look! Look! a whale!” Sure enough, a whale briefly surfaced off starboard, then submerged. “I think he headed under the boat!” said Kappy. The skipper came by, smiled and nodded. “They show up every once in a while to look at our boat,” he said. About then Jerry Mike yelled, “Hey, there he is off portside!” The whale surfaced briefly a couple times, then stayed under until he reappeared behind us exactly where our fishing lines were trailing. “Better reel in,” said the boat captain. “If he gets tangled in the lines, he’ll pull them and your rods out to sea.” So we did, hurriedly. Kappy said, “What if he should come up under the boat? What would that do?” The boat captain said, “Then we all swim for shore.” We realized later he’d been kidding, but at the time it made us nervous.

boat through the nearby jungle. It was a relaxing and scenic trip in an environment my family had never experienced before,--a great variety of palms and jungle vegetation, birds and flowers, and a small plantation where coffee trees, avacado trees and pineapples were being grown

My job as a Humble employee, I was told during my indoctrination sessions, would continue to be in foreign geophysics but of course under different supervision. My new supervisor would be Dr. Will Rust. Will was a gentlemanly and friendly fellow about 15 years my senior, who had been in some branch of geophysics all his Humble career and was a complete and useful authority on that subject. His charming wife Margaret had at one time been his company secretary, and the two became our close friends and also very enjoyable social companions. During 1961 my work was entirely office-oriented as I gradually became familiar with Humble’s organization and procedural processes. And, of course, the coordination with Standard of New Jersey’s New York office continued as before, requiring a few visits there by me which were my only business travels in 1961.

The summer of 1962 I was booked to visit Jersey’s French affiliate in Bordeaux, and

also visits to Jersey’s London and Barcelona offices, which were to be my year’s travel obligations. So I decided, with Carol’s concurrence, that following my business duties, it would be a fine summer vacation for all our family to spend some time touring Europe. Passports were obtained and travel arrangements made for Carol and the kids to fly to Paris, where I would meet them after I’d finished my Bordeaux assignment.

I was reasonably sure that the “day-zeer” meant “want”, so I said, “Oui, garcon. Je voudrais un petit dejeuner, s’il vous plait,” (I think that’s “I’d like breakfast, please.”) That was a mistake for me to try to respond in French, even badly, since the waiter assumed I knew some, and he promptly became very voluble with a barrage of incomprehensible rapid fire words and phrases which I assumed were probably menu suggestions. I rubbed my chin, trying to look thoughtful about my choices, but my thoughts were really trying to remember some useful French words.

I finally began. “Je commence avec—ah,--”, I couldn’t remember the word for juice, but tried the word for beverage. “un boisson de orange.” The waiter looked a bit puzzled. “Boisson de orange?” I nodded. He added, “Bien. Et quel autre?”

What else? I said, “Well, je voudrais, --ah, two eggs. That’s dooz oofs.”

“Deux oeufs, monsieur? Bien. Comment voulez-vous les oeufs?”

How did I want them? At this point I gve up trying to remember any French, and conducted the rest of my order in abbreviated English with lots of hand gestures. I replied, “Over easy,” and turned my hands from top to bottom several times. And for the accompanying ham and toast I wanted I added, “Also, ham and toast,--that’s baked bread in a toaster,” accompanied by a flurry of hand motions. My order must have been nearly incomprehenible, but when I quit the waiter nodded, shook his head slightly, sighed, and headed for the kitchen.

After quite an interval my garcon finally returned with a tray and put the food on the table. “Le voila. Espere que vous l’aimez, monsieur.” “Merci, garcon,” I replied, and as he left I looked at his delivery with amazement. The orange juice I thought I’d ordered was a bottle of orange flavored soda pop, the two eggs over easy was an omelette which I found out included the ham, and the toast was a bagel-type hard roll fresh out of the oven! The only thing I thought I’d ordered and did receive was the coffee.

When I got back to the hotel I found my family was up, and had breakfasted on cereal and (real) toast in the hotel’s restaurant ( where I should have gone!). The only redeeming feature of my breakfast experience was the hilarity engendered when I told them about it. Some time later that day on our return to the hotel after a sightseeing tour, I guided the family, as they’d requested, past the side-street place I’d had breakfast. We all laughed hysterically when we saw in the front window a newly placed sign which said, “No English Spoke Here.”

