Black Bart Commentary, Photos last

Location of a Bronze Plaque placed By Glenn Wasson, showing Map and directions to Black Bart’s last stagecoach Holdup.

The mountains overlooking the Melones Reservoir, which now inundates the Stanislaus River, in eastern CA, are generally less than 3,000 feet in elevation. Geologists have identified the rock type as basalt. This rock appears in this area as a very hard and weather-resistant greenstone (classified as metamorphosed basalt). It took many hours of drilling with an electric drill (that soon exhausted several batteries) and a hammered star drill to make sufficient indentations in the green stone to mount the Black Bart memorial plaque. The author leads a group of Historical society members up to Funk hill every few years to show them the location of Black Bart’s first and last hold up, to insure that the plaque is still in place.

This range of low mountains lying west of San Andreas town and ranging Southeast to the Melones Reservoir, has been labeled an antique (Pre-Mesozoic age) by Geological standards. They are thought to have pre-dated the obvious uprising and gradual erosion of the Sierras and have survived the current and latest uplifts (Labeled Laramide and Tertiary phases) of this range.

The entire region is highly mineralized having produced many fortunes in gold, including the largest gold specimen ever found in the Western Hemisphere, a chunk weighing nearly 200 lbs. The region was the largest producer of copper during the Civil War and was recently the site of the largest asbestos mine in the U.S. until environmental restrictions on the use of asbestos made the mine obsolete.

Today, the area has been transformed into a popular recreation destination for water activity, as well as camping, hiking, biking, trail riding, and nature studies. Glenn Wasson, May 2007-05-08

Black Bart Historical Note

From 1875 to 1883 the stage coach robber, who called himself Black Bart, defied the best efforts of many a sheriff posse throughout Northern California and Southern Oregon. His robberies of Wells Fargo express stages on 28 widely separate occasions forced the desperate company to employ the Pinkerton Detective Agency to catch him. In the meantime, he enjoyed a double life in San Francisco as Charles Bolton, where he cultivated the upper levels of society and mingled freely with officials of Wells Fargo and the Pinkerton Detective Agency.
He gained a reputation as a poet by leaving scraps of doggerel at the scenes of his crimes that taunted his frustrated pursuers. Throughout his extensive career as a highwayman he neither fired a shot nor robbed an individual, which earned him widespread notoriety as the “Gentleman Bandit”.
After his eventual capture, he was sentenced to San Quentin Prison for eight years. He was released four and one half years later as a reward for good behavior and was swarmed by the San Francisco press. Ambrose Bierce wrote a poem to commemorate the event. But in a few short days Black Bart disappeared, and to this day no one knows where, when, or how he died- adding another dimension to an already unforgettable career.
The following account of an imaginary Black Bart robbery was first published in the December 2001 issue of Sierra Heritage magazine:

Calaveras Christmas- 1881

In the annuals of Crime, as we go back in Time,
There was never a criminal so notorious
Than the one whose narration calls forth such variation
Of his many deeds foul and inglorious.

Back in old Calaveras, Black Bart would embarrass
The vigilantes who patrolled through the County.
By holding up stages with acts so outrageous
That his capture was worth a large bounty.

To make matters worse, he penned horrid verse-
Which he left at the scene of each crime,
To make them aware, that they never knew where
Black Bart might lustily strike the next time.

One night in December, too far back to remember,
A lone figure waited long in the cold,
To plunder the cargo from the stage of Wells Fargo-
That was known to be loaded with gold.

He made leisurely smoke beneath an old oak,
At the top of a grade steeply slanting;
And he figured the load up that long twisting road
Would have the horses both lathered and panting.

When they stopped for a rest, at the top of a crest,
He’d step from the shadows concealing
And demand they surrender their hard legal tender,
To the shotgun he’d soon be revealing.

But the hours dragged on, with no promise of dawn
And he nervously started to wonder
Had the stage broken down, or been delayed up in town-
Cheating him of his chance for more plunder?

