"Get Grandpa Off The Thunder Mug": Chapter V

Grounds for Manslaughter

I can't remember a time when my nights weren't disturbed by snorers. I have often wondered if they are frustrated opera singers or snore to protect themselves from creatures of the night. Whichever, they tread on very thin ice and surely must know that little separates them from the hereafter when their vibrators have kept a light sleeper awake for hours.

I was bunked near a one quarter Choctaw Indian from Oklahoma while at one Army base. Private Rumblenose snored with such volume it vibrated his cot across the floor. At the start of all night reverberations I threw boots, helmet or any other heavy object available at his form for a few minutes respite. A fellow from Indiana told me to roll up a cloth towel, wet it in warm water and put it in one of his hands. It worked like a charm and gave us a quiet hour as he showered and changed his shorts, sometimes an additional half hour as he sat on his bunk trying to figure out why he had those dreams.

My chubby little dough mixer snores like a well adjusted refrigerator runs, 20 minutes on and 15 minutes off. For several years all I had to do was kick her reset button and she would turn to the other side for a short break or different tone. She is the type that will snore for an hour then suddenly react with one terrific snort that will bring her fully awake then she jabs me in the ribs and asks, "Did you hear that, why it was loud enough to wake the dead, I don't know how you could sleep through it." I hadn't slept through it but I don't like to start arguments late at night.

I worked for Freeport Exploration Company for several years and was among some of the most professional snorers in the world. Our president, Douglas Cook, would sit at his desk, eyes wide open and pen in hand, a telephone receiver cradled by his left ear, looking every bit the picture of a busy executive until sounds like a wood rasp striking an oak knot would echo from the room signaling a mind at rest.

David Stevens sounded like an old plow horse that had just turned the last furrow in the south 40 when in deep sleep. Dave would build up pressure in his lungs with long, deep gasps until his safety valve popped and vented it through his nose rattling his adenoids like a witch doctor in a jungle chasing demons from a soul with rocks in dried gourds. That phase would be followed by a round of wheezing and lip smacking equal to a tired Sultan making the rounds of his harem.

Geologist Win Rowe and his black labrador were snorers of the highest quality. They combined their talents to give co-workers fitful nights. I have seen Kimberlite press her paws tightly against her ears and cast disgusting looks at her master if he drifted off key or ventured into solo performance.

Geologist Dave Jones holds the record for longest sustained and highest decibel snoring. Even his competitors wore ear plugs when Dave hit full power. He was blasting the air waves in Billings, Montana one night when Denny Heyrman decided enough was enough. Denny tried to smother Jones with a foam pillow, but even with 235 pounds compressing the pillow on his face Dave was still able to snore through his ears.

Win Rowe reappears, with his black labrador Kimberlite, in "Thundermug for President," below, and in "Echoes from the Thundermug," in "Bloody Palm Gulch."

A Quarter Moon for Big Jim Collord

I worked with a big fellow named Jim Collord on several jobs in Nevada. Jim is a hard worker and brilliant geologist and it pleases me that he is finally reaping the rewards of his dedication to exploration as well as his efforts to preserve a mining industry. He lives in Elko, Nevada where he was recently manager of the Jerritt Canyon gold mine.

In 1980 we were evaluating a mine near Silver Peak and driving from the town of Tonopah which had better accommodations for a large crew and a restaurant in a vintage hotel that served wonderful meals at prices we could afford.

Collord stands six feet and six inches tall with bulk to match. The dining room of the hotel had three waitresses, one of whom was nearly as tall as our geologist. It was winter and business was hum-drum so we were afforded more than the usual attention. The tall girl in the tight red shorts liked Jim and make an effort to serve us each evening.

There were six of us one February night. Win Rowe, sitting opposite big Jim Collord, Fields and Payne, temporary help from California, Ken Hansen and myself. Jim was arm waving and talking about the day's activities and knocked his napkin from the table. Win pointed to his right, Jim turned in his chair and nearly put his nose in the crease of the girl's shorts, as she retrieved his napkin and placed it by his silverware. Flat footed and stooped over her derriere was higher than big Jim's eyebrows. She was so long legged she could have mounted a fair sized horse without using a stirrup.

