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Social climber
Jan 4, 2013 - 10:52pm PT
hey there say, mouse... in spite computer type, i have been cruising the ol' taco, off and on... (need a break in between, with the finger wrestling here) :) *dial up stuff...

well, just dropped by fast...

i LIKE the ol' merced river sign.. and seeing the river again,
thanks for sharing...

happy good eve,as i sign off to go REALLY paint now, :))

ooops, and uh, clean house, maybe too, :O
far past due, perhaps it is as dusty as near the ol' river?
been too busy in dec, and somehow thoght perhaps the dust would
not grow in winter, ;))

night all! :)

Ice climber
chingadero de chula vista
Jan 4, 2013 - 11:07pm PT
^speaking of great notions - she just left the room.
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Jan 5, 2013 - 04:06am PT
Amen. The Cleaning Woman.

Ice climber
chingadero de chula vista
Jan 5, 2013 - 11:46am PT
Cleaning woman/butler confusion reigns again.


Sport climber
Jan 5, 2013 - 01:52pm PT
The Ash-lad and the flames:

I guess the Mouse and zBrown are ash-lads. Possibly competing ash-lads or one and the same.

Ice climber
chingadero de chula vista
Jan 5, 2013 - 11:24pm PT

The Ash-lad has two brothers, Brian and Bruce. They live in a kingdom where the king has a problem with his daughter: She never laughs; she has never so much uttered a smile. So the king announces that whosoever can make her laugh shall have her as his wife and shall inherit half of the kingdom.


To make a long and complex story short, one main conclusion was that children in Denmark and Sweden were brought up under a pressure of regimentation and career pursuit, producing a number of persons unable to live up to the demands, feeling themselves as failures. In contrast, Hendin found that such pressures were weak in Norwegian families: children were allowed to roam around and experiment, however taking part in farming and fishing, - “leaning by looking and participating”, not by being instructed. In a relaxed way self-reliance was built up, avoiding feelings of inadequacy and failure.

I'll just observe that 1)There is no mention of Finland, nor Merced
and 2) The King never said which half


Dogtown and Z-Boys
First Descent
Riding Giants
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Jan 5, 2013 - 11:37pm PT
Good guess.

The Ash-Lad was "employed by the chief cook to carry firewood and water," whereas I was employed and self-employed* to cut firewood and was employed to service ground-water pumps.** Too cool, RT.

*Frank's Firewood
960 Solano Ct., El Sobrante
**Ike's Pump & Drillin', Almond Ave., Oxnard

They got themselves quite a character there.

But there's nothing mystic about zBrown or meMouse or Flames.

Just cloning around.

Beep b-beep!

Kindling wood is free.

mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Jan 5, 2013 - 11:52pm PT
Almond Joey.  South Bay poseur.
Almond Joey. South Bay poseur.
Credit: mouse from merced

You'll never HAVE TO listen to surf music again--only if ya want to.
Ed Hartouni

Trad climber
Livermore, CA
Jan 6, 2013 - 02:56am PT
Anybody ever try either The CS or The Bannister?

happy new year to you Mouse and more fuel to the Flames too

Social climber
Jan 6, 2013 - 08:12am PT
Don't know if Ron Cagle was kicked out the the park. I haven't seen him since the 70's.

Now Floyd Turner--that was another story....

remember it or should I tell it?
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Jan 6, 2013 - 11:48am PT
Gypsy, I've mentioned Ice Ax Turner here and no one has responded.

My take was his Dolt Blue Boots that he pUrchased here from the Mtn. Shop, probably sold to him by Len or Don Mossman (sp), on his arrival from the Northwest.

Millis and the Rev and myself met him at the Village Store as he just arrived off the bus, treating us to a display of baton twirling with his ice acks (sp?).

Tell us what you know of the Turnmeister. I am all ears.

Ed, WOW! Thanks.

Ice climber
chingadero de chula vista
Jan 6, 2013 - 12:14pm PT
To many, there is no Zero.

-Zero Mostel (near the end of August, no ozone)

Ice climber
chingadero de chula vista
Jan 6, 2013 - 12:21pm PT
Credit: zBrown
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Jan 6, 2013 - 12:30pm PT
Cuarto, how now? Multiplicado!

