------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
By Skip Sheffield
I never had a close relationship with my
father. You could say I had no relationship.
In a perverse way this was a good thing. The
great gift my father gave me was the gift of freedom to make my own decisions,
and face the consequences good or bad. If the question was something risky or
dangerous, I always went to my dad first. If it involved money, he invariably
said “If you want it, you pay for it.”
I started making money on my own at age six
with a lemonade stand on the boardwalk in New Jersey. By age 11, I graduated to
babysitting, which proved to be lucrative. At age 12 I began delivering
newspapers -- and ended up spending my entire adult life working in the
newspaper business.
Our family visited Jackson Hole, Wyoming
in the summer of 1956 for a family reunion. I was enchanted. The sheer splendor
of the Grand Tetons was dazzling. The rush of the crystal-clean, ice-cold Snake
River; the rustic charm of downtown Jackson
and the rugged life of real cowboys all made an indelible imprint. I vowed one
day to return.
By the summer of my 13th year I had saved enough money to
finance the month-long, nearly 6,000-mile journey, by rail and bus. A child’s
round-trip ticket was only $140 and change. I figured $100 would be enough for
expenses, because there would be none once I reached my Uncle Jack
Huyler’s Rocking H Ranch.
Dad was impressed at my ambition. He even took
my part over my mother’s misgivings, and in all fairness the USA was a safer
place in 1961 than it is now. Rail was probably the safest mode of
transportation for a 13-year-old boy on his own.
I learned straightaway that people tended to
be protective of me -- especially the train personnel. Such a trip could not be
made today, as it involved four different rail lines, some of which no longer
have passenger service or are out of business altogether. In its heyday the
Florida East Coast Railway was a lovely way to make the Florida leg of the trip. Less lovely and
much longer was the rival Seaboard Air Line, which took an inland route from West Palm Beach via Tampa.
The first day was uneventful until our arrival
in Jacksonville,
where I had to transfer to the Atlantic Coast Line. A young man had gotten
stumblingly drunk in the lounge car and toppled out the door to the tracks,
breaking his leg. It was dark by the time the ACL leg began. A young, black
woman and her young children boarded the train somewhere in Georgia. A girl
age seven or eight settled in the seat next to me.
I have never been good at falling asleep on
moving conveyances in awkward positions, so my first night was pretty much
sleepless. By dawn’s early light I smelled something unpleasant. The little
girl had urinated in her sleep, soaking the seat. I had the sinking feeling
that perhaps I had made a foolish, terrible choice. I spoke to a porter, and he
said I could ride in the club car.
A family must have noticed my discomfort. It
was a husband and wife with a boy a little younger than me -- and a beautiful
daughter. She was 21, I learned, because she told me. When I told her I was 13,
she replied, “If was 13 again, I could go for you.” Like magic the miserable
night was forgotten. The family taught me how to play gin rummy, and I was
invited to breakfast and dinner the next day.
Our next destination was Carbondale, Illinois,
where there was a layover and a change to the Illinois Central. There was a
young Army guy at the station, toting a duffel bag. He asked me where my family
was and I told him back in Florida.
I explained my quest and he was suitably impressed. He said since we had time
to kill, would I like something to eat.
Sure, I said. There was a place named Flo’s
Café nearby. He told me to order anything, so I ordered a T-bone steak.
The soldier got off at St. Louis, where there was an even longer
(8-hour) layover for the Union Pacific westbound. I started to head out of the
huge Union Station when a porter called out and asked where I was going. I told
him I wanted to explore a little while waiting for my train. He pleaded with me
to stay in the station and not venture out, particularly after dark.
“This is a bad part of town,” he admonished. I
was not a fearful kid, but I wasn’t stupid and so heeded his advice.
The Union Pacific was a big step up over the
previous three railways. The cars were newer and cleaner, and had several Vista
Dome observation cars as well as a dining car and club car. For various delays
the train was behind schedule. By the time we got to Rock
Springs, Wyoming, we were too late
for me to catch the only bus north to Jackson Hole.
I shared my plight with the station master, and he suggested I check in the
Park Hotel, which was less than a block away.
The hotel was a grand old, red brick
structure that had seen better days, but it still was better than anything else
in that dreary and dangerous coal-mining town. I told the desk clerk I wanted
the cheapest room, and I went through the now-familiar litany of my trip. The clerk said OK that will be $3.75.
The bathroom is down the hall he added, and oh kid, whatever you do, don’t
leave the hotel after sundown.
I befriended another family at the Park and
again got treated to dinner in the hotel. I felt like a real man of the world
checking out of the hotel in the morning with my little suitcase. The bus
finally arrived. It was no Greyhound Sceni-Cruiser. It was a battered old
Flixible from the 1950s.