For a full thirty minutes the young lady didn't pass our table that a napkin wasn't on the floor by Jim Collord. After picking it up for the third or fourth time she realized there was more going on than met the eye, or nose. Not even a geologist could be that fumble fingered. We never mentioned "High Pockets" around Jim's wife.

A UFO Visits Harley

Ever see a UFO? Me too, but I didn't think I'd be writing about it. In autumn of 1966, during the time Gene Wardell and I were driving a tunnel near Bondholder, we were eating lunch at the edge of our compressor building where we could enjoy the view of Bondholder meadow. I looked up and saw a large object spiraling toward us. The circles appeared to be about a mile in diameter and my first thought was that it was a wing off a jet, but we had heard nothing and could see nothing, but this lone fragment. When it appeared it would crash into Hardscrabble Mountain, to the west, it straightened up and looked like a large tube with convex ends. With less than a thousand feet between the craft and the mountain there was a sound of air turbulence and it vanished to the west. There was a power outage at the Cadwell Ranch at the time of the sighting.

Four years later Inez and I were staying in a small cabin near the mine as I did assessment work and extended the tunnel. We had sleeping bags on air mattresses by a window at the west end. Around midnight our tomcat woke me as he played with a mouse near my face. I responded to the call of nature in our outdoor biffy and on my return saw a strange light over Hardscrabble Mountain. It was still there when I got to our bed. I shook Inez and she instantly sat up, startled, but not fully awake. I told here about the light and we stood, side-by-side, at the window to watch it. The craft was faintly visible though we couldn't define pattern or size, the absorbing thing about it was the brilliant light illuminating a large area of the mountain side coming from underneath the body. It hovered for several minutes then sped north approximately a half mile where it hovered again and bathed the mountain side in light. From this sighting it disappeared to the west in almost the exact path of the former aircraft.

I thought of this many years later when a little fellow in Elko, Nevada was relating his experience with a UFO that nearly landed on the end of his fishing pole.

Harley likes to frequent a certain cafe in Elko. He and his friends have a special booth where Harley always cleans the silverware by breathing on it and wiping it laboriously with a napkin. He will then order coffee. The patrons love Harley, but the waitresses would rather he took his business elsewhere.

They were gathered in the booth one evening when Harley sidled up to Royce and whispered, "Have you ever seen a real, live UFO?" Royce told him he didn't believe he had. He turned Royce's head with one hand so he could look him right in the eye and stated, "I saw one this evening, Royce, I swear I did." "I were a'fishing' down past Clark's place where the river makes that bend near some cottonwoods and here come this shiny thing with red and blue and green lights and it lit right on the river bank and all these little people got out and started towards me, so I run real quick to my car and wound up the windows and they come and looked in at me." Harley still had one hand on Royce's cheek to be sure the story had fully registered.

Royce asked him if he was scared. "Oh Royce, I was terrible scared."

"Well, what did they look like, Harley, did they look like us?"

"I don't know Royce, I had my eyes tight closed the whole time."

I can't vouch for Harley's UFO, but I do believe there are strange craft out there and I believe we've seen a couple.

"I told here" is printed as shown, for "I told her." This is a variant of "Trip to Nevada Town Brings Back Old Memories" in "Echoes from the Thundermug," told there with "fishin' just at dusk" and "red an' green lights" where this book has "down past Clark's place" and "red and blue and green lights," and without Harley's hand on Royce's cheek.

Thundermug for President

The least we can write about the 1984 Presidential campaign the better. The only reason for bringing it up is to let readers know I tried to make my parents proud. They are in the spirit world, but I'm sure the news would have reached them had we been successful. No doubt, a few relatives with weak hearts would have joined them.

A notorious pair in Monte Vista, Colorado planted the seed of high stakes ambition and led me down the bitter path of defeat. I try hard to remember how I get caught up in situations such as that. Surely, a person of my sorry qualifications who tips the bottle would never seek the Presidency of his own volition. Heinie "Adorable Jones" Leonard and Gordon "Shorty" Wheeler caught me in a weak moment and assured me the time was ripe for a "People's Candidate," someone who came from the ranks of the deprived. In their words, "Who has known more deprivation than Old Thundermug?"