Una milagra!
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Jan 6, 2013 - 01:08pm PT

I've only got one brain to rot. So much time, so few brains.
mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Jan 6, 2013 - 01:29pm PT

Sport climber
Jan 6, 2013 - 02:06pm PT
A Finnish Tale

The Pricess Mouse for sweetheart. And she's laughing.

Once there was a farmer with two sons. One morning he said to them, “Boys, you’re old enough now to marry. But in our family, we have our own way to choose a bride.”

The younger son listened respectfully, but the older one said, “You’ve told us, Father. We must each cut down a tree and see where it points.”

“That’s right,” said the farmer. “Then walk that way till you find a sweetheart. That’s how we’ve done it, and that’s how we always will.”

Now, the older son already knew who he wanted to marry. He also knew how to cut a tree so it fell how he wanted. So, his tree fell and pointed to the farm where his sweetheart lived.

The younger son, whose name was Mikko, didn’t have a sweetheart, but he thought he’d try his luck in the town. Well, maybe he cut the tree wrong, or maybe it had thoughts of its own, but it fell pointing to the forest.

“Good job, Mikko!” his brother mocked. “What sweetheart will you find there? A wolf or a fox?”

“Never mind,” said Mikko. “I’ll find who I find.”

The two young men went their ways. Mikko walked through the forest for hours without seeing a soul. But at last he came to a cottage deep in the woods.

“I knew I’d find a sweetheart!” said Mikko. But when he went inside, he saw no one.

“All this way for nothing,” he said sadly.

“Maybe not!” came a tiny voice.

Mikko looked around, but the only living thing in sight was a little mouse on a table. Standing on its hind legs, it gazed at him with large, bright eyes.

“Did you say something?” he asked it.

“Of course I did! Now, why don’t you tell me your name and what you came for?”

Mikko had never talked with a mouse, but he felt it only polite to reply.

“My name is Mikko, and I’ve come looking for a sweetheart.”

The mouse squealed in delight. “Why, Mikko, I’ll gladly be your sweetheart!”

“But you’re only a mouse,” said Mikko.

“That may be true,” she said, “but I can still love you faithfully. Besides, even a mouse can be special! Come feel my fur.”

With one finger, Mikko stroked the mouse’s back. “Why, it feels like velvet! Just like the gown of a princess!”

“That’s right, Mikko.” And as he petted her, she sang to him prettily.

“Mikko’s sweetheart will I be.
What a fine young man is he!
Gown of velvet I do wear,
Like a princess fine and rare.”

Mikko looked into those large, bright eyes and thought she really was quite nice, for a mouse. And since he’d found no one else anyway, he said, “All right, little mouse, you can be my sweetheart.”

“Oh, Mikko!” she said happily. “I promise you won’t be sorry.”

Mikko wasn’t so sure, but he just stroked her fur and smiled.

When Mikko got home, his brother was already there boasting to their father. “My sweetheart has rosy red cheeks and long golden hair.”

“Sounds very nice,” said the farmer. “And what about yours, Mikko?”

“Yes, Mikko,” said his brother, laughing. “Did you find a sweetheart with a nice fur coat?”

Now, Mikko didn’t want to admit his sweetheart was a mouse. So he said, “Mine wears a velvet gown, like a princess!”

His brother stopped laughing.

“Well!” said the farmer. “It sounds like Mikko’s tree pointed a good way too! But now I must test both your sweethearts. Tomorrow you’ll ask them to weave you some cloth, then you’ll bring it home to me. That’s how we’ve done it, and that’s how we always will.”

They started out early next morning. When Mikko reached the cottage in the woods, there was the little mouse on the table. She jumped up and down and clapped her tiny paws.

“Oh, Mikko, I’m so glad you’re here! Is this the day of our wedding?”

Mikko gently stroked her fur. “Not yet, little mouse,” he said glumly.

“Why, Mikko, you look so sad! What’s wrong?”

“My father wants you to weave some cloth. But how can you do that? You’re only a mouse!”

“That may be true,” she said, “but I’m also your sweetheart, and surely Mikko’s sweetheart can weave! But you must be tired from your walk. Why don’t you rest while I work?”

“All right,” said Mikko, yawning. He lay down on a bed in the corner, and the little mouse sang him a pretty lullaby.

“Mikko’s sweetheart will I be.
What a fine young man is he!
Cloth of linen I will weave.
I’ll be done when he must leave.”

When the little mouse was sure that Mikko was asleep, she picked up a sleigh bell on a cord and rang it. Out of mouseholes all around the room poured hundreds of mice. They all stood before the table, gazing up at her.