He cursed his existence, then off in the distance
He thought he heard horsemen’s commands
So he nipped at his flask, and adjusted his mask,
And fondled the gun in his hands.

Now he heard the hooves pound on the hard frozen ground,
And the driver spat curses and blaspheme;
Then when reaching the top, the coach made a stop
The steeds snorting great clouds of white steam.

From out of the shadow, came our dark desperado
And he caught the lead horse by the bridle,
Saying “throw down you chest, or I’ll put you to rest-
My threat to soon shoot is not idle.”

“Toss your wallets and rings, all your personal things-
Twill greatly add to my riches.
If you try to hold back, you’ll produce my attack.
So you better soon empty your britches.”

Not a man said “Desist!” nor made move to resist;
They meekly tossed down all their worth.
When a child’s words implored “Tis the night of the Lord-
Do you rob on the Eve of His birth?”

Bart was taken aback, by this childish attack;
His long buried conscience was stung-
Thinking “I may be a fool, but not on the Yule,
Can I purloin from the innocent young.”

They said that Black Bart was a man with no heart,
Who lived by the law of the gun..
But he walked away from a right princely sum,
Christmas Eve in the Year Eighty-One,

Glenn Wasson

Black Bart Plaque

An Apologist for a Geologist

An Apologist for a Geologist:

Lo, the Geologist-
The last to be employed, the first to be dismissed-
He riseth up early in the morning;
Mighty are his preparations,
Great are his expectations,
He strideth out armed with his classification book.
With copious notes, he exalts Taxonomy.
No detail escapes his mighty eye;
Reams of reports ensue- all with appropriate hedges.
He is careful to avoid extrapolation, since something not understood might be found to follow a pattern.
In the end all facts found to occur are well documented.
But when he returns home, late at night, smelling of strong drink,
The Truth is not in him.

Nevertheless, it is necessary that Geology, as it developed, exist. How else would we have found that there is a vertical succession of younger fossils in the earth’s Crust, as we start lower in a stratigraphic section and look shallower. The scheme which developed laid the groundwork for an understanding of Geologic Time. The simpler organisms were found in older layers and became more complex as Time proceeded (Jay Gould would dispute this, having found that in the Cambrian Burgess shale more arthropod phyla occurred than now exist). This laid the way for taxonomists to discern that Life has become more varied over the Phanerozoic (the time when visible life remains were deposited) up to modern times.
However, it is unnecessary that Geologists continue to use this procedure, for entities other than Life indications- that is, to continue to classify everything seen in the field and put it in a definition scheme; with this method, even things which vary continuously in the earth are locked into a Mold as if they were static. This builds an extensive Terminology, but hardly increases understanding. Entities which vary with space and time are then left in their Mold, as if they cannot escape their classification. For example, for the salinity of groundwater, which varies continually (by dilution) with distance from a salt source, e.g. for a salt dome, one might determine horizontally or vertically, the distance from that source (these two orientations will have different gradational relationships, according to the diffusion or movement system). This offers a method of solving for the separation distance of an oil well distant from that source. But if the Geologist classifies the salinity as low, moderate, or high, rather than use the measurable numerical quantity, then the mathematical and physical relation of salinity to distance from the dome is lost.
As a result of all this exorbitant classification, other Earth Sciences have moved in to fill the gap created by the loss of analysis and deduction- which is the usual domain of Science. The field of Geology should encompass all knowledge of the earth, but more analytical domains (such as Geophysics, Petrophysics and Geochemistry)have now acted to prevent their inclusion.

Paria Canyon

Paria Canyon (3 days, 1996: river walking cadence)

Walls, walls, darkened walls-
Sandstone calls, dim light falls.
I feel those walls, I hear the calls;
While my gait sprawls, I tread these halls.

Spring, spring, spring’s the thing-
Footprints sing, emotions ring,
Spirits wing, senses fling;
All hearts can sing, in days of Spring.

