May 25, 2016

Dr. John Renner...

Dr. John Renner, M.D.
Not long after I came to work for Camber Corporation (Can it really be 26 years ago?), I was sent to Kansas City to perform work for an electronics firm called Wilcox Electric Inc.  While I was in Kansas City, my boss asked if I would contact Dr. John Renner, introduce myself, and become knowledgeable about one of Dr. Renner's pet projects, the Consumer Health Information Research Institute, commonly referred to as CHIRI.  It seems that Camber had been in discussions with the National Institutes of Health (NIH) about creating a digital database surrounding a vast collection of medical quackery information that Dr. Renner had collected over a 40-year period.  It had been a passion of his to expose medical quackery in all its disguises -- practitioners, so-called medicines and remedies, and ineffective medical devices.  Any fake medical endeavor designed to take advantage of the sick and suffering fell under Dr. Renner's purview.

I contacted the good doctor and we met over lunch.  He was a man of about 60 years of age, charming, engaging, and passionate in his contempt for medical quackery.  After our meal, he took me to the building that housed his life's work at 3521 Broadway in Kansas City.  We went into a basement that probably occupied a quarter of an acre in which was housed row upon row of steel filing cabinets.  He began to describe the contents.  Here was a complete set of journals from a bogus health organization.  This entire row of cabinets contains nothing but advertising for fake electrically actuated healing machines.  Another row contained cases that he had taken to court.  It was beyond belief.  The contents of that room literally contained the results of hundreds of thousands of hours that this man had devoted to the eradication of medical vultures who prey on the suffering and sick.  There were tons of paper records that all begged to be digitized.

There were funding issues with the NIH effort and the database development job never came to fruition.  I did, however, have dinner a few more more times with Dr. Renner before I returned from Kansas City.  Every meal was memorable.  He had operated as an undercover patient in cases where he worked with the FBI.  He had appeared on the Today Show and on Johnny Carson's Tonight Show, speaking about his favorite subject.  He simply wanted to expose and debunk the medical quacks.  He had testified in hundreds of legal cases.  And he could tell great stories.