“Let me try tonight,” said Kappy. She had had a French course in her just-completed school year, and had brought her French grammar with her to be used “just in case”. The rest of us thought that would be a fine chance for her to try out her new knowledge. So after our day’s activities and we were back in our hotel rooms, we thought it would be a good idea to decide in advance what we’d like for dinner that night so Kappy could practice giving our order in French. So we wrote out our optional menu choices for her to study, which she did for about an hour.

We’d learned that the big tourist-trap type restaurants were expensive, and because of their usual clients the waiters were required to be reasonably proficient in English. So, at dinner time we decided to find another small side-street café of about the same caliber as my morning breakfast spot. They are quite numerous in Paris, and we soon found one that seemed appropriate for our purpose. After we’d entered it turned out to be even a bit smaller than we’d expected, with only about 8 or 10 tables. And we were quite surprised when the chef himself turned out to be the waiter too,--and the only one! A real family-style restaurant indeed, and Kappy smiled at the anticipated challenge of her proficiency in French. The chef was a tall friendly looking fellow, wearing his chef’s hat and apron.

He approached our table, nodded politely, and said, “Bonne soiree, est-ce que voulez vous le diner?”

With a slip of paper in her hand to remind her of who wanted what, Kappy took a deep breath and began. It took a couple minutes, allowing the chef to make notes, and sounded to me like a fairly fluent flow of French. Apparently it also did to the chef. After Kappy’s conclusion he gave her a big smile and said, in perfect English, “Very good. How long have you been practicing that, young lady?” That totally unexpected response was good for laughs by all of us, and, needless to say, all ensuing remarks to and from the chef were in English. And it was a good meal, too.

For another two or three days we toured many of the tourists’ “must see” attractions: Notre Dame, the Louvre, Eiffel Tower, L'Arc de Triomphe, etc., and an endless number of palaces and parks. Paris has the most complex pattern of streets, boulevards and avenues of any city I’ve ever been in. A street map looks like a white sheet on which hundreds of black straws have been scattered at random.It is impossible to understand any verbal navigational instructions without studying a map. During our sightseeing we got lots of good hiking exercise, much of it the “long way around the barn”. Paris has an efficient Metro system of buses and subways, but the route patterns are as unassorted as the street systems. We did get to use it on several trips, however, after being instructed in great detail by helpful hotel personnel.

* * * *

We arrived at Bern, the capital of Switzerland. It is on the lovely Aare River and is considered to be one of the most colorful and interesting cities in Europe. It’s of ancient vintage, founded in 1191 with many buildings in the old section having been built in the 1400’s and 1500’s, giving much of the city a medieval appearance. A classic example is a cathedral spire built in the 1400’s which towers well above the rest of Bern.

One of the many entertaining features in downtown is the medieval Clock Tower, a landmark of Bern, which was built in 1406. As it strikes each hour large moving figures appear above the clock face and rotate on a turntable past a big viewing panel, including a wooden rooster, a man in armor, dancing bears, a man on a throne, etc.

We found Bern easier to navigate and sightsee on foot than Paris, and our first full day was one of much pedestrian exercise. It was apparent that bicycles were an important and popular method of transportation, and J.M. and Kappy weren’t long in suggesting we rent some. That sounded fine to Carol and me, but when we visited a rental shop we found out that rentals were only available on full day rates. After some thought on the matter we decided we didn’t want to use them just all day in Bern, so we would instead embark on a day’s bike tour of the countryside.

So the following morning we were up early and off on a bike tour on a riverside road to the city of Thun, a distance of about 16 or 18 miles.We made numerous stops along the way to admire the scenery, have refreshments --and eventually lunch-- at occasional small roadside cafes. One stop of much interest was a cherry orchard, with many trees loaded with ripe red fruit. It was in the countryside with no houses or buildings visible in the vicinity, and we felt the owner would probably feel generous enough to share some of his crop with tourists. So we disembarked, each harvested a large handful of cherries and relaxed in the orchard where we enjoyed a pleasant and tasty gastronomic experience.

