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Shots In the Dark

3/15/2017

There’s an old road in these mountains, and it’s time for you to take
a Road Trip.

This is a road which, in its heyday, hosted more daily traffic than
any other road in California; than any other road on all of the west
coast of the United States. Dirty, dusty, and rutted, this unpaved
path through a small portion of the Sierra was cut by foot, hoof, and
wagon wheel over a period of many years, and although it grew to only
four miles in length by the mid-1800’s it proudly boasted far more
pedestrians, wagons, and horses on its rough surface than did any of
its prouder and more smoothly paved counterparts in cities such as Los
Angeles and San Francisco, and in the year of 1850 it was the busiest
thoroughfare to be found in perhaps all of the western states. This
road is still in existence, running the four miles between the old
mining towns of Nevada City and Grass Valley, although all of the
bumps and furrows which helped give it character so many years ago
have long been smoothed over.

And you, as a devotee of California history, you have decided that you
need to go up to the mountains and see it; to ride or walk it; to see
if you can still get a feel for what it was like to be on this road in
1850; to see if it will whisper to you something of its past.

So on a warm almost-Spring day in March you leave the city and head on
up to the Sierra. It’s late when you get to Grass Valley; the numerous
stops along the way to see other relics of the past have delayed you
longer than anticipated, and the warmth with which your journey began
has been replaced by the icy chill of thin mountain air. All the
restaurants you pass have already closed for the evening, with only
the lights from a convenience store still shining into the street as
you reach the edge of town. You stop and, on a whim, purchase a bottle
of rye whiskey from the otherwise unattractive display of food and
drink. After all, rye is what was served in the mountain saloons back
in the day, wasn’t it? As a concession to the tourist industry you
also purchase a shot glass which is decorated with old wooden false
front buildings against a mountain backdrop. Then you resume your
journey out of town, carefully watching the odometer and slowing to a
stop when it shows you have gone two miles from the last structure you
saw. Ahead of you on that dark road – another two miles distant – lies
Nevada City. You are at the halfway point, the dark and quiet median
of this road from the past. You once read somewhere – you can’t
remember where – that there was at one time a sign at this midway
point, a sign with two swinging arms, one pointing to Nevada City, two
miles away, and the other pointing to Grass Valley, two miles the
other way. But that sign fell over and disappeared years ago, never
replaced.

Cold now, you struggle into your heavy jacket, grab an old blanket –
and of course your bottle of rye – and climb a small hill next to the
road. It’s quiet, with little traffic. You spread the blanket on a
bare patch of dirt beneath a leafless tree and sit down, rubbing your
hands together for warmth. Then you reach for the liquid warmth which
you brought along and pour yourself a shot, waiting for the road to
speak to you. Unsurprisingly, it doesn’t. But you’re not in a hurry.
You’ve come a long way; you can show patience. You finish the drink
and then grab your knees, hugging them to your chest, and wrap what
you can of the blanket around your back. You pour another drink and,
as you sip it, you think back over what you’ve read of the history of
this part of the mountains. As the night slips by what little traffic
there was earlier has now completely ceased and you are all alone.
You’re warmer now, though you doubt that warmth has anything to do
with the blanket. You’re comfortable too, with a heat now lighting you
from within. As you look upward you see the stars begin to shimmer and
dance in the thin mountain air, and when you look back down you see
the shadows of figures from times long past moving on the road below
you.

And, to your surprise, the road begins to speak.

The 1850’s – both Nevada City and Grass Valley were booming towns,
counting populations of about ten thousand and three thousand
respectively. Each was surrounded by smaller towns, and all were
surrounded by thousands of mining claims, the boundary of which was
generally held to be as far as the claimant could shoot his rifle and
hit a claim jumper. This road between the towns hosted fairly constant
travel all day long as well as through most of the night; miners and
shopkeepers, bankers and outlaws.