As I decided to write this piece, I did some Internet research on Dr. John Renner.  I learned that he passed away in 2000, about 10 years after I had met with him.  One of the tributes I read was particularly informative.  It was from the National Council Against Health Fraud:
"We regret to announce that NCAHF president, Dr. John Renner passed away following emergency heart surgery on Saturday, September 2, 2000, at St. Joseph's Health Center in Kansas City, Missouri. John is survived by his wife Diana; daughter Andrea Simon and husband Jody of Los Angeles, son Craig and wife Lynn of Madison, Wisconsin; and two grandsons.
John was born in 1932, in Newtown, Indiana. He and Diana both grew up in Auburn, Indiana. He graduated from Dartmouth College in Hanover, NH, and completed medical school at George Washington University. John practiced in rural Virginia for a decade before taking a teaching position at the University of Wisconsin where he helped found the Department of Family Medicine and served as a Professor and Chairman. In 1980, he and Diana moved to Kansas City and started the Family Practice Residency at St. Mary's Hospital (now Trinity-Midwest). He also was a co-founder of the National Patient Education in Primary Care Conferences that are now in their 22nd year of service. At the time of his death, Dr. Renner was a Clinical Professor at the University of Missouri-Kansas City Medical School, Chief Medical Officer of HealthScout.com, and President of the National Council Against Health Fraud.
When John's big heart stopped, America lost a national treasure; patients and health consumers lost one of their most important advocates; his family lost a husband, father, and grandfather; and NCAHF lost an insightful, wise, and productive colleague. For me personally, it was like losing a brother. John and I talked almost daily about NCAHF issues and possible solutions. His insights and advice will be sorely missed as we seek to serve the needs of consumers and patients who face a wild and woolly health marketplace. His extensive library and quack device collection have been donated to NCAHF, the Center for Inquiry, and libraries in and around Kansas City, Missouri.
I met John in 1983 when he invited Stephen Barrett, M.D, Victor Herbert M.D., J.D., and me to participate in the Sixth Annual Conference of the Project for Patient Education in Family Practice entitled "Fact, Fiction and Fantasy In Health Information for Patients," at St. Mary's Hospital of Kansas City. It was the first time I met Victor Herbert face to face, and the first time that the three of us appeared together on a speakers' platform.
John immediately recognized the importance of our antiquackery efforts. His keen insight into the problems patients with persistent health problems face caused him to appreciate that providing information and guidance on quackery was often missing in patient education. The reason for this being that most forms of quackery are esoteric and complicated and doctors are too busy to investigate each and every off-beat idea. Being reluctant to talk about things they do not understand, most doctors shrug off quackery with rather superficial answers. Such does not satisfy patients who are searching everything they hear about. Further, the quacks are very good at rationalization and in making their methods seem plausible. John contacted NCAHF and stated that he wanted to be a part of our mission.
John became an ex-officio member of the NCAHF Board of Directors in 1984 by virtue of establishing the Kansas City Committee and Health and Nutrition Fraud and Abuse. Soon afterward, he opened the Consumer Health Information Research Institute (CHIRI) in Kansas City and devoted his full energy toward public and professional education, with an emphasis on exposing quackery and fraud. At various times, he hosted a local radio program, wrote a column for The Kansas City Star, and assisted law enforcement agencies as a consultant. In 1987, he became an elected member of the board. He served continuously and in 1998 was elected president of the organization and began editing our newsletter.
John used his conference planning and executive skills to put together two national conferences on health fraud in 1988 and 1990. The 1988 National Health Fraud Conference was sponsored by the FDA and St. Mary's and Trinity Lutheran Hospitals in Kansas City. For several years, CHIRI was headquartered in a four-story building that housed an enormous journal reprint collection and a unique bookstore in which every book was marked with a colored dot indicating whether it was reliable or unreliable.
John not only gave his time and talent, but poured a substantial amount of his personal financial resources into establishing and maintaining a home for his consumer health and patient education work.. Quacks try to discredit antiquackery activists by claiming that we are tools of the medical establishment and funded by drugs companies and other "vested interests." This statement is a deliberate lie intended to divert attention from our criticisms of their worthless methods. In John's case, nothing could have been further from the truth. He subsidized CHIRI and his other antiquackery work with more than $300,000 from his own pocket. I know no other individual who gave more of his personal assets to advance the cause of providing patients and consumers with reliable health information.
John was a splendid fellow with a pleasing personality, quick wit, creativity, and exceptional courage. A patient advocate extraordinaire, he would conduct undercover investigations of suspected quacks. He would pose as a patient and gather evidence of health fraud and abuse. His investigations resulted in actions by medical boards to discipline renegade doctors for unprofessional conduct. For instance, on one occasion he posed as a truck driver and investigated chelation therapy.
One of John's favorite ruses was to disguise himself as a vulnerable invalid (bandaged head and body in a wheelchair) and to attend health expositions that are showplaces for marketing quackery. John would roll up to premier quacks and engage them in conversation. He once completely fooled the individual we think of as "King of the Quacks." A circle of devotees had gathered with John in the midst of the action. When the quack King put his hand on John's shoulder during the conversation, John responded with great adulation: "You touched me! You are the first doctor who has touched me! Thank you! Thank you!" Although obviously ambivalent about having more contact with this rather strange patient, the Quack King straightened up to strut the superiority he thought John had conferred upon him.
On other occasions, John accompanied reporters to point out what was wrong at health "expos." After many such experiences, John noted that their participants rarely criticized each other's theories and methods. It seemed that there was plenty of room for everyone. One day, after a lecture, John asked the speaker whether his treatment could be taken at the same time as "moonbeam therapy" ­- a method John had invented on-the-spot. "Oh yes," the quack responded immediately, "Many of my patients are taking moonbeam therapy. They work beautifully together."
John was among the first to realize that what is generally described as "unconventional," "complementary," "alternative," "integrative," 'holistic," or "innovative" medicine is actually a manifestation of self-care by patients who are trying their best to take charge of their health problems. Most self-care involves the use of health products -- over-the-counter medicines, dietary supplements, and the like. These may be found at drug stores, health food stores, supermarkets, discount stores or sold through pyramid-like marketing schemes, mail order houses, telemarketing boiler rooms, and television infomercials. Patients also engage in what John termed "extended self-care" when they seek the services of nonmedical providers such as chiropractors, massage therapists, herbalists, nutrition consultants, reflexologists, palm readers, and astrologers to solve physical, emotional, or social problems. Sometimes patients turn to "medical renegades and rascals" (terms John taught us to use) in their desperation or search for speculative therapies.
Patients often realize that these medical mavericks are controversial. But, in keeping with old-fashioned pragmatism, those with persistent problems who do not wish to "leave any stone unturned" are willing to give nearly anything a try and to base their judgment on how they feel. This sounds reasonable to most people. After all, if something appears to help, shouldn't that be enough to justify allowing controversial health care practices to continue to be available in the marketplace? This thinking ignores the problems of patient misperception and deception. Patient misperception includes natural cycles in which symptoms disappear, the placebo (sugar pill) effect, and the positive effects of pep talks by providers and enthusiasm of the doctor's cheerleaders and/or fans. Patient deception involves the use of phony tests to persuade patients that they are getting better even though they may still be experiencing symptoms.
Another patient deception is the "Dr. Feelgood" approach which employs herbal stimulants ("high energy herbals"), tranquilizers or "stress-reducers" to put people in a "mellow-mood." Other Dr. Feelgood methods include massage and bodywork, colonic irrigations, aroma therapies, music therapies, swimming with the dolphins, and so forth. The factor that identifies such practices as quackery is that unsubstantiated medical claims are made for these methods rather than representing them as merely interesting or pleasant experiences. A more dangerous form of patient deception involves the so-called "healing crisis," "homeopathic aggravations," or "detoxification." In such instances, the patient actually is feeling worse. Adverse symptoms are declared to be "good" and alleged to be the "poisons coming out," the disease "retracing its history," or something of the sort. This represents a "heads I win, tails you lose" kind of psychology that benefits the quack If the patient feels better the quack can opportunistically take credit for the benefit, and when the patient feels worse the quack can claim that it is a good sign that things are getting better and will be better in the future. John knew how dependent patients are upon the interpretations of their situations by the health-care providers.
John also realized that some quacks fooled themselves by relying primarily upon subjective clinical experiences and the psychosocial dynamics of the health care setting. Evidence-based medicine has learned to separate illusory healing from real healing by using double-blinded clinical trials. John appreciated the need to practice the art of medicine by paying attention to patients psycho-social needs, to help them move in positive directions including lifestyle changes, engaging in pleasant activities such as gardening or socializing, obtaining pets, getting out of the house, enjoying natural settings, and so forth, but he wanted to help patients distinguish between what felt good and what might actually have a positive effect upon the biology of their diseases.
Tax-deductible contributions in John's memory can be made to the National Council Against Health Fraud, Box 1276, Loma Linda, CA 92354"

