Memories, Musings and Tall Tales

By Larry Toder

Unusual events from a life of mishaps and triumphs.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Aug 23, 2021
• ISBN: 9781098393250

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Memories, Musings and Tall Tales

©2021, Larry Toder

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

ISBN: 978-1-09839-324-3

ISBN eBook: 978-1-09839-325-0

DEDICATION

To my parents, Shulamis and Aaron.

The tales they never heard.

Contents

INTRODUCTION

EDUCATIONAL YEARS

Master Linguist

Exploring the Alps

Pathology

Old Packard

Go West, Young Man

Dermatology

When You Come to a Fork in the Road, Take It

Yosemite

El Paso

A Year in Limbo

Another Failed Romance

ARMY LIFE

Too Much of a Bad Thing

The First Name I Look for on the Vietnam Memorial

Court Martial

Mama Gimbasha’s

Off-Base in Japan

Adventures on the Slopes

Climbing Mt. Fuji

Lessons from CPL Klinger

COLORADO

Aspen

The Road Taken

Formation of the Crested Butte Navy

Maiden Voyage

San Juan Trips

Skull Rapid at Flood Stage

Northern Passage

Bad Swims

Grand Canyon, Part I

Grand Canyon Part II

Middle Fork of the Flathead River

Bachelor Party

LATER YEARS

My Last Basketball Game

The Bucket List

Teaching the Wife to Ski

Life Imitates a Sitcom

Mandy

Dog Training

New Dog Tricks

Belle

FOLKS

Odd Encounters

Bill McDonald

Mazzo’s Shop

The Mayor of Downtown

MUSINGS

An Amazing Evening

Our Motto

Pet Peeve No. 6

Time

Light

Mirrors

Old

Used Bookstores

TALL TALES

Racing Jean-Claude

Main Street

The Lost Town of Kelso

Lost

INTRODUCTION

The isn’t it a small world moment has always intrigued me. The curious intersections and coincidences of our lives are, I believe, beloved by all.

My life seems to have had many of such events. I started out trying to convey these episode in words and found that I enjoyed trying to do so. I then branched out to embellish some of these events and then descended into fiction, sometimes even into outright silliness. For those that know me well, this is not too surprising a progression. True, partially true, or not, I encourage the reader to delve into some of my past adventures.

Most of these tales take place in my two decades of so-called freedom. These were the years when I realized that I had gone as far academically as I could, (In my school there were many folks much smarter and much more willing to work harder.)

After 20 years of studious and nerdy behavior, I concluded it was time for fun and adventure. In those years, I was unencumbered by marriage or wealth. Indeed, freedom’s just another word for nothin’ left to lose, as Janis Joplin relates in her song, Me and Bobby McGee.

I lived without long-term plans as I spiraled around life paths. Some who knew me well in those times did not expect me to live past age 50. This period of carelessness ended when I entered into orthopedic residency training and marriage, as I tried to live the life of a responsible citizen.

As I have aged, too often my mind seems to dwell on my shortcomings and past failures. Was I always such an asshole? The good deeds, noble qualities, and enjoyable times fade into the mists.

By writing about the humorous, odd, and sad events of my past, I have regained some sort of balance. Relating these tales has thus been therapeutic and self-illuminating.

More later …

EDUCATIONAL YEARS

Master Linguist

In my early twenties, I spent a summer working for Hoffmann-La Rcoche in Basel, Switzerland. Basel is located in the northwest corner of Switzerland where France and Germany meet. The people of Basel are therefore fluent in both French and German.

On my way to work each morning, I would stop at a small café for coffee and usually a pastry. Always the same café, and almost always the same table and waitress. Every day I would order and try to make small talk in German, and the waitress would reply in French.

I thought this a curious arrangement but did not really dwell much on the matter. I had taken some French in high school and so was able to understand simple sentences. Anyway, my food would arrive as ordered and I could also pay the bill correctly.

After many weeks of the same routine, I overheard the waitress speaking English with another customer. When she arrived to take my order, I inquired if she understood English. She said she did and began to blush. At this point, the conversation proceeded in English approximately like this:

Me: I have been coming to this café regularly.

Waitress, beginning to blush: Oh yes, monsieur, you are here most every morning.

Me: I am curious about this. Every time I speak in German, you answer in French. Why is that?

Waitress, now bright red: I am so sorry. I thought only a Frenchman would persist in speaking German so poorly!

Exploring the Alps

Hoffmann-La Roche sponsored a hiking club. One of my co-workers,

Francoise, invited me to join her and her husband on one of their outings. She spoke some English and volunteered to help orient me.

The club’s routine was to meet very early on Saturday morning at a bus or train station, travel to a trailhead, hike Saturday afternoon, spend the night at an alpine chalet, hike most of Sunday, and then return to Basel late that day. The group, about 40 or 50 of us, was divided into three categories. The A Group, of which Francoise’s husband was part, were real climbers and would tackle a real mountain. The C Group would hike trails in the sub-

alpine meadows. The B Group did something in between.