After arriving at Thun in the early afternoon we biked about town a bit, and then continued south a mile or two along the edge of the beautiful “Thunersee” (Lake Thun). We all agreed that if we were ever fortunate enough to move to Switzerland, Thun would be a top choice of location. About 2 p.m. I said, “Well, gang,--about time we head back to Bern, isn’t it?” All agreed, but Carol groaned a bit and said, “I don’t know if I can make it. I’m pooped!” I added, “Me, too. Let’s get back into Thun and see if there’s any way we could get a bus back and carry our bikes too.”

At Thun the bus depot people were helpful. Can’t ship the bikes on a bus, they said, but why don’t we try the train station. We did, and were surprised and happy to be told that a train would be through in an hour or so on which both we and the bikes could be hauled to Bern. So we did, and arrived back at our hotel in time for a welcomed supper.

Our next eagerly anticipated venture was a trip to the Jungfrau, a famous Alpine peak with an elevation of 13,670 feet. (Jungfrau means maiden in German.) We left Bern early one morning, and drove a rental car about 35 miles southeast to the popular tourist town of Interlaken, then took a train to Lauterbrunnen. This village has the most scenic location of any town I've ever seen, in a lush green valley surrounded by massive snow-covered mountains, one of which is decorated with a beautiful falls of which the height must be in thousands of feet. From there we transferred to a "rack" train which began the mountain ascent with a bewildering zig-zag climb through awesome tunnels and across dizzily hung bridges. Another transfer is at Kleine Scheidegg which, after numerous scenic stops, again switches us to our final conveyance, the Jungfau Railway. This treats us to more exciting (and increasing cold) travel, including passage through a 4 1/2 mile tunnel, to our final destination at Jungfraujoch at an elevation of 11,333 feet.

Here there are facilities on a steep side of the peak, including a 46-room hotel, a 200-seat restaurant, and an observation terrace. Needless to say, the view was impressive,--snow-covered from the top down to about our level, as were the surrounding mountain crests. One event that we enjoyed was a brief dogsled ride through the snow, which certainly was an unusual and fun experience. We had lunch in a small café, seated in front of large picture windows with a great view. Then (of course), we visited the gift shop with the expected display of moutain area souvenirs. Our only purchase –and a good one!--was a nicely decorated hiking stick Kappy bought that is still displayed and in use at our Colorado cabin.

After our return to Bern, I rented a 1962 Fiat auto for a day's tour to Lausanne and neighboring points of interest. We saw many lovely lakes. At one of these, Lac Leman, we visited the famous Castle of Chillon, It's a classic example of ancient architecture, with its first construction begun in the 11^th century. It was renowned for many years as a prison and torture chamber, made famous by Lord Byron in his "Prisoner of Chillon".

Next day we made one more pedestrian tour of downtown Bern. We enjoyed the fine restaurants, and at one we were impressed to be told by the waiter that the nice looking gentleman at the next table was the President of Switzerland (a very informal country!). The following morning we took the train to Basel, landlocked Switzerland’s principal port. It’s on the Rhine River at the north border of Switzerland where it, France, and Germany join at the same boundary point. Basel, like Bern, is an ancient city of attract- ive medieval décor but much older, having been founded by the Romans in 44 B.C.,--probably because of its strategic location on the Rhine. But we did not get to tour that city’s many sites of historical interest because we had reservations to leave that day on a 4- or 5-day cruise down the Rhine to Rotterdam, Netherlands., on the luxurious Helvetia. An exciting prospect, especially for Carol and the kids who had never slept on a boat before.

The Rhine is the most important waterway in Europe, about 700 miles long from its source in glacier-fed streams in eastern Switzerland to the North Sea at Rotterdam. For about 50 miles of its early flow westward it’s a portion of the Swiss boundary with Germany. At Basel it swings north for about 100 miles where it is the French-German boundary, then begins a northwestward route in Germany to the Dutch border, and then swings due west into Rotterdam and the ocean. This trip was the first long boat trip for any of us, and it was much more interesting and scenic than several ocean cruises Carol and I took in subsequent years.

The Rhine’s scenery ,--mountains, valleys, rolling plains-- was always enjoyable, and that wide river’s busy traffic of passenger steamboats and freight barges was interesting. The boat's restaurant cuisine was superb and our cabins were comfortable and pleasnt. Our boat made lots of stops at numerous towns and cities such as Mannheim, Koblenz, Dusseldorf, etc., for the passengers to disembark and visit. At Dusseldorf we took a bus tour, observing much construction still in progress after WWII, during which the city was 80% destroyed. But their main shopping center is as fancy as New York's 5^th Avenus.