Hear, hear canyons near!
Tan streams leer, but all is clear,
No pitfalls mere can soon appear;
Soft winds rear, near Red Rocks dear.

Flow, flow, I hear the flow;
Breeze in tow, ripples go
To that faint glow, so far below-
Spirits low reap what they sow.

Stay, stay, O canyons gay!
Enjoy the day, inspire the stay;
Enjoin me, pray, do not delay!
Moderate Life’s fray, in Months of May!

Peace, peace, Feel the Peace-
Though canyons cease, hatreds ease,
Life’s new lease, like Autumn geese,
Like new-washed fleece, has brought release!

Harold L. Overton

Rejoinder by Glenn Wasson, later in 1996

Heed. Heed, I need to read
My companion’s words on thought and deed,
That plant within my brain a seed
And from it fleeting thoughts are freed.

Moans, Moans, I can’t match those Overtones
Which write of walls in vivid tones,
And rivers rippling over stones-
Whose like, no mortal man disowns.

Walls, Walls, enclosing halls,
Where seldom ever sunlight falls
And endless beauty there befalls-
Best to avoid during summer squalls!

Shame, Shame, I lose the game-
Poetry fails; my brain’s to blame;
Literary honors I may claim-
But the Muse within me never came!

The plodding Poet- Glenn Wasson

Apache Lake, AZ

APACHE LAKE (Mar 04 Elderhostel)
I looked down on the white-crested waters of the normally [placid lake and exclaimed “The weather service has extrapolated in the opposite direction again”. The six days of the stay at the Apache Resort were predicted to have increasingly warm days with high pressure in control. Instead, El Nino had crept into the western weather system, coming from the west, and the days had all experienced increasingly moist air- terminating in deluges of rain for the final days of the program.
The main road from Tortilla Flats was closed, due to the high water at the bridges, and it appeared that participants leaving on Friday would have to exit toward the east, on the only alternating highway. We had adjusted to this advisory, and now looked to extract some modicum of humor from the week, to offset the fact that the desert had not provided the sun and balmy conditions we had anticipated.
Joe from Tennessee had caustically remarked that we would experience the Mexican weather forecast for the next two days: “Chili today and hot Tamale”. And all had concurred, that although we had the photographic opportunities of Seaworld (underwater), the days following our adventure would be like the South Seas- serene and musical.
All had not been lost, however, since some of us had dutifully traipsed up the steep foothills to the south- between rain showers- to capture fleeting glimpses and camera opportunities for the little jewel of a mountain lake below.

Jas, our coordinator, was the spirit of our week- a jolly fellow in his 60’s who always had a humorous story to relate. I had always thought that a coordinator was a person with a desk between two expeditors, but not so with Jas- he was an independent person who had many adventures in the international mineral business, and who was not averse to exposing them all.
The heart of the program for all of these 70-80 year oldsters was a lively divorcee’ named Berta. She was only in her 60’s and possessed a lively repartee’ and physical ability. She easily out-hiked and out-distanced the other with her easy manner and charm. She became the photographer and story teller for the group. One day she witnessed the following episode:
We climbed the 1000 foot elevation change above the lake to determine the sequence of volcanic flows and outpourings of ash above the granite bedrock., The weathered granite was everywhere at the lowest levels of the arroyo we followed and made an excellent base for the roads leading into the Apache lake and Resort.
A road grader had merely to scrape and level the granites sand to make excellent road base with essentially no slick or muddy portions. We noticed a grader working the main road above us, as we plodded up the canyon stream way. Although climbing steadily, it was easy to ascend the 1000 foot slope to the east-west road above. There were young basalts which had flowed down the same slope of the arroyo indicating that the terrain had not changed much since the volcanic eruption. A basalt vent, of dark colored contrast to the pink granite bedrock, was noticed along the climb, the basalt of age less than 100,000 years being deposited on top of the 1+ billion year granite bedrock. Some billion years of history had been lost here- stripped away by erosion of the rising granite intrusive rock in the time since the age of the dinosaurs. The granite rock had been buried deep in the earth’s crust, but as erosion had stripped the overburden above it, the buoyancy of the light granites caused them to rise, not only due to expanding hot rock, but also due to the lightness of the column of earth as it was eroded. It had come up in the last 50 million years, as the edge of the Colorado had been washed down to the Pacific Ocean.
I was especially spry as we returned through the arroyo on the downhill leg, but might have been influenced by the smell of diesel from the grader, as it passed a few hundred feet to the west of us. The grader disappeared form view, but I began to cough violently and became feverish. I returned to my room, since I produced blood with my strenuous coughing, but it was about quitting time anyway. Within an hour, I could not talk and was uncontrollably coughing.
The next morning I was not much better, and felt greatly disturbed to hear that the road grader had stopped to adjust the hydraulically-actuated blade at about 4:30 pm the previous day. He crawled underneath the lifted blade to inspect the hydraulic actuation, when it failed- crushing him instantly. His body was found by a rancher driving down to the resort for dinner.