That first Saturday, being an unknown, I was assigned to the C Group. We wandered through beautiful meadows with cows and flowers all around and joined the rest of the group at a mountain chalet situated above the meadows. These alpine chalets were primitive with large communal dormitories, separated by sex, and outhouse facilities. They served basic meals like stew for dinner and oatmeal for breakfast. Some chalets also served beer.

The next day, I was upgraded to the B Group. I remember being roped up to cross a glacier and circling part of the Mutthorn, a minor peak.

About a month later, I went on a second hike with the club. Francoise was not on this trip, and I was on my own language-wise. Most of the group spoke the local Swiss dialect, Basel-Deutsch, which I found incomprehensible. However, they were solicitous and concerned about me; and we communicated mostly through sign language and my poor German.

On this trip I was assigned to the B Group. At the trailhead we met our guide, Hans. He looked like the typical Swiss hiker: Lederhosen, fedora, even a significant beer belly. My thoughts about an easy hike disappeared immediately as Hans set out at a brisk pace, whistling to himself. He did not stop or wait for stragglers.

We spent the night at another alpine chalet. Sunday’s hike was perhaps the most spectacular I have ever experienced. I was awakened in the early morning, well before dawn. After a quick breakfast we were hiking up the trail, barely able to see our feet. As we climbed, the surrounding alpine peaks began to catch the light – it felt as if we were climbing into the sun.

By daybreak we were in a small valley with ponds separated by small rises (I now know these to be glacial moraines). After four or five of these short climbs, we topped a ridge which divided the Rhine and Rhone drainages of the central Alps. It was a cloudless day so the entire alpine range was in view, a truly spectacular sight.

We then roped up to hike along the ridgeline as there were severe drop-offs on both sides. At one point, when the ridge narrowed, my courage failed me and I scuttled across on my rear end. In doing so, I ripped my hiking shorts and spent the rest of the day derided by my companions and feeling a draft on my buns.

Then we made our way to a different chalet and enjoyed beer and sandwiches for a late lunch. The descent featured a long glissade down a snowfield. With my large feet and ice axe, I was actually able to sort of ski down rather than slide down on my behind like the others.

When we reached a road at the valley below, it was a short distance to the rail station. My boots were a little tight, and I had developed blisters that had broken. As we reached the road, I took off my boots and began walking in my bloody socks, very un-Swiss-like. Swiss trains run on time, so I ambled along slowly and reached the station with just minutes to spare. The trip leader was very worried about me and, a short time after I had settled into the train car, he handed me a beer.

I also spent a few weekends hitchhiking and exploring with David. He was from London and worked in a nearby lab. We had no set itineraries except to explore by day and to chase girls at night, but we always hoped to find a youth hostel where we could spend the night.

Among our adventures, I recall being stranded in a small village on a secondary road through the Alps, which had no traffic. We ate lunch by the roadside, but no cars appeared. Finally, after a few hours, a convertible crested the horizon. We literally got down on our knees and begged a ride. The driver reluctantly gave us the back seat, and we cruised through the mountains.

Another trip found us hiking above Kandersteg. We came to a fork in the trail and had a disagreement about the route. I could see the weather beginning to threaten and insisted on the shorter way. David ragged me a bit about Yankee weakness until the next trip.

Our plan for that trip was to take the train to Zurich, then ferry across Zurich’s lake, and finally hike to a youth hostel on a ridge high above the lake. David brought along a friend, Leon, who worked with him. Leon was Swiss, which turned out to be quite handy, but he spoke no English. We communicated through my bad French and David’s slightly better German.

We missed our intended ferry and had to take one a few hours later; and we arrived at the bottom of the ridge in the late afternoon, hoping to get to the hostel before dark. David suggested the wussy Yankee should lead, so I set off at a brisk pace. (I was quite fit, playing basketball two or three times a week and bicycling to work.)

After a while David began slowing down, and Leon and I took his pack. No more talk about Yankee fitness! Darkness found us still on the way up, and we lost the trail. Knowing the hostel was near the ridgeline, we continued up through the alpine meadows, calling out to each other to stay in touch. We were slipping and falling in mud and cow pies.

When we saw bright lights and heard music coming from a structure above and to our right, we headed in that direction and found ourselves in a farm courtyard, not the youth hostel. Our knock on the door was answered by a young girl who, seeing us in the light, began laughing. Her mother soon appeared and also began to laugh because we were covered in mud and cow dung.

It was here that Leon came to the rescue. He explained our situation in Swiss dialect (it appeared that his family was originally from this area), and we were welcomed, but into the front entry only. The mother insisted we remove our clothes and boots while she found substitutes from her son’s and husband’s closets. We then went upstairs to join the party.

This farmhouse was celebrating some harvest event with all the neighbors. There was food, drink, and a polka band. We were invited to join in, Leon doing most of the talking, and we had a great time. We even tried dancing with the farms girls, but they were too strong and energetic for us lab types.

We spent the night in the bunkhouse. At breakfast the next morning, we retrieved our clothes, now fully washed and ironed. For this service, I seem to recall paying about 50 francs (about $10). Early that morning, we found the youth hostel – we had only missed it by three or four miles! The trip home was uneventful.

I left Basel with plans to hitchhike to Rome, Italy, and fly home from there. I had almost