It was about here at this midpoint that in 1858 a stage was stopped by
a pair of masked robbers who had heard in town that there was gold
aboard the coach. In fact there was, but it wasn’t in the usual place
within a strongbox atop the coach. It was instead in the pockets of a
banker who was a passenger and who had a few thousand dollars of the
stuff hidden in his suit. After futilely searching atop the stage the
robbers decided to frisk the passengers, at which point the banker
quietly pulled a revolver from beneath his coat and held it on his
lap, saying nothing. At the sight of the weapon the robbers cautioned
the banker to ‘go easy’, and the banker responded that better pickings
were to be had on the next stage coming out of town, a stage coach on
which Wells Fargo would be shipping a considerable amount of gold.
After looking at the weapon again and at the calm, smiling man who
held it, the robbers nodded their thanks and retreated into the brush,
only to reappear later that day and rob the next coach of the
$21,000.00 Wells Fargo had placed on board. When later told of this
robbery, the banker on the first stage just laughed and shrugged. He
was a banker. And Wells Fargo, after all, was The Competition.

Stage robberies were a frequent occurrence here, but the robbers had
to be quick because of the volume of people using the road. One of the
more persistent hold-up artists was a man by the name of Jack
Williams. With his two companions he waylaid many coaches and was
always successful in making his getaway. One day after stopping a
stage and quickly searching the passengers, Williams climbed up and
tried to open the Wells Fargo lock box near the driver. But, tired of
Williams’ repeated robberies, Wells Fargo had installed a new type of
box on this stage; a stout metal safe that was impervious to Jack’s
bullets. Cursing profusely as time was running out, Williams finally
gave up and rode off, promising that he would not be outsmarted by
Wells Fargo, and the laughing stage driver resumed his journey to
town. But a few days later Williams again stopped that same stage.
This time he and his men had crow bars, sledge hammers, and a can of
blasting powder. The tools proved useless, as did the first attempt at
blowing the box open. But on the second try the powder blew the steel
box into the air and opened it, scattering gold over the road. As his
men retrieved the fortune, Williams passed around a bottle of brandy
to the passengers and apologized for delaying them. Then he and his
men disappeared down the road.

One day in 1851 two men from Nevada City walked this road to the edge
of town to settle a dispute. George Dibble and E.B. Lundy had gotten
into an argument and Dibble called Lundy a liar. He then went on to
challenge Lundy to a duel with pistols to resolve this affair of
honor. Lundy accepted, but warned Dibble that he had fought duels
before and that he was a crack shot. Dibble laughed. So the next
morning the men met to resolve the issue. It was early, cold, and
still dark, so the men met in a saloon for a drink to chase away the
chill before dueling. The saloon was barely lit with just a few
candles. Lundy tried one more time to caution his challenger, and as a
warning he drew his pistol and took aim at a candle across the bar
room, then severed the flaming wick with a single shot, leaving the
candle standing untouched. It was a perfect shot in the dark that
impressed every man there – every man, that is, except Dibble. Lundy
insisted he could repeat that Shot In the Dark at will. Dibble again
laughed. So the two men, with their Seconds by their sides and
surrounded by a crowd of men, walked this road to the outskirts of
town. Then they stood back to back, stepped twenty paces, turned and
fired. Dibble grabbed his chest, staggered a few steps, and dropped
dead in the road as Lundy walked coolly away. It was barely light, and
Lundy had made good his promise of a perfect Shot In the Dark.

This was also the road used by Bill Slater as he walked out of
California forever, and he did so in a colorful way. Slater was a shop
keeper in Downieville, another mining town not too far away.
Downieville was much more isolated than most mountain communities in
1850, a rough town in a narrow canyon with no roads connecting it to
the outside world, and for many months a hoard of gold had been
accruing from miners who were becoming increasingly impatient to sell
it. Slater had casually remarked to a customer in his store one day
that there was a place in San Francisco which paid twenty-two dollars
an ounce for gold, as opposed to the common value of sixteen dollars
per ounce. This news spread like wildfire through town, and soon the
eager miners elected Slater as just the right man to pack out their
gold and sell it for them in San Francisco, generously offering him a
fee of two dollars per ounce for doing so. Slater humbly agreed, and
was soon leading a line of heavily packed animals down the canyon and
out of town, carrying an estimated $25,000 of gold with him. He sold
the gold in San Francisco then took the money and boarded a steamer
going south. In Panama he stopped to speak with a gold seeker headed
for California and recommended the man go to Downieville, saying he
couldn’t find a more welcoming community than that town. He was
careful to repeat his name and asked to be remembered to the men
there, then laughingly headed east across the isthmus, never to be
seen again.

