I enjoyed a week's worth of memories in two days at the ol' Fuller cabin. That's what happens when you find yourself in the middle of a gravelly sage-filled valley surrounded by fir-covered mountains that release ribbons of somniferous creeks and dusty corduroy trails onto your doorstep. You let it go. All of it. That first fresh morning when you push back the tent flap and thrust your face into the honeyed light that comes at 2000 feet, whatever you left behind is forgotten. Lots of blog material.
In this installment, I'd like you to meet Ed. (Click on photos to enlarge.) Ed is the kind of guy you've gotta meet before you die. A classic in the true sense of the word, and if I haven't emphasized it enough, they don't make them like Ed anymore. But they should. Ed is a friend of John and Eileen Fuller, who with their adventuresome son Johnny and delightfully poised daughter Dana, joined us for the last weekend of Camp Gravelly. How Ed ended up at the cabin, I'm not sure. Something to do with picking up Savannah, aptly nicknamed Savi and sweet as peach pie, who also joined us that weekend. Ed flies a
de Havillan Beaver sea plane. He's been at it since 1964. Ed was on his way home to Canada from a two-month job in southern California. Somehow, John (the Dad) got Ed to fly double-dutch with Johnny (the son) to pick up Savi in Ukiah and land at the airstrip next to Lake Pillsbury; a mile or so from the cabin. Since it was on the way to Canada, I guess. Doesn't really matter. What's important is that we got Ed for two days.
The first thing you need to know about Ed is that he's recently recovered from a broken neck which he sustained while turning a back flip on a trampoline. The second thing you need to know is that Ed is 65. He's pretty darned fit and trim for a guy his age who's been through something like that. But he's practically Superman for the other thing he's been through: his son's long, traumatic recovery from a brain tumor. We learned that when Ed was telling us about the marijuana plants they grow. But stuff like that, in fact everything we learned about Ed, it wasn't designed to impress or boast. Stories of his adventures sort of tumbled out of him almost involuntarily into conversations that he didn't initiate. He'd walk up to you in his pressed olive drab shirt tucked into a neatly belted pair of cargo pants looking like a park ranger, and usually ask a question about the place. Or the surroundings. Or the history. He was curious. Then something you'd say would trigger a story from Ed's memory. He told Brian
"the one" about pissing while piloting. (Brian asked.) Evidentally, his secretary nagged him into taking her up. She put coffee in a thermos, and after they'd finished it, he had to get rid of some. So, he set his gauges, told her not to touch a thing, and went in the back of the plane to relieve himself into the empty thermos. I guess he dumped it, and when he got back that day, he washed it out
real good. Next day, the secretary brings in the thermos of coffee, pours herself a cup, takes a sip, and cries "this coffee tastes like piss!" Brian figures it's a bit fantastical, the story. But that's the point. That's Ed. Ed enjoyed our campfire coffee; it's course enough to strip tooth enamel. And he enjoyed the cocktails. Especially, Ed liked his beer. But never before flying. When we were on the lake, he was drinking water and examining flight maps. Soon, he learned through radio communications that the northern California coast was fogged in and smoke from the wildfires nearby rendered him flightless for another night. So, he asked how the jetski works, got a quick lesson from Johnny, then took off to buy a few sixes, which he shared with the other beach bums. No fuss. No bother. Just another chance to live it up another day. At the end of the day, shootin' the shit, sitting in a misfit collection of folding chairs on the back porch, facing the mountains in the orange glow of kerosene lanterns, finishing off a few bottles of California red. . . it's your place, but you get the feeling you're in Ed's element.
The morning he left for home, Ed doffed his cap, bowed, and said "I thank you for your hospitality." We escorted him out to the air strip, where I asked if I could sit in the Beaver. I have a fear of heights, so no way I'm gonna ever fly in the thing, but I wanted to play with the toys. Saying our goodbyes, Ed invited Kirk and Brian to go fishing with him at his place in Canada. He didn't describe a picturesque house-on-the-lake kind of setting, but he tossed in a fish story that made you picture it anyway. As he hoisted himself into his seat, he said "yep, fishin' out the front door." And off he went with his maps, overnight bag, and thermos.