I consider myself blessed and fortunate to have crossed paths with this bigger-than-life individual.

May 24, 2016

Bob Avery, Revisited.

Bob Avery
The obituary notice is so matter-of-fact:  "GLASGOW – Hollon B. “Bob” Avery, 87, of Glasgow, died Wednesday, May 2, 2012, at T.J. Samson Community Hospital.
He was born in Concord, N.H., a son of the late Hollon C. and Alta Tholander Avery.
Mr. Avery was a U.S. Navy veteran of World War II. After the service he became an engineer and retired from the General Electric Co. in Schenectady, N.Y. He was a member of Allen Lodge #24 F&AM in Glasgow and was a Past District Deputy Grand Master. Mr. Avery was a member of the Glasgow First Presbyterian Church where he was a former Sunday school teacher.
He is survived by his wife, Marjorie Davidson Avery; a granddaughter, Jade Lin Avery, of Phoenix, Ariz; two brothers, Eugene Avery (Connie), of Edmonton, and Grant Avery (Diana), of Loudon, N.H.; two sisters Marilyn Foster, of Pembroke, N.H., and Carole Milliken, of Concord, N.H.; and several nieces and nephews.
He was predeceased by two sons, Bruce R. and Curtis E. Avery, and a brother, Kenneth A. Avery.
Funeral services will be 2 p.m., Sunday, May 6, 2012, at Glasgow First Presbyterian Church. Burial will be in New Hampshire. Visitation will be at A.F. Crow & Son Funeral Home on Saturday from 5 until 8 p.m., and he will lie in state at the church on Sunday from 1 p.m. until time for the service. A Masonic service will be conducted at 7 p.m. Saturday at the funeral home and the public is welcome to attend.
In lieu of flowers, the family suggests memorial contributions to either First Presbyterian Church memorial fund or Kosair Children's Hospital in Louisville."

And yet so much of this man's life, so many very important facts regarding his life, simply aren't represented.  Let me fill you in.


I first encountered Bob Avery in about 1952, during that time that he was an engineer with the General Electric Company in Schenectady, New York.  Those two sons who predeceased him were his pride and joy.  The obituary doesn't inform you that in a divorce from his first wife, he was granted custody of his two sons.  When I met them, they lived in a modest house trailer.  And Bob was involved in every aspect of his kids' lives.  And they loved him.  And they worked on cars and motorcycles together.  And they took 12-year old Bobby Mead into their inner circle.  And we went to car meets together in a 1914 Model T Ford that Bob had restored to a standard that earned it national recognition.