This road was also frequently traveled by the famous dancer, Lola
Montez, who settled into semi-retirement in Grass Valley with her
third husband. A colorful woman who had once been the mistress of King
Ludwig of Bavaria, Lola’s talents and beauty were fading by the time
she arrived here. And the fact that she had never bothered to divorce
either of her first two husbands before marrying her third was a cause
of consternation to some law enforcement officials in Europe. Grass
Valley offered a quiet place to shelter, although Lola had a difficult
time living quietly. She kept two grizzly bear cubs as pets, and often
strolled the streets of both towns in very low cut gowns which proudly
displayed her ample bosom as she puffed on a cigar. When a local
minister preached to his congregation that her famous Spider Dance was
lewd and obscene, Lola took this very road to go to his home where she
walked through the front door and proceeded to give him and his family
a private yet flamboyant performance of that very same Spider Dance,
with a little extra lewdness thrown in for good measure.

Jack Williams continued to rob people along this four mile stretch of
road, but the Sheriff of Nevada City was getting a little impatient
with his antics. Just robbing people had been somewhat tolerable, but
using blasting powder to blow up steel express boxes was garnering the
town too much bad publicity. So one day the sheriff got together a
posse and the six men set off down this road to find Williams’ trail.
Just outside of town the sheriff led the pose off the road, following
what he thought were Williams’ tracks. But one deputy – an unusually
capable man by the name of Steve Venard – was sure the sheriff was
wrong and continued down the road alone. With the other five men still
chasing shadows, Venard came around a turn to see Williams and his men
in the road before him. They had seen him coming and had weapons
already leveled at him, and they immediately opened fire. Deputy
Venard pulled his fifteen-shot Henry Repeating Rifle from the scabbard
alongside his saddle and fired back. His first shot went through
Williams’ heart, and the outlaw dropped from his horse. Venard’s
second shot went right through the head of another bandit. His third
shot missed, but his fourth killed the last of the bandits. Hearing
the gun shots the rest of the posse finally arrived, but they were too
late for the fight. All they could do was to praise Venard’s
marksmanship and pick the bodies up off the road.

Miss Sarah Pellett, a woman long forgotten by history but who was
famous in the 1850’s for her vociferous attacks on the evils of
alcohol and the joys of temperance, also rode in a carriage along this
very road. Miss Pellet came to the gold camps to preach to the miners
against drinking alcohol, one of the miner’s most popular pastimes,
and the miners were surprisingly eager to hear her. In anticipation of
her arrival men from Grass Valley, Nevada City, Downieville, and other
camps joined her Temperance Society by the hundreds. When the day of
her talk arrived these men flocked impatiently to hear her. They were
so impatient, in fact, that they began to boo and shout at the opening
speaker, a man who apparently just didn’t know when to shut up.
Finally the frustrated crowd began to fire guns into the air in an
attempt to quiet him. But this persistent orator refused to yield the
platform and instead got into a shouting match with one of his
hecklers. This led to the challenge of a duel being offered and
accepted. Shotguns were chosen as weapons, and the crowd duly took up
a position a discreet distance from the speaker’s platform where Miss
Pellet sat to watch the duel – a duel which didn’t take very long, as
the speaker, who may have been long on words but was definitely short
on expertise with firearms, took a blast from the heckler’s shotgun
directly to the chest and fell dead in the street. Now, at last, the
men could finally hear the woman they had been so impatient to see.

But Sarah Pellet, seeing the Opening Act lying dead in the dust, had
wisely gotten back into her carriage and was speedily leaving town
without having spoken a single word, once again traveling along this
well-rutted road. Leaving temperance behind forever, the men returned
to the saloons.

A sudden breeze brushes across your face, gentle yet cold, and your
thoughts return from their wanderings as your eyes focus on the grass
and trees around you. The stars have stopped dancing. You take a deep
breath and shiver. The road before you – this road which had once been
the most traveled road in all of California – lies completely quiet
and devoid of movement and you wonder; did the road really speak to
you, or were those men and women whom you watched pass by merely the
result of your own Shots In the Dark?

Below you there is a soft noise which catches your attention; it
sounds just like the gentle squeak of a sign swaying in the breeze.
Two Miles to Nevada City; Two Miles to Grass Valley. But tonight, here
in the middle of this once busiest road in the state, here in the
middle of this cold and starry night, it’s somehow just a few short
steps back to 1850.