For the first time on the trip, and owing to
bus fumes and winding roads, I felt nauseous The trip seemed to take forever.
The bus could only do about 50 mph flat-out and less on the inclines. Jackson Hole is a mountain valley more than a
mile above sea level at its lowest part.
Uncle Jack and Aunt Margaret met me in
downtown Jackson.
I told Uncle Jack about the Park Hotel and he said good choice.
“Rock Springs
is one of the roughest towns in America,”
he said.
I was assigned a bunk in the “Kids’ Cabin” at
the ranch. I was the youngest of five or six guys, all friends of my cousin
John Huyler, who was 16. Three years is a big difference when you are 16. I
could tell the guys weren’t crazy about having a 13-year-old punk around.
It was hay harvest time. Rocking H ranch still
had cattle and a barn full of horses. Because I was the smallest and weakest of
the males, Uncle Jack assigned me to drive the hay wagon. The vehicle was a
Ford J-8 tractor, vintage 1948. It had a four-speed transmission with a first
year so low you could climb mountains with it. I had never driven a stick shift
or any real vehicle, for that matter. I learned to avoid the “granny gear”
after I dumped the boys and the hay a couple times by letting out the clutch
too quickly. This did not endear me to the gang, but it was a valuable learning
experience. I have never driven a vehicle as difficult to operate as that
old Ford.
The guys liked to brag about romantic
exploits; I made the mistake of making some snide remark about “getting
something” and got the cold shoulder of disdain instantly. In turn, I realized I would never belong in the
guys’ inner circle, so I began to hang out with Cousin Steve, three years
younger than me. Steve was a favorite of his grandmother, the matriarch of the
ranch. Steve wasn’t much into horses or cowboy stuff. He was fascinated with
rocks and had a little polishing machine that he would use followed by
spending hours studying the colorful stones.
At the beginning of my visit I had been
assigned a horse, a gentle brown mare, I grew to love and trust that horse.
When Cousin John suggested I might want to ride bareback, I grabbed the
opportunity. I think the horse appreciated not having the heavy western saddle,
or the straps cinched around her.
John noticed my progress. He said the real
test of human and horse is to ride without bit or bridle -- just a rope halter.
I found the horse was happy to be rid of the cold steel bit and the leather
reigns to yank her head about.
There was a reason John suggested riding
bareback without bit or bridle. That is how he and the other guys took their
horses swimming. I was overjoyed to accept their invitation to go swimming with
the horses. It is a unique sensation for human and horse, and quite enjoyable
for both on a hot summer’s day.
Uncle Jack is a great believer in spurring
people on to ever greater challenges. As an early birthday present, he bought
me mountain-climbing lessons. I never had the urge to scale a mountain, and
from Boy Scouts I knew I was pretty lousy at knot-tying, something essential
when your life depends on it.
Cousin John and his friends were nuts about
mountain-climbing. They would tie amazingly complex knots with speed and ease.
I didn’t want to seem ungrateful or look like a chicken, so I accepted the
lesson and hoped for the best.
A day of Climbing 101 climaxes with belaying
off a cliff. This means jumping off backward and controlling the release of a
rope encircling your waist. I took the proverbial leap of faith and lo and
behold it felt great. I think my stock went up considerably amongst the other
boys. It was a fitting end to a three-week stay.
After the long bus ride back to Rock Springs I boarded
the Union Pacific without delay. In Denver
a girl near my age boarded the train. Yes, she was attractive, and yes, she
noticed me.
When she went to the Vista Dome car to view
the scenery, I boldly asked if the seat next to her was taken. She said no and
I introduced myself.
I learned her name was Donna and she was bound
for Kansas City, Missouri, where her family lived. When it
came time for dinner we went to the dining car together. When night fell we
went back to the observation car, bathed in the soft light of a billion stars.
We talked all night and began holding hands,
then kissing a bit. I had always liked girls, but nothing like this had ever
happened before. In that short space of time I got an inkling of what it was
like to really fall for someone.
The next day we pulled into Kansas City and Donna and I said our
farewells. She was crying and so was I. We exchanged addresses and I wrote to
her, but I never heard from her again.
The rest of the trip was a boring blur, ending
at the FEC Railway station in Boca
Raton. My family greeted me like a returning hero, and
I felt like one.
I entered ninth grade with a new level of
confidence and savoire faire. Ninth grade was a triumph from beginning
to end, academically and socially. The day I turned 14 I took and passed my
restricted driver’s test and much to my mother’s distress, bought a used
mo-ped. A new era of freedom had begun. I thank dad very belatedly for giving
me permission.