You read that he served in the Navy in World War II.  But the write up doesn't tell about the 1932 Ford cabriolet that Bob drove into the woods behind his father's house when he left for the war.  It doesn't tell how he retrieved that rusty relic in 1952 and told his boys that the three of them were going to restore it.  Or how they did and how it became another national prize winner.


And that simple sentence about his sons predeceasing him hides so much immeasurable pain.  I recall speaking with Bob after many years of having lost contact, and asking him how Bruce and Curt were doing.  And he had to inform me that both had been killed in separate motorcycle accidents.  And when I went to visit Bob, he was working on a car restoration that one of the boys had started.  It was a job that Bob treated as a sacred mission -- to complete this unfulfilled task.


And another thing that the obituary fails to convey -- The sheer joy that 
Marjorie Davidson Avery brought to his life -- his beloved Marge.  When he spoke of her, his eyes lit up.  Her presence was his inspiration.  God bless you, Marge, and rest in peace, my departed friend.

May 22, 2016

Remembering the "Farm"

A farmhouse similar in character and stature to the Farm
In April, 1964, I filled out my "dream sheet" to the Navy's Bureau of Personnel as follows:
First Choice - Any icebreaker home ported on the east coast, preferably Edisto (AGB-2)
Second Choice - Destroyer School for Engineering Option, followed by Chief Engineer's position on a destroyer homeported in Yokosuka, Japan.  I had just completed the Navy's 10-week long Firefighting, Damage Control, Nuclear, Bacteriological, and Chemical Defense school in Philadelphia.  I felt ready for more responsibility.

A few days later, I received a phone call from the Squadron Engineering Officer of Destroyer Development Group 2 (DESDEVGRU-2) in Newport, Rhode Island, my home port.  I knew the Squadron Engineer well, as my ship was part of his organization.  He often rode our ship for various engineering exercises for which he was a witness or judge.  "Hey, Bob, I just saw your dream sheet.  How would you like a Chief Engineer's job without having to complete Destroyer School?"  The question took me by surprise.  Only a few months before, an edict had come down from on high:  Only graduates of the newly-established Surface Warfare School (commonly called Destroyer School) could be considered for department head billets on destroyers from that point forward.  In essence, the Navy was requiring Destroyer school for the job I wanted, and Destroyer School would require an extension of my 4-year obligated service.  I was willing to extend to get the job I wanted as Chief Engineer, and I'd gain a little more time to decide if I wanted to make the Navy my career.  Yet here was the Squadron Engineer asking if I wanted to go straight to a Chief Engineer's billet.  I asked for clarification.

"We have a DE (Destroyer Escort) in the squadron home ported in New London, Connecticut," he told me.  "The Chief Engineer is in the base hospital with ulcers, and he ain't coming back.  If you're interested in the job, I can see that it's yours.  Because of the urgency, I believe we can make it happen without 6 months of Destroyer School."  That, in a nutshell, is how I got to be Chief Engineer of USS Maloy (DE-791), the last Buckley-class World War II turbo-electric powered destroyer escort in existence.  Two days after this conversation, I had my orders.  I ran down to Chief's Quarters to tell my leading Chief Petty Officer, Chief Harry Hardwick, that I had gotten orders.  He said, "You'll love it, Sir.  It'll be a lot like restoring an antique car!"

I flew to Bermuda to meet the ship, which was conducting operations in the area.  The ship had seen better days.  The Captain, Operations Officer, Weapons Officer, and a couple of others had been aboard less than 2 months.  There had been a "clean sweep" in the wardroom.  The new Captain, LCDR James E. Fernandes, was a "book man."  We would follow Navy Regulations to the letter.  I liked what I saw and heard.  After a few weeks operating off Bermuda, we headed for our home port of New London.  The ship was assigned to the Navy Underwater Sound Laboratory, which had a major operation in Groton, Connecticut.  I would get used to a routine of operating in and around Bermuda for a few weeks alternating with a few days or weeks in New London (The Navy base is actually on the Groton side of the river.).

After a couple of cycles back and forth to Bermuda, the Weapons Officer, Jay Allen, and one of the officers in the Operations Department, Tom Mason, expressed some interest in getting a place on the mainland to live when we were in port and didn't have "the duty."  I liked the idea.  We went to the Submarine School and put a notice on the bulletin board, as well as at the Bachelor Officer's Quarters.  After a few days, we had a list of six or seven fellows interested in finding a place.

