SIXTY MILES ON A THREE-SPEED

   

Stewart Grow

    Have you ever been around someone who was always smiling, always friendly, always had a project cooking, and could only see the good in life? Well, I was lucky enough to have one right through the block. His name was Stewart Grow. He was a grade older than me but we were good friends and did a lot together.

    His dad had a fruit orchard a couple of blocks from us, as the bird flies. Speaking of birds, it was in this orchard that I had the troubling experience of shooting a small bird with my BB gun. At the top end of his orchard were some very tall cherry trees. They must have been around for at least 50 years. In late June half the boys in the neighborhood would pick cherries from these trees to make a few bucks. It was there, scouring the high cherry tree branches, that Stewart found the perfect spot for a tree house. It was high and so secluded that you couldn't see it from the ground. Good for keeping out girls and other unwanted pests.

Tree house

    As the summer passed, the tree house took shape. We had a ball measuring, cutting and pounding. It had windows, a roof, a trap door, and even an escape rope in case we needed a quick getaway. There was just enough room for two snoozers. It did get a little spooky when the wind came up and the branches rocked and swayed. Sleep was hard to come by knowing how far off the ground we were.

    In the same orchard the Grows kept a horse which his dad would saddle up occasionally and let us trot around the fenced pasture. This inspired me to begin saving up for my own horse. I even asked Stewart's dad if I could keep it in his pasture. As time went by I lost interest in getting my own horse. It was just as much fun to ride Stewart's and a heck of a lot cheaper!


PUMPING FOR OUR LIVES or CYCLING MERIT BADGE

    I don't remember going to Cub Scouts, but Stewart kept me going in the Boy Scout Program. Another friend, Paul Gilbert, just two houses up Ash Avenue, had the full uniform which displayed every patch, pin, badge, and trinket available. He even had his official Boy Scout pocket knife with a dozen secret blades hanging from his official Boy Scout belt. Stewart and I didn't have all the bells and whistles that Paul had, but I owe whatever badges and ranks I achieved to Stewart because most of the time he would include me in his plans.

Boy Scout Merit badges 1958-1960

    By far the most memorable badge we worked on together was Cycling. We studied the manual and became experts at patching tubes, fixing chains and keeping our 3-speed Schwinns in top condition. We planned a bike trip to pump the 60 miles from Provo to Lagoon via Stewart's grandma's house in Bountiful. We would stay the night, hit Lagoon in the morning, and then set out for my Grandpa's farm in Morgan. We pored over maps finding the best and safest back roads to follow.

Schwinn 3-speed bike

    Bright and early on a sumer morning we left at first light, happy to hit the road. We pumped along Geneva Road, past the Lehi Brick Plant and on to Redwood Road at the foot of the Ochre Mountains. By the time we started up toward Camp Williams, the sun was up and starting to bore into us. Even with our 3 gears the climb was exhausting. By the time we reached the summit our water supply was gone along with our strength. It would be a thrill coasting all the way down the hill to Riverton.

Camp Williams, Utah

     Oh no! Just as we hit top speed on the way down, Stewart's bag of essential supplies fell off his bike and skidded down the road. Pumping back up hill the ¼ mile to retrieve it was a chore. From there it was a straight shot the next 35 miles to Bountiful. It wasn't part of the plan, but our trip took on a new pattern. We would pump like crazy and stop at a Dairy Queen to recover.

1950s Dairy Queen stand

     Then we were jetting off to the next Tastee-Freeze and so on, and so on, and so on. It turned out to be a very hot day and the root beer, burgers and milk shake stops were our salvation. By the time we left North Salt Lake and passed the airport we were in the desert. For the next 6 miles we felt like Omar Sharif in Lawrence of Arabia. No more refreshing Dairy Queens, no more nothings!

1950s Tastee-Freez stand

  

    We had made a foolish mistake. We felt we were so close to Bountiful we didn't need to refill our water bottles. We had been lulled into complacency by all the available pit stops. We were sure there would be more on the last lap to Bountiful. But no such luck! With tongues hanging out like two dying desert rats we pumped on. The lines in the road began to squiggle like spaghetti noodles, and the heat waves coming off the road created the illusion of lakes of water. I think we were losing it!

    Off the road to our left we spotted a farm house about half mile of dirt road away. It would take us extra time to pump our bikes that way but we had no choice. We had to have water. The place turned out to be a dump with nobody home, but we were able to find an outside faucet and at least quench our thirst.

Lagoon Amusement Park, Farmington, UT,  in the 1950s

    By the time we finally turned east and began the last stretch to Bountiful we were spent! The idea of resting a bit at Stewart's grandma's house and then heading on to Lagoon was out of the question. We were done, finished, dead in the saddle. A phone call home brought Stewart's mother, driving her big station wagon to haul us and our bikes back to Provo. We didn't plan any more bike trips for a long, long time. But by darn, we had earned our Cycling Merit Badge!

Boy Scout Cycling Merit Badge 1959

BIG FISH STORY or ENSENADA HERE WE COME!

      The fish are biting in Ensenada, Mexico! That was the word on the street. Not just any old fish, but deep sea fish. The kind you see hanging over mantles accompanied by legendary stories. Soon we would have our own heroic fish tales to brag about. Our Scout Troop was about to experience a “super activity.” Troops around the Valley were working hard to outdo each other in that department. Great backpacking treks deep into the High Uintahs, rubber raft trips down the rapids and cataracts of raging rivers, and now it was our turn. A “super duper” deep sea adventure to Ensenada, Mexico, was in the works. My dad used his Study Abroad tour director skills to secure all the arrangements for this trip.