Our campaign took off with all the velocity of a turpentined dog on glare ice. We had endorsements from The Brotherhood of Ladies of the Night...Amalgamated Distilleries of Possum Ridge...League of Latent Lovers...and the Horizontal Bore Hole Company of Ely, Nevada. Chairman Leonard had more donations and pledges pouring in than he could keep track of which was probably the beginning of our downfall.

We were short of transportation and first crack out of the box Adorable Jones was caught trying to hot wire a Chevrolet Van in the Safeway parking lot in Monte Vista. Shorty bailed him out with a check from Amalgamated Distilleries and it bounced so high the court clerk still hasn't brought it under control. After that setback we thought it best to take our campaign west, to the great silver state of Nevada where we could appeal for support from friends, co-workers and girls on the line who had shared our burdens in other endeavors. Previously we had received a scorching letter from one Winthrop Rowe, postmarked Reno, who demanded we either grunt or get off the pot. He suggested we were long on tissue and short on substance. Evidently Mr. Rowe wasn't acquainted with our platform. And advice came from an old friend in Missouri who was worried that we wouldn't stand our ground on women's rights. "Keep'em barefoot and pregnant," Bo said, "and the broads will never give you any trouble."

Our opponents flip-flopped on the Equal Rights Amendment so often they resembled baboons on trampolines. We made our position known from day one. It takes a partnership of home-maker and bread-winner to forge a harmonious marriage. We felt that the first one to bear a child in such an arrangement should become the home-maker. We admit to lacking a firm foreign policy. After the spring sale at Loco Liquors, our chairman and treasurer were unable to maintain a vertical attitude long enough to counsel me. By the time they were back on solid food we were no shows in three primaries.

After a whirlwind start our campaign lost air faster than a politician with the hiccups. We got separated in Nevada when we attended the funeral of a friend of Adorable Jones who had lately been a reservations clerk at the Mustang Ranch after a very active earlier career. After the services I caught a ride to Elko where I was slated to make a speech as Wheeler and Leonard consoled the employees. The last I heard of Shorty he had been rolled in Las Vegas by a little old lady working her way through college. Heinie "Adorable Jones" Leonard decided to loop through Arizona where we had a show of strength and potential delegates. On a late night run he surprised a band of sleeping sheep on the Navajo Highway and sheared fourteen before he could stop. It took the last of our funds to spring him from a Hogan near Kayenta.

Sometimes I wake up at night and think it was all a bad dream, but I recently ran across a packet containing news clips, handbills and a list of contributors. I can't remember if I wrote each one explaining the abrupt end of our ambitions or to thank them for their support. Robert "Blacky" Blackburn of Benbow, Texas sent a sizeable contribution in Cuban Centavos, Janice Messer of Denver; Frosty and June Snow of Lynnwood, Washington; Ernesto Trujillo of Del Rio, Texas; Phil Bethke of Maryland and Gordon Duncan of San Jose all sent cash, Care packages or multiple vitamins.

A belated thank you to one and all who carried our banner. You will be pleased to know that our platform, adopted nearly word for word, catapulted a new team to the White House in election year 1992.

The poster fills the top of printed page 37, before this story's heading; the two lines it prints are given here as the figure's caption. The five verses are printed centered and stair-stepped on the page, each line indented further than the one above it; that staggered indentation is not reproduced here, but the line breaks are as printed. This story and its related columns in "Echoes from the Thundermug" ("Campaign Woes," "Thundermug in the White House," "Powderhorn Party Pulls Plug on Thundermug Bid," and "Jackson's Mug is Empty") agree on a 1984 campaign. A later Echoes column, "Campaign '88 Leaves Wheeler in Las Vegas," in Married Life and Mining Camps, Part Three, tells a similar Las Vegas rolling of Shorty Wheeler and the same "Bo" quotation, with fourteen sheep sheared near Kayenta; "Bo" is not identified by surname in either book, though Noel "Bo" Roberts of Croker, Missouri, named elsewhere on this site, fits the description. Heinie "Adorable Jones" Leonard and Gordon "Shorty" Wheeler are documented elsewhere on this site under their own keys; Phil Bethke, a geologist named in "Echoes from the Thundermug," is placed there at the U.S. Geological Survey office in Reston, Virginia, where this book says only "of Maryland." Gordon Duncan of San Jose is not confirmed to be the same Gordon Duncan named elsewhere in this book's front matter.