We visited a realtor and explained our interest in a place that might accommodate this number of bachelor officers.  She immediately suggested an old farmhouse with "several" bedrooms located on 150 acres between Colchester and Chesterfield, Connecticut.  This would put the property somewhere around 17 miles from the Navy Base.  We went and looked at the property.  The house was pretty run down.  It belonged to a general contractor in New Haven who had been born and raised in the house.  He was mainly interested in having people live in the house to prevent vandalism.  The land was leased to a neighboring farmer, so we wouldn't have any obligation to maintain it.  And the price was right -- $150/month divided among us.  My share, including utilities, was usually around $25.00.  We rented the place and named it "Animal Farm."

We claimed places to put beds (I think there was a total of eight.) and scrounged some used furniture to make the place habitable.  A lot of shipmates cleaned out their attics/garages with the intent of "helping" us furnish our new digs.  The resulting decor was eclectic modern throwaway.  It became the perfect bachelor pad.  And it became a popular escape for a lot of friends.

Several graduating classes from the Submarine School held their graduation picnics at the farm.  Our ship's officers and their ladies had more than a few gatherings there, including picnics, softball games, and more organized dinner gatherings.  At one Christmas party, we started a creosote fire in the chimney when we got a little too enthusiastic burning the gift wrappings in the fireplace.  I remember one of the roommates on the roof with the garden hose trying to dampen the flames roaring out of the chimney.  But we all survived, including the house.

There was a dirt-floored one-car garage a stone's throw away from the house.  I cleaned it up and claimed it as my engine-rebuilding facility, in which, one very cold winter, I rebuilt the engine in my 1932 Model PB Plymouth (still owned and driven).  It was always a surprise to arrive "home" after a tour at sea, to see which of the roommates were at home.  We had two, Chris Clark and Art Kriesen, from the submarine force whose schedule never coincided with that of the Maloy, so we rarely had a "full house."

In April, 1965, the Maloy headed for Philadelphia on its final voyage.  I sold my "share" in the Farm to some other officer, whose name I can't recall.  I have no idea how long the tradition continued. I have many joyful recollections of the months spent in that ancient farmhouse.  I was dating a lady from Connecticut College for Women at the time and we spent many happy weekends there with friends.  It was a time of carefree innocence and great friendships.  And yet, a few years ago, while on a trip in that area, I tried unsuccessfully to find its location.  I suspect the house that generated so many wonderful memories no longer exists.

Apr 27, 2016

An Unintended 12th Step Call...


The other day I received a beautiful text message.  "28 years ago tonight, you made a 12th step call that changed my life.  I am grateful.  Hope you are doing well."  There's a great story behind that message.

For the benefit of those who may not know the term, a "twelfth step call" is when a recovering alcoholic in a 12-step recovery program reaches out to help a still-suffering alcoholic.  In the program of Alcoholics Anonymous, there is the notion that we stay sober by helping others.  Thus, the meetings where we share "our experience, strength, and hope" with each other.


I have never been very secretive about the fact that I am a grateful recovering alcoholic.   Everyone at my church knew my history.  Thus, on that night some twenty eight years ago, my pastor, Father Tom Field, called.  It was 10:00 on a Sunday evening.  I had just gone to bed when the phone rang.  "Can you come down to the church, " he asked.  "There's a fellow here who I think needs your message more than mine.  He's in pretty rough shape."  I told Tom I'd be right down.  I put on my clothes and twenty minutes later I got to meet our hapless victim.  For the sake of anonymity, let's call him Joe.


Joe looked pretty downtrodden.  He'd arrived at the church a few hours earlier and had been pouring his heart out to Tom.  He was still fairly inebriated.  Nobody understood him.  His life was a shambles.  He knew he had to cut down on his drinking, and if people would just understand him, he could do it.  But every time he had a few drinks, he just went nuts and got in trouble.  It was a pretty common story among us drunks.


I introduced myself and shared a little bit of my recovery tale, being careful to not be "Preachy."  I asked him if he was a member of our church, since I'd never seen him before.  Joe said, "Hell, no.  I used to go to the Church of Christ, but they don't know anything about drinking.  I came here 'cause you Catholics know a lot about drinking!"


We continued to talk.  I shared more of my story.  I remember thinking that this was probably a waste of time, as Joe wouldn't remember anything of our conversation when he woke up the next day.  Nonetheless, I did as I had been taught.  At the end of our conversation, I suggested to Joe that he might want to go with me the next night to meet some of my friends who had helped me stop drinking.  He agreed to do so.  I told him to come to my house the next night at 7:15 PM.  I asked if he thought he could go all day without drinking and he said he would try.