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And He Danced Like An Angel

3/1/2017

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There was a time in California when an outlaw might be notorious as
the scourge of the county, stealing horses and robbing stagecoaches,
but he might also earn fame for displaying style, manners, and class
while professionally going through the motions of his chosen
profession. There was a time when a man’s acquisitive eye for an
excellent horse might lead to an eager chase by officers of the law;
yet that same man’s longing eye for a lovely woman would often lead to
those ladies gazing upon him just as eagerly. There was a time when a
man could be a horse thief by day and be a man who was known for his
elegant dancing that same evening. Such a man was John Allen,
otherwise known as Sheet Iron Jack.

Allen came to California in the 1860’s, migrating from his New York
home after a stint in the army. He was in his twenties and showed no
lust whatsoever for the yellow metal which had been bringing so many
Easterners to California for the past decade and a half. Instead he
opened a barber shop and entertained his customers with ‘lively and
humorous speech’ as he shaved their faces and trimmed their long hair.
After work he would be a favorite personality in the bar with his
endless supply of stories, and if he had any faults at all it was
that he sometimes drank a bit too much, and maybe talked a little too
much as well.

John spent his money freely, and it was sometimes remarked upon that
he seemed to have pockets that were deeper than those of a mere barber
should have been. But that was merely idle curiosity as Jack had never
been linked to anything of an even slightly unlawful nature. If anyone
did harbor suspicions about the source of his finances they were soon
charmed out of it by his easy manner and quick wit. And if those
weren’t enough, all such thoughts were bound to be forgotten when John
picked up his guitar and began to sing.
His fingers danced across the strings as his deep baritone voice sang
plaintive Mexican ballads – all the more impressive as John had lost
one finger while serving in the military. Cutting hair, shaving
beards, playing guitar, singing soulful songs; John Allen was just a
great guy to have around.

Until he got caught stealing horses, that is. Then everyone knew where
all that money came from, and they knew there was more to John than
met the eye. Much more.

John had apparently been stealing horses for quite some time and
arranging for their sale far away, quietly pocketing the money and
maintaining his local reputation intact. But on this day he had just
made off with three beautiful mounts from a nearby ranch and was
riding one of them while leading the other two into the hills when the
ranchers caught up with him. Allen was quickly recognized as he looked
back over his shoulder at the five rapidly approaching men, and before
making his getaway he turned to shout a cloud of vociferous profanity
at the rightful owners of the horses. Then he dropped the reins of the
two horses he was leading, spurred his mount, and made a beeline for
thick foliage. Taken aback by John’s colorful verbal outburst and also
by the two horses left standing in the road, the group stopped in
confusion. But two of the pursuing men maintained enough presence of
mind to pull shotguns from their scabbards and fire all four barrels
of shot directly at Allen, which hit their mark. John disappeared into
the foliage and the men chose not to give chase, instead taking the
two horses as their prize and quickly returning to town to spread the
news about the musical barber turned horse thief. Over drinks in the
bar one of the shotgun wielders was quite descriptive about the
episode and insisted that the shotgun blasts fired had hit their mark,
and was incredulous that Allen had shown no injury from their impact.
He said that the shots had actually bounced off Allen with a loud
metallic retort, leaving him unhurt. One of the many eager listeners
in the bar promptly raised his glass and offered a toast to the
tougher than nails horse thief, christening him ‘Sheet Iron Jack’
because of his bullet proof hide. And thus a nickname – and a legend –
were born.

Jack’s career as a horse thief now really took off since he no longer
had to take the care to lead a cautious double life, and it wasn’t
long before he was being chased through the hills and valleys by more
than one posse at a time. Yet he not only managed to keep track of his
pursuers’ whereabouts but was also able to easily elude them as well.

But just simply staying ahead of them was sometimes not enough for
this creatively-minded horse thief. It was too easy, and Jack found
himself longing for more of a challenge. On one such occasion Jack was
informed by a sympathetic friend that a posse was quickly
approaching. Jack knew the sheriff leading that particular posse had
never seen him, and was willing to bet that no one else in the group
had either. So he boldly rode back to find them and, when he had,
innocently asked the sheriff what they were all up to. The Sheriff
eagerly told him that they were looking for Sheet Iron Jack, the
notorious bullet-proof horse thief, and Jack promptly volunteered to
join the posse, giving a false name and offering to help if he could.
For the rest of that day he road alongside the sheriff and charmed him
with his engaging stories. That evening, when the posse stopped to
rent rooms for the night, the sheriff was so impressed with Jack that
he didn’t want to part company, even for the night, so he asked Jack
to be his bunkmate in one room, a request to which Jack charmingly
agreed. Late that night, as the sheriff snored loudly in deep sleep,
Jack picked up his boots and silently stole out of the room. After
closing the door he jammed it shut with the blade of a knife,
effectively imprisoning the gullible sheriff inside, then made his way
to the stable where he stole the sheriff’s horse as well as two others
from the posse, fine horses which he’d had his eye on all day. Just
before sunrise he stopped at a farmer’s house and, sitting by
candlelight, wrote a note to the sheriff thanking him for his
hospitality and complimenting him on his taste in horseflesh. Then he
rode off and disappeared, leaving the sheriff and the posse seething
in angry frustration as they read the note.