“Hurry!” she said. “Each of you, fetch a strand of the finest flax.”

The mice rushed from the cottage—then one, two, three, and back they were, each with a strand of flax.

First they spun it into yarn on the spinning wheel. Whirr. Whirr. Whirr. Some worked the pedal, some fed the flax, some rode around with the wheel.
Then they strung the yarn on the loom and wove it into cloth. Swish. Thunk. Swish. Thunk. Swish. Thunk. Some worked the pedals, some rocked the beater, some sailed the shuttle back and forth.

At last they cut the cloth from the loom and tucked it in a nutshell.

“Now, off with you!” said the little mouse, and they all scampered back to their mouseholes. Then she called, “Mikko, wake up! It’s time to go home! And here is something for your father.”

Mikko sleepily took the nutshell. He didn’t know why his father should want such a thing, but he said, “Thank you, little mouse.”

When he got home, his brother was proudly presenting the cloth from his sweetheart. The farmer looked it over and said, “Strong and fairly even. Good enough for simple folks like us. And where is yours, Mikko?”

Mikko blushed and handed him the nutshell.

“Look at that!” said his brother. “Mikko asked for cloth, and his sweetheart gave him a nut!”

But the farmer opened the nutshell and peered inside. Then he pinched at something and started to pull. Out came linen, fine beyond belief. It kept coming too, yard after yard after yard.

Mikko’s brother gaped with open mouth, and Mikko did too!

“There can be no better weaver than Mikko’s sweetheart!” declared the farmer. “But both your sweethearts will do just fine. Tomorrow you’ll bring them home for the wedding. That’s how we’ve done it, and that’s how we always will.”

When Mikko arrived at the cottage next morning, the little mouse again jumped up and down. “Oh, Mikko, is this the day of our wedding?”

“It is, little mouse.” But he sounded more glum than ever.

“Why, Mikko, what’s wrong?”

“How can I bring home a mouse to marry? My brother and father and all our friends and neighbors will laugh and think I’m a fool!”

“They might think so, indeed,” she said softly. “But, Mikko, what do you think?”

Mikko looked at the little mouse, gazing at him so seriously with her large, bright eyes. He thought about how she loved him and cared for him.
“I think you’re as sweet as any sweetheart could be. So let them laugh and think what they like. Today you’ll be my bride.”

“Oh, Mikko, you’ve made me the happiest mouse in the world!”

She rang her sleigh bell, and to Mikko’s astonishment, a little carriage raced into the room. It was made from a nutshell and pulled by four black rats. A mouse coachman sat in front, and a mouse footman behind.

“Mikko,” said the little mouse, “aren’t you going to help me down?”

Mikko lifted her from the table and set her in the carriage. The rats took off and the carriage sped from the cottage, so that Mikko had to rush to catch up.

While he hurried along behind her, the little mouse sang a pretty song.

“Mikko’s sweetheart will I be.
What a fine young man is he!
In a carriage I will ride
When I go to be his bride.”

At last they reached the farm and then the spot for the wedding, on the bank of a lovely, swift-flowing stream. The guests were already there enjoying themselves. But as Mikko came up, they all grew silent and stared at the little carriage.

Mikko’s brother stood with his bride, gaping in disbelief. Mikko and the little mouse went up to him.

“That’s the stupidest thing I ever saw,” said his brother, and with one quick kick, sent the carriage, the rats, and the mice, all into the stream. Before Mikko could do a thing, the current bore them away.

“What have you done!” cried Mikko. “You’ve killed my sweetheart!”

“Are you crazy?” said his brother. “That was only a mouse!”

“She may have been a mouse,” said Mikko tearfully, “but she was also my sweetheart, and I really did love her!”

He was about to swing at his brother, when his father called, “Mikko, look!”

All the guests were staring downstream and pointing and crying out in wonder. Mikko turned and to his amazement saw four black horses pulling a carriage out of the stream. A coachman sat in front and a footman behind, and inside was a soaked but lovely princess in a gown of pearly velvet.

The carriage rode up along the bank and stopped right before him. “Mikko,” said the princess, “aren’t you going to help me down?”

Mikko stared blankly a moment, and then his eyes flew wide. “Are you the little mouse?”