After someone came and got Joe, Father Tom accused me of being a real hard-ass for not offering to pick Joe up at his house the next evening.  I explained my belief that it was important for Joe to take the initiative of driving to my house.  There's something about reaching out for help that I think is an important part of the first step -- admitting our powerlessness.


The next night, Joe showed up.  Sober.  I was, quite frankly, surprised.  We headed to Huntsville to a particular meeting that I had in mind, but on the way, I remembered a smaller meeting that was on our route.  We went to Joe's first AA meeting at the Faith and Hope group on Meridian Street.  That group no longer exists, but it was there for him that evening.  Joe was shaking so badly he could barely hold a cup of coffee.  A lady sitting next to him put her arm around him and said, "It's all right, Sweetheart.  I can pour it faster than you can spill it.  You're gonna be just fine."  He knew he was in a place where he was loved without being judged.  All he had to do was show up.


I suggested to Joe that he try to get to 90 meetings over the next 90 days.  He did.  I suggested he find a tough sponsor to help guide him through the 12 steps.  He did.  In fact, Joe did just about everything that was suggested.  He bought a "Big Book" and read it from cover to cover several times.  He made friends in "the Program."  And recovery set in.


One time, after he had been sober a few months, I suggested that he might benefit from a visit to a big AA gathering in Nashville.  The International Conference of Young People in AA (ICYPAA) was having their world convention at the Opryland Hotel.  Joe went up on Friday evening.  When he finally located the conference, he was informed that there was a $10.00 registration fee.  He admitted to me later that his first thought was, "Ain't that just like Bob Mead to send me to an AA meeting where they charge admission?"


Over time, Joe went to hundreds of meetings, began to chair many of them, started to share his story at "Speaker Meetings," and sponsored many newcomers.  He became a fixture at more than one AA group.  And here we are, 28 years later.  How time flies.

Joe, you've been an inspiration to a lot of people over these 28 years.  I've heard you share your story many times.  It's always new and refreshing.  You are a walking, living miracle.  Keep it up, one day at a time.  And thanks for letting me be a tiny part of your miracle.

Apr 26, 2016

Musings on LeConte Lodge...

The Dining Hall that greets the hiker to LeConte Lodge
I think it was around 1982 that my late wife, Margo, first read about LeConte Lodge.  We had been backpacking many times, having hiked parts of the Appalachian Trail, several of the trails in the Cohutta Wilderness in north Georgia, the Chattooga River Trail, and a few others.  But gradually, Margo had become somewhat claustrophobic about sleeping in a tent.  She would wake up in a panic attack and scramble to get out of the tent.  Of course my solution was to get a larger tent.  That didn't work.  So it was a big deal when Margo saw the article in Southern Living about the LeConte Lodge.  She couldn't wait to tell me about it.
Llamas are used to bring
supplies up to the "Lodge"
and haul out trash

"Look at this," she said.  "You hike up the mountain in the Great Smoky Mountain National Park, and instead of sleeping in a tent, you get to sleep in a real bed!"  It sounded kind of interesting.  I read the whole article.  The deal was pretty straightforward.  You pay a certain amount (I think it was around $40 that first year.) and you reserve a space on top of this mountain for a certain date.  You hike up the mountain on one of five trails, and the company that runs the place provides dinner, lodging in a cabin, and breakfast.  Then you hike back down the mountain.  No tent.  No sleeping bag.  No need to carry much food, other than lunch and snacks.  It sounded interesting.  We decided to see if a couple of our friends, Guy and Anita Smith, would like to try out this new adventure.  They agreed.  Then we called the phone number in Gatlinburg that was listed in Southern Living.  My recollection is that this took place in January.


To our amazement, we were informed that reservations opened up on September 1st for the subsequent season, and that they were usually completely booked up by the next day!  The good news was that they had just had a cancellation for April 20th for a party of four.  If we wanted to take that accommodation, it was ours.  We jumped at the opportunity.  And so began our first adventure with LeConte Lodge.