Owed to Geologists

An Apologist for a Geologist:

Lo, the Geologist-
The last to be employed, the first to be dismissed-
He riseth up early in the morning;
Mighty are his preparations,
Great are his expectations, as he waketh the whole hoiusehold.
He strideth out armed with his classification book.
With copious notes, he exalts Taxonomy.
No detail escapes his mighty eye;
Reams of reports ensue- all with appropriate hedges.
He is careful to avoid extrapolation, since something not understood might be found to follow a pattern.
In the end all facts found to occur are well documented.
But when he returns home, late at night, smelling of strong drink,
The Truth is not in him.

Nevertheless, it is necessary that Geology, as it developed, exist. How else would we have found that there is a vertical succession of younger fossils in the earth’s Crust, as we start lower in a stratigraphic section and look shallower. The scheme which developed laid the groundwork for an understanding of Geologic Time. The simpler organisms were found in older layers and became more complex as Time proceeded (Jay Gould would dispute this, having found that in the Cambrian Burgess shale more arthropod phyla occurred than now exist). This laid the way for taxonomists to discern that Life has become more varied over the Phanerozoic (the time when visible life remains were deposited) up to modern times.
However, it is unnecessary that Geologists continue to use this procedure, for entities other than Life indications- that is, to continue to classify everything seen in the field and put it in a definition scheme; with this method, even things which vary continuously in the earth are locked into a Mold as if they were static. This builds an extensive Terminology, but hardly increases understanding; Entities which vary with space and time are then left in their Mold, as if they cannot escape their classification. For example, for the salinity of groundwater, which varies continually (by dilution) with distance from a salt source, e.g. for a salt dome, one might determine horizontally or vertically, the distance from that source (these two orientations will have different gradational relationships, according to the diffusion or movement system). This offers a method of solving for the separation distance of an oil well distant from that source. But if the Geologist classifies the salinity as low, moderate, or high, rather than use the measurable numerical quantity, then the mathematical and physical relation of salinity to distance from the dome is lost.
As a result of all this exorbitant classification, other Earth Sciences have moved in to fill the gap created by the loss of analysis and deduction- which is the usual domain of Science. The field of Geology should encompass all knowledge of the earth, but more analytical domains have now moved to escape their inclusion.

Springtime in Anatolia, Turkey

Frozen Spring (Anatolia,Turkey, 1971)

Something stopped me by a mountain stream,
Something which caught my eye-
A glistening fantasy of bluish light
Shimmered as the water rushed by.

High on a hillside, fixing my stare-
An infinity of color came through-
A trickling spring, arrested by fate,
Broadcast its’ indigo hue.

Woven by grass by clever design,
Its’ icicles showing their smile-
The fragile Brooklet waited that day,
For springtime to be in style.

How curious that water crystals should stop my trek,
And accelerate my heartbeat anew-
While a million tiny pulses are locked in mid-air,
By winter’s frigid curfew.

Harold L. Overton