We had an interesting chat with a couple from England, and found their speech rather amusing. They say scones for biscuits, biscuits for cookies, lay-bys for roadside parks, fly-overs for overpasses, and joints for meat roasts. They found it hard to realize that our city of Houston could be 1500 miles from New York and that we'd never attended the "shows" there.

One visit was to a winery at the town of Rudesheim where great quantities of bottled and barreled wine were stored in big caves which had a resultingly very aromatic odor. I suppose we were expected to buy some and I invested in one bottle of champagne ($1.75 U.S.) But I also sampled a lot, which stimulated me to produce this semi-German terse verse:

Eins, zwei, drei, vier,

Ich bin drinken up das bier;

Sechs, sieben, acht, neun,

Ich bin drinken auch der wein.

Mit eaten und drinken on das schiff

Ich ben getten geschtinken und schtiff!

We arrived in Rotterdam in time for a brief look-see before taking a train to Amsterdam where we booked rooms at the Park Hotel, an elegant, massive, intricately decorated hostelry much superior to our Berne accomodations, and less expensive. . Next day we trained to Baarn and then to Spackenburg,--both quaint towns with truly Dutch atmosphere and Sunday costumes. The women were wearing white lace caps, floor length dresses, and many of the towns' resident were still wearing wooden shoes. That intrigued us enough that we bought a pair for each of us. Back in Amsterdam we took a boat tour of the canals. There are as many canals in that city as there are streets, and over 800 bridges to cross them.

We decided to visit Denmark and flew to Copenhagen. Because of late reservations we couldn't get into the tourist-crowded average-priced hotels, and ended up in the Palace Hotel, the fanciest in Copenhagen. Unfortunately the kids had picked up a bug in some Dutch restaurant and the next day had no interest in food. We took them to a doctor who told us to limit their menus to boiled fish and boiled potatoes . That diet, plus some pills the doctor provided, seemed to do the job and in a day or two they were in shape for a trolley tour of the city.

The most popular and tourist-populated location in Copenhagen is Tivoli Gardens. It was opened in 1843 and immediately became a big success. It has a fairyland atmosphere with a festive array of 10 orchestras employing 150 musicians, 54 of whom play in the Tivoli Symphony Orchestra. Tivoli is full of theatrical shows, exotic buildings and floral gardens, a roler coaster, and many entertainment facilities.

One day we took a ferryboat ride over to Malmo, Sweden, and had an all-day bus tour of the countryside. which reminded us of Wisconsin farmland,--except for road signs in Swedish and auto traffic using the left side of the road. (We were told that the Swedes are the only people other than the English who do this.)

Back in Copenhagen again we were given an opportunity to find out how warm and friendly the Danish are. The tourist bureau has a "Meet the Danes" system, whereby tourists have the delightful option of spending an evening in some Danish family's home. We eagerly signed up for such a session, and a Mr.Helge Poulson met us near his house in the suburbs in a late afternoon.He showed us through his family's attractive home in which oil paintings covered most of the wall space, and he was proud to have us see the sailboat he had built. Then Mrs. Poulson served us coffee, and introduced her very pretty 21-year-old daughter Inge. Inge had many questions about the U.S., and enjoyed talking with us, especially to J.M. and Kappy. We tried to leave after coffee and an hour's visit, but they seemed to enjoy entertaining us, insisting we stay and serving us beer and a meal of snacks until about 11:00 p.m. It was a remarkable display of hospitality! As a gesture of our appreciation I gave Helge the bottle of champagne I'd bought on the Rhine.

Finally ending our Denmark visit, we flew to London where I had a business commit- ment. We stayed at the Royal Court Hotel in Sloane's Square where there were good subway connections available. During my two days at the company office, Carol and the children spent most of the time during the day (and joined by me after work) in numerous hikes and bus or subway tours of London. There were many points of interest and sights to see, including Piccadilly Circus, Trafalgar Square, Westminster Abbey (where Kipling, Tennyson, Dickens, and many other famous people are buried), Hyde Park, Tower of London, Buckingham Palace, etc. At the latter my family members witnessed one of the Changing of the Guards ceremonies, which Carol described as "a ridiculous custom carried to ridiculous extremes". One evening we went to see "My Fair Lady". We knew the story and liked the songs, but couldn't understand the British accent or the words.