We studied our Smoky Mountain trail guide to figure out which of the five trails we might want to take.  There was a range of lengths and degrees of difficulty.  The shortest was the Alum Cave Trail, at 5.5 miles, but it climbed nearly 2,800 feet.  The longest was the Boulevard Trail, at around 8 miles in length.  It started at the Newfound Gap parking lot, elevation 5,049 ft.  The Lodge is at 6,400 ft. elevation.  My feeble mind said that was only an elevation change of 1,545 ft.  Clearly this would be the easiest trail.  Had we known better and had the Internet been available, we might have read the following on the hikinginthesmokys.com Website: "
Many people assume that because this hike begins at such a high elevation that this must be the easiest trail to the summit of Mt. LeConte. Don't be fooled. This is a very tough hike. The trail rises and falls many times as it crosses the ridgeline between LeConte and the main crest of the Smokies."  The total elevation gain is actually about 3,000 ft.  We innocents, not knowing any better, elected to take this trail on our first LeConte expedition.
Our one-room cabin -- not
exactly the Taj Mahal!

The Smiths and Meads drove to Gatlinburg the day before the highly-anticipated jaunt.  We noticed as we drew close to the mountains that there appeared to be snow on the peaks that we could see.  It had snowed a few days earlier and we were surprised that it hadn't all melted.  But how could we let a little residual snow interfere with an otherwise perfect adventure?  We arose fairly early on the appointed day, found a nice little pancake restaurant for a hearty breakfast, and headed up Newfound Gap Road to our embarkation point.  It took a little longer than we had anticipated, but we were in the parking lot by 10:30 or so, and eastbound on the Appalachian Trail by 11:00.  It was a glorious, sunny day.


In the first couple of miles, we gained a considerable amount of elevation, and it wasn't long before we were in snow.  We successfully found the intersection where the Boulevard Trail leaves the AT and heads for Mt. LeConte.  The snow was melting at a pretty good pace, which had turned the trail into a muddy trench.  We had to be very careful to maintain our footing, and we all slipped and fell more than once.  In our preparations, we really had focused more on the intellectual side of hiking than the physical, so none of us was in really great shape.  Our pace gradually slowed.  As we got higher and encountered more snow, our backward slippage increased on every upward step.  And as the sun descended after noon, it got much cooler.  We added layers of clothing, but we were all hiking in very cold, wet, feet.  Did I mention that Margo and Anita had decided to hike in tennis shoes to save weight?

Greeted by snowy stairs

We reached the peak of Mt. LeConte, at 6,594 ft., only to realize that the Lodge was on the opposite side of the mountain from which we had approached, and that we still had probably a quarter of a mile to go.  It was nearly 6:00 PM, and we knew they served dinner at 6.  We literally slid down the ice-encrusted trail until we saw the Lodge, just in time to hear the dinner gong being rung.  The girls were in tears at the joy of seeing our destination and the thought of hot food and a warm bed.  Guy and I were greatly relieved to see our destination with all four of us intact.


We signed in the guest register and went in the dining hall before we checked out our cabin.  No one could have enjoyed the meal more than we did!  Hot roast beef and gravy, mashed potatoes and green beans, followed by sliced peaches, with plenty of hot coffee to warm us. The sleeping accommodations proved to be spartan but comfortable.  There are a series of log cabins ranging from single bedroom to three bedroom.  We were in one of the single bedroom units -- I recall that it was cabin number 1.  It was literally a 1-room cabin with a queen-size bunk bed and a couple of chairs and a small table.  There was a small kerosene heater that a staff member came by to light before we went to bed.  That was it.  No frills.


The recreation building
We soon migrated down to a shared building that is the recreation center.  We had been told to bring any food that we might have in our packs to store it in large garbage cans that resided in this building.  That was to prevent the mice and small squirrels from getting into our packs and destroying them.  We also saw the shared toilets nearby.  The ones with flush toilets were supplemented by old-time outhouses for those nights when the water had to be secured to prevent freezing.  That night, it got down to around 20 degrees.  We played Monopoly in the rec room until around 10:00 PM and then found our cabin and retired.  It took no time for all of us to be asleep.

Fortunately, one of the attendants had advised us to fill our cabin's bucket with water from the public spigot and place it on top of our kerosene stove overnight so we'd have warm water for bathing in the morning.  It felt wonderful to wash our faces with a warm, wet washcloth in that frigid environment.  Then, we assembled for breakfast in the dining hall.

Everyone sits at assigned tables, so we had the same table mates for breakfast whom we had met upon arrival.  The hot biscuits, scrambled eggs, sausage, apple butter, pancakes, and Tang ("the drink of Astronauts") really hit the spot as we anticipated the hike out.  We had no choice but to return by the way we came in, since our shared vehicle was at Newfound Gap.  After breakfast, a few goodbye hugs, and brief packing of what little gear we had brought, we began the trek to the car.  It wasn't long before we started shedding layers of clothes.  And enough snow had melted that the footing was much improved.  And going down proved to be much faster that going up.  Within around five hours, we were standing in the Newfound Gap parking lot.