“I surely was,” said the princess, laughing, “but no longer. A witch enchanted me, and the spell could be broken only by one brother who wanted to marry me and another who wanted to kill me. But, sweetheart, I need a change of clothes. I can’t be wet at our wedding!”

And a grand wedding it was, with Mikko’s bride the wonder of all. The farmer could hardly stop looking at her. Of course, Mikko’s brother was a bit jealous, but his own bride was really quite nice, so he couldn’t feel too bad.

The next day, the princess brought Mikko back to her cottage—but it was a cottage no longer! It was a castle with hundreds of servants, and there they made their home happily.

And if Mikko and the princess had any sons, you know just how they chose their brides.

The Ash-lad stories

Some of the Ash-lad stories you find examples of in other countries - Finland, Sweden, Estonia, Ukraina, Russia, Spain, India, America and so on. One of them is the Ash-lad's eating competition with the troll.

Social climber
Jan 6, 2013 - 04:05pm PT
these are just my recollections not necessarily in any chronological order

so one winter Pat Stuart was walking across Camp 4 in the early morning after a snow fall. He saw what appeared to be boots sticking out from under clear plastic on one end and rather unruly hair on the other end. This was of course Floyd and since Patrick loved to collect interesting stories he invited Floyed to Degnan's for a cup of coffee.

Floyd used to wear a miner's helmet at night and carry his ice axe and declared he was going to protect Mary Lou Stuart from bears. Of course Floyd was deathly afraid of bears; but his biggest hero (besides Warren Harding) was Pat Stuart and so he fell in love with Pat's sister. He would buy her vitamins because he thought she was too thin; he would follow her around whenever he could. She of course wanted no part of him.

Randy and I were hitching outside of Mount Rainer once--course it was illegal to hitch-hike in the state of Washington; so what we did was walk on the side of the road. When we heard a car coming, we would turn around and look at it. This was a very effective way to get rides in those days because 1. people picked up hitch hikers back then 2. everyone new it was illegal...

Anyway, a Mount Rainer ranger picked us up (he was on his day off) and offered to take us to where we were camping inside the park. As we got to talking we mentioned that the only person we knew from the area was Floyd Turner. The ranger nearly drove off the rode. Randy had already climbed the regular route on Ranier and thus knew the terrain.

The Ranger said; "Floyd really really wanted to be a backcountry ranger but of course he had had no training and was pretty loony. In his mind in order to prove to the rangers that he was qualified, he would start out at the base of Ranier with a heavy rucksack full of rocks. As he got higher and higher on the route and more and more tired he would take a rock out of his pack and throw it down. Usually he would arrive at Muir hut with an empty pack and a crazed look in his eye. One night after everyone had gone to bed getting ready for the very early morning push to the summit from Muir hut, the door swung open and there was Floyd standing stark naked except for his boots and empty backpack. Our ranger and a few others got up immediately and literally chased him down the mountain and drove him out of the park telling him to never never come back.

So he showed up in Yosemite sometime after Harding had done the Dawn Wall, Floyd was insistent that not only had he climbed the wall with Harding but that he had led him up the route. uh huh...

One thing he did know was about hopping freights and he could describe his experiences fairly accurately.

No one really knew how old he was--he had that timeless face of someone who had slipped over the edge a long long time before

A few years later when Mollie Felso (one of the Degnan's women) ran into him in Sproul Plaza in Berkeley. Even though she hadn't really liked Floyd all that much (who did?) she was so delighted to see someone from Yosemite. She chatted with him for a while and he remembered everyone and all their names, etc.

mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Jan 6, 2013 - 04:25pm PT
He looked a lot like R. Crumb.

He arrived in the Valley in the middle of the Dawn Wall epic, telling us he was there to show Harding and "Codwell" how to do it.

He had the crazy look and he bouldered using soot from campfires, not chalk.

How strange do you need to be in a place that seems to hold "strange" as dear?

He acted a lot like an Amleth.

mouse from merced

Trad climber
The finger of fate, my friends, is fickle.
Jan 7, 2013 - 02:54am PT
Peace officer Tim.  Charming sister Lenna.
Peace officer Tim. Charming sister Lenna.
Credit: mouse from merced
Lenna and Tim, 1960.
Credit: mouse from merced
Grandad Larson and Bermingham brats at San Luis Dam, 1964.

This was what he called the "Blob," a sheep's feet compactor--eight hours a night he drove it back and forth over the dam. We drove out to see him off to work that afternoon.
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