It was probably June of 1959. We rarely stayed home during the summer. We had discovered “car camping”. We started off loading the sedan with boxes and paper bags full of food and cooking gear, some blankets and one Montgomery Ward’s checked inner/forest green shell official sleeping bag that zipped open to be a blanket.

My parents slept under a pitched tarp in reclined lawn chairs, and I had the pulled out back seat of the four door Plymouth sedan. The seat had to be propped up to be level. It was only for Saturday night, and it was an adventure.

My father had a few forest maps with the logging roads highlighted. We were somewhere in California, four hours from home, on a yellow dust caked road, looking for a river that might have fish, specifically trout!

We found several that weekend and we began making a list of the several choices we didn’t make, looking for the best camp spots. There were no developed campsites at this time, no piped water, no flushing toilets, no electric outlets. It was just a wide dirt path, veered off the dirt road, with perhaps a rock pile of a fire pit to cook over. By today’s standards it was pretty rugged.

By June of 1959 we had traded in the Plymouth for a slightly used 1957 Chevrolet Station wagon, blue and white. It had lots more room, we kept the back seats folded down and packed all of our gear in the back. We had improved on much of the gear, little by little. We all had sleeping bags, we all had lawn chairs, we even had a tent with a screen door and back window. Very heavy coated canvas tent, backpacking didn’t exist, and this tent needed a major vehicle to haul it around. We even had a two burner, white gas stove.

We sometimes included the occasional High Sierra lake, but mostly it was still the riversides on the dusty logging roads. One weekend in late July, we didn’t go up to the mountains, instead we drove on the levee roads in the Delta to find a few fishing spots where a tent could be pitched. It was windy, and a bit chilly for summer, but we found a few spots where the tulle reeds were pressed flat in an area large enough for a tent, the river was only a few yards down the bank.

I remember after having breakfast we all went down to the river edge in order to catch perch, catfish, or maybe even a striped bass. Several minutes passed and we began seeing dozens of starlings flying against the wind, going down river. Within three minutes they had multiplied into several hundred. In ten minutes there were thousands, stretching all across the river, and you could hear the collective wings battling against the wind.

It was the first time that I had witnessed a mumuration, although they mostly just flew down the river about three feet above the water. Close enough that when my father cast his fishing line, the birds parted until the line had sunk beneath the surface, then they see less came back together, like a flying, pulsating, black zipper.

I took a break to back to the camp to get a snack. I could see a light smoke still coming from our pit. It turns out that we hadn’t made the fire on a flat rock, it was just brown dirt that was mostly ground up reeds that were growing all around us. The fire was low, but the wind was pushing it up the bank towards our pitched canvas tent.

Except something was in the way. Our picnic basket was halfway between the fire pit and the tent.

The fire loved the wicker woven basket, it burnt the walls to ashes, leaving the handle behind, looking like a charred St. Louis Arch. The basket still had its floor but the bread was ashes, the cheese was melted into the basket weave, and the quart of milk stood tall in the surrounding destruction. The top was burnt off, but the sides couldn’t burn past the level of milk. The milk was still in the waxed cardboard container, the wax was gone and the milk was filled with ashes, but it was still there. For some reason that fascinated me, so I called out, “The fire burned away our lunch, and the milk carton is missing it’s top, but standing in the middle.”

The next weekend we stopped at a private campground on an island in the delta. The levee had surrounded the island so that corn and wheat could be grown in the interior of the island. Later, I had read that the levee had once broken, and water was rushing in to drown the crops. A quick thinking river boat pilot had decided to plug the hole from getting bigger. He drove his side mounted paddle wheeled boat straight into the the opening, and plugged the gaps with sand bags. It saved the crops.

On the slough side of the river they were spots of development that had tent sites, electricity, nicely built concrete fire pits, and a small general store that sold beer with six stools at the bar.

You could still fish, but also you could have a river party. By late August we had been there several times, and had even brought friends and neighbors. We generally got there early enough to get the best campsite, surrounded by trees from the road, right near the river, and one of the closest site to the general store.

Our closest neighbor was across the road on the path to the back harbor where about 20 boats were berthed. One boat was owned by a friend. It was a converted Navy landing craft, the front landing ramp was sealed shut, and a very nice cabin was built where soldiers had once stood, waiting to land on the beach and charge into the jungle. It was painted pink. It was a boat with a little history.