Months passed, the theft of horses went on, and Sheet Iron Jack
appeared free to roam the country unhindered.

On another occasion – even though he knew that a posse was close
behind – Jack stopped when he saw a Saturday night barn dance taking
place. Tying his horse out front he allowed himself to be lured in by
the sound of the lively music. He looked over the crowd, spotted the
prettiest girl, and promptly went up to her, laying a hand on her
partner’s shoulder. He announced himself as Sheet Iron Jack and stated
that he wished to have the honor of dancing with the lady. The man
backed off, not knowing what to think, and Jack took the lady in his
arms and led her around the floor. When the musicians stopped Jack
asked that they keep playing, and selected another young lady as his
next partner, separating her from her man and leading her around the
floor. And again with another lady. And again; and again; always with
the prettiest young ladies, and always with the men backing away
without offering any trace of challenge to the man identifying himself
as the bullet proof Sheet Iron Jack. After a half dozen such dances
Jack pulled his pocket watch out, looked at it thoughtfully, and
thanked the ladies as he made his way to the door, saying to the crowd
as he passed that a posse was close on his heels and that they would
soon be there. As he didn’t want this evening - what had really been a
lovely evening for him - to be disrupted, he was taking his leave.
With that he got on his horse and rode off. Not ten minutes passed
before the posse rode hurriedly into the farm yard, dismounting and
asking questions. The half dozen besotted young ladies said that Jack
was indeed a gentleman and that his manners were impeccable. The men,
embarrassed and humiliated, refused to speak. Then, as the sheriff and
his posse were ready to resume the chase, one woman observed wistfully
that Jack had danced like an angel. Yes, the other half dozen young
pretty ladies chorused sadly, longingly; he danced like an angel.

The man who danced like an angel had danced off into the darkness
without a trace. The bands of lawmen continued to look, and Jack
continued to effortlessly elude them.

One day while Jack was riding casually along a mountain road, knowing
that no pursuit was close at hand and taking the reprieve to look
about for untended horses, he came across a lone man sitting
dejectedly in the dirt alongside the road. Asking the stranger what
had happened to leave him all alone without any kind of transport, the
man explained that he had started out his journey riding a fine horse
but that his mount had begun to limp so he had stopped to rest. While
he was resting a mountain man had come along, looked over the horse,
and sadly but confidently declared that the cause of the lameness was
serious and would take at least a year to heal, during which time the
horse should not be ridden. Then, as the mountain man walked off, he
looked back thoughtfully at the traveler and kindly offered to take
the lame horse off his hands for thirty dollars and see to the
year-long cure for the poor animal. The traveler had agreed, and
accepted thirty dollars for the horse. Now he had to walk to the
nearest town and see if he could buy another horse for that thirty
dollars.

Jack just shook his head and smiled at the naivety of this man who
gave new meaning to the word ‘Greenhorn’. But Jack also felt sorry for
him. Telling the man to sit down and wait for his return, Jack rode
off on the trail of the mountain man. When he found the shifty fellow
Jack identified himself, pulled his gun, and told him that he was
going to take the horse back to the greenhorn who had been so easily
fleeced and that the mountain man should shut up and not offer any
objection; that losing thirty dollars was an inexpensive lesson for
learning manners. But the mountain man did indeed object, so Jack
leveled his revolver and told him to empty his pockets; that the man’s
mouth had now cost him whatever other money he had in his possession
as well. To Jack’s surprise and delight, the mountain man had over six
hundred dollars in his pockets, all of which Jack now gratefully took
possession. Jack warned the man that if anybody was going to steal
horses in these mountains it was going to be him – Sheet Iron Jack –
and that he didn’t appreciate any competition from a local con artist.
Then he led the lame horse back to its rightful owner and explained
that the horse’s limp was caused by a shoe which wasn’t fitting
properly, and that a blacksmith could easily fix it. He related what
had happened with the mountain man and told the traveler to keep the
thirty dollars, but cautioned him that, if he ever saw the man in this
part of the mountains again, he would be fair game for Sheet Iron
Jack.