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In this installment, I'd like you to meet Ed. (Click on photos to enlarge.) Ed is the kind of guy you've gotta meet before you die. A classic in the true sense of the word, and if I haven't emphasized it enough, they don't make them like Ed anymore. But they should. Ed is a friend of John and Eileen Fuller, who with their adventuresome son Johnny and delightfully poised daughter Dana, joined us for the last weekend of Camp Gravelly. How Ed ended up at the cabin, I'm not sure. Something to do with picking up Savannah, aptly nicknamed Savi and sweet as peach pie, who also joined us that weekend. Ed flies a de Havillan Beaver sea plane. He's been at it since 1964. Ed was on his way home to Canada from a two-month job in southern California. Somehow, John (the Dad) got Ed to fly double-dutch with Johnny (the son) to pick up Savi in Ukiah and land at the airstrip next to Lake Pillsbury; a mile or so from the cabin. Since it was on the way to Canada, I guess. Doesn't really matter. What's important is that we got Ed for two days.
The first thing you need to know about Ed is that he's recently recovered from a broken neck which he sustained while turning a back flip on a trampoline. The second thing you need to know is that Ed is 65. He's pretty darned fit and trim for a guy his age who's been through something like that. But he's practically Superman for the other thing he's been through: his son's long, traumatic recovery from a brain tumor. We learned that when Ed was telling us about the marijuana plants they grow. But stuff like that, in fact everything we learned about Ed, it wasn't designed to impress or boast. Stories of his adventures sort of tumbled out of him almost involuntarily into conversations that he didn't initiate. He'd walk up to you in his pressed olive drab shirt tucked into a neatly belted pair of cargo pants looking like a park ranger, and usually ask a question about the place. Or the surroundings. Or the history. He was curious. Then something you'd say would trigger a story from Ed's memory. He told Brian "the one" about pissing while piloting. (Brian asked.) Evidentally, his secretary nagged him into taking her up. She put coffee in a thermos, and after they'd finished it, he had to get rid of some. So, he set his gauges, told her not to touch a thing, and went in the back of the plane to relieve himself into the empty thermos. I guess he dumped it, and when he got back that day, he washed it out real good. Next day, the secretary brings in the thermos of coffee, pours herself a cup, takes a sip, and cries "this coffee tastes like piss!" Brian figures it's a bit fantastical, the story. But that's the point. That's Ed. Ed enjoyed our campfire coffee; it's course enough to strip tooth enamel. And he enjoyed the cocktails. Especially, Ed liked his beer. But never before flying. When we were on the lake, he was drinking water and examining flight maps. Soon, he learned through radio communications that the northern California coast was fogged in and smoke from the wildfires nearby rendered him flightless for another night. So, he asked how the jetski works, got a quick lesson from Johnny, then took off to buy a few sixes, which he shared with the other beach bums. No fuss. No bother. Just another chance to live it up another day. At the end of the day, shootin' the shit, sitting in a misfit collection of folding chairs on the back porch, facing the mountains in the orange glow of kerosene lanterns, finishing off a few bottles of California red. . . it's your place, but you get the feeling you're in Ed's element.
The morning he left for home, Ed doffed his cap, bowed, and said "I thank you for your hospitality." We escorted him out to the air strip, where I asked if I could sit in the Beaver. I have a fear of heights, so no way I'm gonna ever fly in the thing, but I wanted to play with the toys. Saying our goodbyes, Ed invited Kirk and Brian to go fishing with him at his place in Canada. He didn't describe a picturesque house-on-the-lake kind of setting, but he tossed in a fish story that made you picture it anyway. As he hoisted himself into his seat, he said "yep, fishin' out the front door." And off he went with his maps, overnight bag, and thermos.