I was on the way, with a friend, to go to the harbor, I had crossed the road and followed the path to the left of our neighbor’s campsite. I saw their dog charging at an angle to intercept us before we crossed the berm. I didn’t have time to run, or change direction, I could only stop and turn slightly to face the hound. He was dark brown with light brown spots above his eyes, and a white chest, and belly.

I know his belly was while, because before he could rip my face off, he had come to the end of his chain, and at his upward leap to my face, the chain became taunt, the dog’s butt went under his chest. He was now on his back, feet in the air, exposing his white chest, and belly to the sky.

I was paralyzed with fear, unmovable with my heart in my throat. After checking that the chain was secure I decided to stay at little while, thinking that the dog might not go berserk the next time that I used the path.

I had the camp bolo knife with me, because my actual intention was to gather some kindling for the next fire. I saw that some of the bark on the tree next to the path had fallen, leaving a little bald spot on the tree. Apparently the tree was the target for a little knife or ax throwing.

I gathered the loose bark up while the dog watched me carefully. With my bolo knife I could pry off a little more of the bark, both higher and lower. The tree was fairly large, maybe 3 or 4 feet in circumference. In a short while, I had a band about halfway around the tree. I sent my friend taking arms full of bark back across the road to my camp.

Meanwhile, I continued prying chunks of bark, thinking there would be enough for tomorrow’s breakfast. Eventually there was a two foot wide band completely around the tree, with the lighter wood in stark contrast against the darker bark. It looked like the tree was wearing a belt.

At the camp I told my father about the dog nearly biting me. He got mad that the dog’s chain went so close to the path where kids walked. The owner of the resort was walking nearby, so my father went to him to complain about our neighbor.

The owner was there because someone had damaged one of his trees. They had banded one of the oldest and largest of the trees on the island. The nourishment needed from the roots passes up and out to the leaves by flowing up in the layer between the hard wood and the bark. The bark could be damaged in spots, but the flow could still go around the damage. But if the bark was removed completely around the tree, then it would be long and slow death.

The owner was very upset, and asked who had done this, my father shrugged and talked about the dog. I overheard all this and stood in shock. I had murdered his tree!

The owner scratched his head and walked away. I followed my father back to the camp. He immediately saw the pile of bark, then he looked at me. My eyes looked back, and maybe my lips quivered a little. My father saying nothing, but immediately covered the bark pile with a tarp.

That evening we burned all the evidence.

The last time we were at the resort there was a large party. Several friends with their families had come for the long Labor Day weekend. The Sunday night drinking had gone from the afternoon until late at night.

Monday morning I was up early to start packing. I looked across the road to the tree I had murdered. It was still dying, the tree had not fallen.

There was a group of people talking excitedly near the path to the boat berths. Chet was there, he owned the pink landing craft that had given us so many rides.

He was very upset and I couldn’t hear everything that was said. He mentioned his nine year old daughter was crying uncontrollably. I knew her, she was fine yesterday, we played together often.

Then he said, “It’s too late, he just took off.”

I saw that my father was there, and my older brother, on leave from the Army. My father and older brother walked back to the camp where I was standing. My brother looked at me, then asked me to get his motorcycle helmet. He continued talking to my father.

“It’s an island Dad. There’s only two ways off, and he would take the route to get to the city the fastest. To get lost in the crowd. Unless he was super lucky, he is going to have to wait for the ferry. They can only take six cars, and with this long weekend there will be several times waiting in line. He’s probably still there.”

He got on his Harley Roadking, and took off spraying pebbles and dust. I was unclear why he was going, and who was he going to catch. My father would say nothing.

Several hours passed before he came back. My said something low to my father, I did not hear. We continued to pack up for the three hour drive home. I lay in the back of the station wagon, watching my brother following on his motorcycle, while my parents talked in low tones.

We never saw Chet, his family, or the pink landing craft again. I assumed they moved on. I never found out directly what had happened. Eventually I found out that the young girl, my friend, was molested, I don’t know to what extent.

I don’t know if the chased person managed to catch the ferry and escape, or if he was caught by the police, or if he suffered road justice.

I just know that there were subtle changes after that summer.