As it must to all travelers, the time for the family to head home had finally arrived. They embarked at the London airport on a journey back to Houston, where they were met and picked up at the airport by Will and Margaret Rust. I left them in London and headed for a brief business visit to our Barcelona office. But our trip was a fine one for all of us, remembered and discussed on many subsequent occasions.

* * * *

Barcelona, in the northeast corner of Spain on the Mediterranean Sea coast, with a population (then) of about 1.5 million, is second in size to Madrid. It’s ancient in age, having been founded in 230 b.c., but has developed into a prosperous manufacturing, trading, and shipping city, and an educational center.

No geophysical work was being done at the time of my visit but some was being contemplated, and the supervisor of the small office with few personnel was my friend from Venezuela, Don Johnson, who had been transferred there at about the same time Denny Meyer had been moved to Libya. I arrived in the late afternoon and after getting to the hotel where I had a reservation it was about 7:00 p.m. I didn’t have Don’s home phone number, so had nothing to do but drink and dine. While wetting my whistle in the hotel bar I noticed that the hotel dining room was not then open for business, so I asked the bartender if he could suggest a restaurant in the vicinity. With some hesitancy he named one nearby, but then added, “In thees city you should know los comederos, ah, –how you say, dine rooms,-- open despues ocho horas en la noche.”
Restaurants not open at night until after eight o’clock! My stomach was already rumbling. I decided to wait until 8:30 and had another tequila sour. I finally walked into the comedero the bartender had mentioned and –no one was at any of the tables! A waiter who was at the far end of the room,-- at a table apparently eating his dinner--, acknowl- edged me with a brief hand wave, and continued his gustatory activity while I sat and waited. After five minutes or so he finally came to my table and I began negotiating with him, mostly in Spanish, for my dinner order. When this was done he left, heading for the kitchen I assumed, and left me hoping I had not understood him to say as he departed that the chef hadn’t arrived yet. But that apparently was the correct translation since I wasn’t served until about 9:30, at which time a few other customers had begun arriving.
I was at Don’s office about 8 o’clock next morning. We were glad to meet again, and absorbed coffee and each other’s news for awhile. When I mentioned my night’s late dinner he laughed. “The customary hours here in Spain for dining out, working, and sleeping, are unlike anything we’ve been used to,” he said. “Party people seldom get to restaurants before 10 p.m., and midnight is an early bedtime for those I’ve met. I don’t think any office workers ever arrive before 9 a.m., and our noon lunch hour is from noon to 2 p.m.,--which allows time for a nap. You probably thought I was the only person in this offiice when you came this morning. The three others here just haven’t arrived yet.”I grinned and shook my head. “I suppose vacations are somewhat longer here than in the U.S. too.” “You’ve got that right! New employees usually get a month.” he said.
Our business was rather brief, involving logistics and personnel provision if and when the geological studies would warrant seismic exploration. Don and his lovely wife Claire had me to their home that night for a fine dinner and visit. The following morning I left for the U.S., with an initial stopover in Portugal’s capital Lisbon. It’s Portugal’s busiest

shipping harbor, on a wide estuary of the Tagus river that flows another seven miles to the Atlantic Ocean. I was sorry I didn’t have more time to sight-see in that interesting city and try out the smattering of Portuguese I’d picked up in Brazil. But I was ready for the trip home, which continued promptly and satisfactorily.

My function was similar to that of before, pertaining to replacement crew personnel needs, operational logistics and financial requirements, and information on operations to date with which I could later brief Humble officials. That was accomplished in a couple days, at the end of which one afternoon Denny said, “I think you should visit the crew, don’t you?”

“Well, yes,” I replied, “I’d sure like to, but on your map it looks like they’re 80 or 100 miles from here into the desert. I know those desert trails require slow going, and I suppose a trip there and back, plus time to watch their operation, would take at least three or four days and I’m due back in the Humble establishment in about a week."Three days is all we need,” said Denny. “ We often rent a small 4-passenger Cessna plane for short trips like this, and if you’d really like to go I’ll see if it’s available tomorrow. We’ll fly to the crew camp in the morning, have lunch,--we’ve got a fine Italian chef working there--, visit the crew and stay a couple nights. Be back here in three days. Sound O.K.?” Sounded great to me, and I said so.