      Dad, J. V. Beck, Ab Swenson, Chuck Peterson, and a few other fathers, had signed on to escort our somewhat rowdy troop on our quest. The plan was to caravan in station wagons to Nellis Airforce Base just outside of Las Vegas, Nevada, then on to San Diego, California, where we would cross the border into Mexico, and travel the 80 miles down the coast to Ensenada. There we would hook up with our chartered fishing boat. 

 

Nellis Airforce Base front gate. Nevada.

       Nellis Airforce Base was fascinating. Our guide led us out onto the tarmac where we inspected real fighter jets. We were close enough to the powerful engine blasts that the wind tore at our clothes and blew off a few hats. The base treated us like kings.

Nellis Air Force Base pool.

      We ate in their mess halls, swam in their pools, and slept in their barracks. Before we tucked ourselves in for the evening, we took a drive to see the bright lights of the Las Vegas Strip. With curious eyes plastered against our car windows we didn’t want to miss a single thing.

Old Golden Nugget Casino. Downtown Las Vegas,NV

       We took in every detail: the million dollar stack of cash at the Golden Nugget; the fountain Evil Knievel had jumped on his motorcycle at Caesar’s Palace; extravagant hotel signs advertising boxing, Elvis, and horse racing. Later our chaperons left for a late night visit to Tinsel Town. The next morning while eating breakfast at the airmen's mess, the term “Watermelon Girls” was heard whispered amid snorts and chuckles from some of the more senior members of our group. 

Evel Kenievel on his motorcycle. Behind him the fountain he jumped over at Caesar's Palace, Las Vegas, NV.

Elvis Marquee. Las Vegas, NV.

  

        The next day our caravan headed for San Diego, crossing the long, hot, endless Nevada-California desert. Stopping for potty breaks and burgers put us behind schedule, and we found ourselves driving down the coast of Mexico in the dark. The only thing keeping us awake was the sound of blaring trumpets from mariachi bands playing on the radio.

Postcard. Ensenada, Mexico.

       Our plan was to set up camp on the beach. We hadn’t anticipated on doing it in the pitch black of a moonless night. It had been an exhausting trip and an early morning appointment awaited us at the boat docks. We rolled out our sleeping bags and were soon fast asleep dreaming about reeling in large trophy fish.

       We were awakened very early. No alarms necessary. The tide had rolled in and was lapping at our sleeping bags. In no time at all we had broken camp, packed our gear, and were on our way to the boat launch. 

Ensenada's Finest. Fishing boat in Mexico.

         One glance at our fishing boat and we looked at each other. Really? This is Ensenada's "finest"? After walking the plank leading to our fishing boat, we were outfitted with long sturdy poles. From the look of things we would be landing some big ones today! It took us about an hour traveling seaward to where the giant fish hung out. There we bobbed at the mercy of the rolling swells. Up, and down. Up, and down. Up and down. Buckets of stinking fish gut chum were thrown overboard, followed by our fishing lines and baited hooks. 

         With anxious eyes focused on the water, we were all waiting for the cries of success. We waited, and waited. Then we heard it. A loud cry. And then another, and another. Not from fishing success, but from green faced scouts spilling their guts overboard. The massive puking exhibition inspired those of us holding back to join the concert of bellowing belchers. We would gladly have paid the charter a bonus to take us back early. But it didn’t happen. When our rental time was finally up, our tally of trophy fish equaled four 10- to 14-inch monsters. It definitely was a fishing trip with stories to tell!

Look what I caught in Mexico!

      By late afternoon we were all feeling more like our perky selves and headed for the tourist trap shopping district where cool souvenirs could be hunted down. I found a switch-blade knife and a small carved statue of a laughing donkey. Memories of sixth grade and Mrs. Arrowsmith! The most exciting find was a package of explosive cherry bombs, definitely taboo contraband that must be kept hidden.

Mariachi Band. Ensenada, Mexico.

       That evening, on a cantina’s festive patio, we stuffed ourselves on the best Mexican food ever. Then we listened to a live mariachi band blare, strum, and sing, bringing our south-of-the-border experience to a fitting end.

      Much to our disappointment we bypassed the Las Vegas Strip on the way back. I think the dads were anxious to get back home to their families. To relieve the cries of “Let’s stop for burgers,” Dad broke open a large box of freshly picked oranges. Soon all was silent except for the continuous slurping of orange, after orange, after orange. A painful lesson was learned that day. Oranges and young scouts are an explosive combination. It didn’t take long before the air in the station wagon was so rancid even a skunk would run for cover!

      With our heads hanging out open windows, gasping for fresh air, Dad searched anxiously for a roadside privy (the kind made of wood that had seats over a common hole in the ground). Finally spotting one, he pulled over in a cloud of dust. All four doors flew open and out spilled a gaggle of scrambling scouts. The race was on for the Men's “triple-header.” What? The door was locked. You’ve got to be kidding me! Music was drifting out of the ventilation ducts. We knocked politely. No luck! Then we pounded. The door remained barred. This guy was really enjoying himself. What did he think this was -- an exotic spa?  In desperation we hopped with legs crossed to the Women’s side, piled in, and uncorked the dike. 

      Before leaving this lovely place, a mischievous plan began percolating. While Dad sat innocently in the Rambler wagon with its engine running, three of us slipped back in to the Women's side of the privy where music continued to drift up from the three exposed holes. The constipated stranger was still sequestered on the Men's side. Squinting hard we peered down the dark, stinking holes into the thick muck below. There were five faint spots of light reflecting off the surface. This could only mean one thing! Two bare butt cheeks were covering the sixth hole. With evil grins we lit and dropped three cherry bombs -- one down each hole -- and ran for the car. "It's about time!" blurted Dad. His remarks were followed by a muffled BOOM. BOOM. BOOM! as we edged our way back onto the highway. All in all, it was an explosive ending to our Super Duper Scout Adventure!