The traveler had his horse, thirty dollars, and a story to tell, and
Jack had an enhanced reputation.

But Jack was getting tired of life on the road; of life on the run. He
was a social person who craved company; who liked to sing and dance
and drink. So one evening in search of companionship he road into town
and went into a bar for a drink. One drink led to another, and all
those drinks led to Jack’s being a little too loquacious and he got
into an argument with another man. Words led to shouts and weapons
were drawn. The shot aimed at Jack may have simply missed its mark,
but legend has it that it bounced off the chest of Sheet Iron Jack and
fell to the bar room floor. Jack’s shot hit the target, wounding his
opponent. Jack was thrown in jail, put on trial, and sentenced to two
years in San Quentin. Ironically, on the way out of town to prison,
while escorted by two guards on board a stage, the coach was waylaid
by two armed bandits seeking to hold it up. After the first shotgun
blast from the outlaws Jack stuck his head out the stage window and
let go with a loud and colorful burst of profanity aimed at the
would-be robbers, saying that he was on his way to get some sea air
and he would appreciate a little peace and quiet. Astounded, the two
robbers retreated into the brush without completing the robbery.

Jack stayed in San Quentin for less than six months of his two year
sentence, as his lawyer’s appeal for a new trial was successful. Back
in county jail, Jack escaped in less than a week. But the escapade on
the stage while riding to San Quentin had stuck in his mind, so he
recruited two fellows down on their luck and the three of them robbed
a stagecoach. Jack found it surprisingly easy, so he and his
companions promptly robbed two more. Jack had always been successful
while working alone, and having two new companions proved to be his
downfall. After the third robbery those two were easily apprehended,
and they told the sheriff where Jack could be found. Within days he
was back in San Quentin, this time serving a sentence of twenty-four
years for armed robbery.

But Jack’s luck still held, and six years later the governor of
California commuted his sentence and set him free – with the provision
that Jack leave California and stay out. Jack should have heeded that
advice, but he didn’t.

Less than a year later Jack stumbled out of a bar and began shouting
profanity at passersby. When the sheriff came along and suggested that
Jack might want to tone things down, Jack pulled his gun and pointed
it at the sheriff. The sheriff, with cool deliberation, grabbed the
barrel of the gun and twisted it around to point at Jack, then told
Jack to go ahead and pull the trigger. Jack wasn’t that intoxicated.
He allowed himself to be led to jail to sleep it off in the drunk
tank. But while Jack was sleeping a detective from the San Francisco
police force arrived in town looking for him. He had evidence that
Jack had been involved in the theft and resale of a very expensive
horse. And the evidence was pretty persuasive – when he’d resold the
stolen horse, Jack had signed the bill of sale with his real name,
John Allen.

This time Jack was sent to Folsom Prison. He served his sentence in
full, and when he was released, he disappeared forever. Some said that
he belatedly took the governor’s advice and left California for good.
Others said that he went to live with the Modoc in Northern
California, a native tribe amongst whom he had many friends. And still
others said that he immediately returned to his old profession of
horse thievery; a career at which he was actually quite good as long
worked on his own, didn’t take on any assistants to betray him, and
didn’t drink or talk too much.

Playing the guitar beautifully with only nine fingers; singing
haunting Mexican ballads in his deep baritone voice; stealing horses
with ease; Sheet Iron Jack was an outlaw with style; the outlaw who
was a legend because he was impervious to bullets.

And he danced like an angel.

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Author

With a degree in Anthropology and an avid interest in history, Tim Christensen has lived in the Sierra Nevada Mountains for many years. He has no cell phone or television, but manages, when not chopping firewood or shoveling snow, to keep himself entertained with a library of several thousand books.

Tim has worked for Sequoia Parks Conservancy since 2010 in the Kings Canyon Visitor Center and also as a naturalist for the Sequoia Field Institute. COPYRIGHT 2016 T.E. CHRISTENSEN

Shots In the Dark

And He Danced Like An Angel

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