Denny was able to get the plane the following day, and we took off in mid-morning. The scenery, after we were out of sight of the sea, was all barren desert, with the sparse coastline shrubbery thinning and disappearing as we flew southeast into the Sahara sand sea country. Our pilot had obviously made this trip several times with Denny, and conversed with him (which I couldn’t hear, since I was in one of the rear seats). After a bit Denny turned around to me and said, “ Pilot wants to know if you’d like to take an extra quarter hour to detour and take a look at a world war two plane that ditched in the desert. It’s a B-24 bomber, like you flew back then, and the story about it is pretty interesting.”

“Yeah, sure would!” I couldn’t imagine what such a plane would have been doing in a remote area of the Sahara, and eagerly looked forward to the sight and the story. The pilot swerved off course about 45 degrees, and as we continued in the new direction we passed over a vast sea of huge sand dunes in all directions. After awhile we were again over a sandy but relatively flat terrain and the plane began a slow descent from our two or three thousand feet, leveling off at what must have been a bit under a thousand feet. Denny turned to me, pointed out the starboard window. “See?!” And down below I could see the wide wings, four engine mounts and top of the fuselage of a B-24. It looked relatively intact, like it would if it were on an airport runway except for much of the fuselage being covered. by masses of windblown sand. I said to Denny, "My God, what happened? Why is it there?"

As the pilot circled around a few times for different viewing angles, Denny began explaining “After the Germans had finally been forced out of Africa they became well fortified in Italy. To help push them north up out of Italy the U.S. air force created a base near Tripoli. Our army had managed to establish a foothold at the bottom of the Italy “boot” (appropriate terminology, eh?), and their invasion strategy included frequent bombing raids to dislodge the Krauts from their fortifications.”

out working, and the only people in camp were a few Libyan maintenance workers and the Italian chef. who was expecting us and had a fine and much appreciated lunch ready.

hitherto untouched terrain. It was slow going and a rough ride, and Denny couldn’t safely exceed more than about 10 miles per hour. We had been enroute nearly an hour when Denny, without slowing, turned his head to point out some massive dunes in the distance.

“The crew can’t work that kind of country. Need solider ground for drill holes.” And the Jeep came to a jolting stop, dropping into an unseen depression about two feet deep and colliding with a huge rock at the bottom.
“Oh, Jeesus! I swerved off the trail,--wasn’t watching. DAMN!” We got out to inspect the damage, and we could see the front grill was crushed in. We got the hood up with some difficulty, and found a broken fan belt and a punctured radiator from which was pouring voluminous quantities of water. “Looks like we’re stuck here,” said Denny. “We don’t dare drive it in this condition .”
“So what are our options?” I asked. “I think we have two,” replied Denny. “Either we walk back, or walk on to find the crew. I think we’re about halfway, so it’s pretty much a tossup.”
After some discussion I voted to walk back to camp, and Denny agreed. “First,” he said, “I want to hike to the top of that nearby ridge just to be sure the crew isn’t in sight and closer than we figured.” “Good luck,” I said, and off he went. The ridge was about two blocks distant, and as I watched him reach the summit I was surprised to faintly hear him yelling, and see him finally take off his white shirt and wave it frantically at some- thing or someone he could apparently see in the distance. He performed for a minute or so, then I was excited and overjoyed to see a vehicle appear on the ridge, pick up Denny, and head down toward me. It was a top-down four-wheel Jeep-type vehicle I later learned was of English make (of which I’ve forgotten the brand name) with a Britisher named Chester at the wheel.