Not long after this hike, Anita found out that she had been pregnant during our adventure.  A little more than a year later, we went up again with Guy and Anita, having made reservations the "normal" way.  In subsequent years, we hiked the mountain with other colleagues and friends, in all seasons, in groups large and small, and in every imaginable kind of weather.  I've hiked every trail more than a few times.  Margo gradually decided she'd rather stay in Townsend, TN, with our dogs and read a few good books while I hiked, so we did that for a number of years.  I hiked it several times with my friend Jim Kahrs and his family, and with my Nephew David and his kids, Canon and Forrest.  In all, I believe I hiked to the summit 28 times.


The last couple of times I hiked up Mt. LeConte, I took falls that were caused by my not seeing a hazard.  The last fall I took resulted in a gash in my forehead that required several stitches to bind up.  I concluded that my depth perception has diminished over the years and that maybe I need to slow down a bit.  So I haven't been up LeConte in probably five years.


My memories of the many hikes are varied.  But most are joyous.  Regardless of a little leg and hip pain (or a few stitches) the beauty of the wildflowers, the solitude and tranquility, the scent of the balsams, the beauty of the butterflies, or the laughs and jabber of my hiking companions are my most prevalent recollections.  A person could do a lot worse than that.  I'm a very fortunate guy.

Apr 20, 2016

Good Lord, Emmett...

1954 Buick Special 4-door Sedan
I went to high school with a young man named Dennis Luebke.  His family had moved to Schenectady from Wisconsin.  His mother and dad had that delightful sing-songy Wisconsin accent that always reminds me of the Lawrence Welk Show.  Dennis' father, Emmett, had earned his Ph.D. in physics at the University of Wisconsin and he worked on highly classified nuclear programs at the General Electric Research Laboratories and at the Knolls Atomic Power Lab, both of which were located in Schenectady.  The family lived on the corner of Nott Street and Lexington Avenue, in a modest but comfortable home.  I could often be found there on Saturday mornings enjoying breakfast with the Luebke family.

In 1954, Mrs. Luebke, Nora, got a new car, a 1954 Buick Special with the new 264-cu.in. V-8, rated at 150 hp with the automatic transmission.  It would go from 0 to 60 mph in about 11 seconds.  In 1954, that was amazing. In 1956, when that car still smelled new, Dennis got his driver's license.  The whole gang knew that there were two really fast cars in our group -- Luebke's '54 Buick and a '56 Pontiac owned by Cliff Johnson's Dad.  I was relegated to a '53 Mercury that my family was driving, powered by the last of the flatheads.  I wouldn't even dare to compete with that nail head-powered Buick!

Fonda Dragway in its Heyday
One night, Dennis got to borrow the Buick and our group decided it would be brilliant to go to Fonda, New York, to the drag strip to see "what it could do" in the quarter mile.  What could possibly go wrong?  We piled into our respective vehicles and headed for Fonda.  We pooled a few bucks for Dennis' entry fee and he was ready to race.  For a little extra advantage, Dennis took the air cleaner off the carburetor and placed it on the floor behind the driver's seat.  We all knew that this would let the Carter 2-barrel carburetor "breathe" better.  He made 2 or 3 runs down the quarter-mile track and turned in respectable times for a sedan with an automatic transmission.  And after enjoying the drags, we all headed home.

The next morning, I rode my bike up to the Luebke's to scrounge a little breakfast.  As we were sitting around the table, with Emmett reading his morning paper, Nora stepped out into the garage to get something.  Almost immediately, she rushed back, saying with her inimitable lilt, "Good Lord, Emmett, he's got hav da motor in da back seat!"  Dennis had forgotten to put the air cleaner back on the engine!

There was some intense explaining -- something about increased fuel efficiency if you ran the car without the air cleaner.  I have always suspected that Emmett knew exactly what had happened.  Mrs. Luebke -- maybe not so much.

Apr 2, 2016

Further Proof that Our Dog is NOT Spoiled...


Mary Ann found the most amazing invention.  It's called "Doggie Cone: The Frozen Treat Maker Designed for Dogs."  They have a Web Site.  We bought one.  It got tested today.  Today's delight was basically frozen diluted chicken broth with peanut butter balls, beef chewies, and duck chewies.  Stay tuned to see what an 80 lb. Cavapoo looks like...

Bella enjoys her nutritional Doggie Cone