It turned out that Chet was supervisor of a British mine-clearing crew that had been hired to clear the WWII land mines that had been laid by both the British and Germans as they fought back and forth in the area. There were hundreds of mines, scattered every- where, but the clearing crew (mostly Libyans) had been assigned specific routes and zones in which seismic work was to be done. Denny of course had met Chet, who was enroute back to camp. He asked if we minded if he made a detour from the trail we’d followed, since he explained he had to pick up a stack of several mines that had been discovered earlier. We of course agreed and off we went, Denny in the front passenger seat so he could chat with Chet, and me in the rear seat. After a few miles Chet asked Denny if he had seen the old road the Romans had built when they occupied Libya centuries ago. Denny said no, so Chet detoured a bit farther and eventually we came to a remarkable sight,--a straight road, just wide enough for wagon traffic, paved with large oblong rock blocks which (in the dry desert climate) had weathered very little and were well exposed above ground level except for occcasional patches of wind blown sand cover. Amazing!

ically destroyed them by exploding them, and as it turned out my second day there was to be a “blowup” day, in the late afternoon after the crew was back in camp. That was quite an interesting event. They placed some dynamite with the mines with a long fuse, and after that was lit everyone retreated to a site about a quarter mile away. What a spectacle that explosion was! Like nothing I’d ever seen, and we could feel the ground shake slightly as far away as we were.

morning the rental plane returned us to Tripoli. In the afternoon I bade Libya the usual fond farewell and flew home to Houston, via the customary plane change in New York.

Most geologists have at least a passing interest in mineral mines. I have always been especially so, and just missed becoming a mining geologist by a day or two (as described on page 59 of my first Rear View volume). And the most fascinating mining history and mystery is that of the Lost Dutchman mine in Arizona’s Superstition Mountain.

man (who was the last person to use the mine), but to the fact that no one has ever been able to find the mine since the Dutchman died. And that it was once a rich mine seems beyond doubt.

Jacob Walz, a German who became locally known as the Dutchman, appeared in the area about 1863 as a worker in a nearby active mine, called the Vulture. After he was fired for “high-grading” (stealing rich concentrate) he settled in what is now Apache Junction.There he met a pretty young Apache maiden named Ken-tee, who began living with him in a hogan at Mesa, about 13 miles from Superstition Mountain.. The two began disappearing for a week or two at a time, and returning with burros laden with gold ore. It seemed obvious to those who knew about it that the Dutchman had found the lost mine!

It also seemed obvious to the Apaches that Ken-tee had told Walz where the mine was, and they finally raided the Mesa community, during which they captured and carried off Ken-tee. Mesa residents rallied and pursued the Indians, killing some, so to make their escape the Apaches released Ken-tee. But they first cut off her tongue, and she bled to death in Walz’s arms.
Walz subsequently became an introverted hermit, avoiding the numerous people who tried to befriend him and perhaps learn of the mine’s location. He made infrequent trips with a burro into the mountains, returning with enough gold ore to satisfy his modest financial needs. Many town residents would watch for his trips to his mine, but no one ever could trace him. He finally died in Phoenix, being cared for by a warm hearted black lady named Julia. It is believed that shortly before his death he told Julia of the mine’s location, since afterward she and a high school lad made a few trips into the mountains, but to no avail.
In subsequent years many prospectors, professional and amateur, have ventured into the wilderness of the Superstitions. None have found the mine, and the remote canyons and peaks have been the sites of many deadly accidents and mysterious murders. To my knowledge no murderer has ever been caught, and who they are and why they kill is usually an unsolvable puzzle. One theory is that some murderers might be Apache descendants who still resent the white man’s intrusion into their sacred domain. This supposition is based in part on the fact that several of the bodies found are without heads, and vice versa.
I had read that several years before Walz died there was a minor earthquake in the Superstitions, with rock slides being visible from Apache Junction. It seemed possible to me that the earthquake might have effectively covered any trace of the rather small mine entrance and mining procedure’s rock debris. So I acquired some government stereo aerial photos of the area and began studying. I did find some evidence of an apparently recent geological fault in the vicinity of a prominent peak called Weaver’s Needle, which had reputedly served Peralta as a landmark for locating his lode. So I decided one summer to broach the idea of a visit there to Carol and the kids.
“How would you and the kids like to go with me on a visit to the Lost Dutchman?” I thought I’d mentioned my interest in that mine to Carol, but if I had she apparently had not listened very well: “How you going to visit him if he’s lost?” After I’d given some

explanation she added, “Oh, --this sounds like another of your goose chases, but if you’d agree to go on afterward to visit the Schmidts, my Wisconsin friends who have retired and moved to Tucson, I guess I would.” I of course agreed.