Tag Archives: colorado

My Pinto’s last ride during the Big Thompson Flood

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In July 1976, I was working for the US National Park Service at Rocky Mountain National Park in Colorado for a second summer. I don’t know if this had any influence, but I had befriended Wayne Aspinall who was a guest scholar at the University of Wyoming political science department when I was in grad school there.

Wayne was the former chair of the US House Committee on Interior and Insular Affairs, a position he held for 14 years. I collected one of his campaign license plate toppers.

Back in those days I was a College Republican and we had some spirited discussions in class. Despite our ideological differences, he offered to write a few letters of recommendation for me to the USNPS in support of my job application.

I was told park ranger jobs were hard to come by and was happy to be hired to my first choice, since I applied all over the country.

Anyway, I drove my pea green Ford Pinto to Cheyenne Frontier Days the last weekend in July. I met up with my friends Rick Thamer, John Accardo et al. for a weekend of jocularity. The Mayflower was still open and Downtown Cheyenne was still a happening place during CFD.

I don’t know what got into me, but I’ve never been one to miss out on the last weekend of “The Daddy of ’em all”.

It was Saturday night and rather than crash in Thamer’s basement, I chose to drive back to Colorado, over the very logical arguments posed by my friends. I had to work at the Glacier Basin Campground at 11:00am.

I would have made it in plenty of time.

When I turned onto Highway 34 into Loveland, the horizon was crimson red and solid black. “Red sky at night, sailor’s delight” – should be no problem.

After driving through town and entering The Narrows, a caravan of cars, trucks and RVs headed east on US 34. Why was I the only one heading west, toward the park?

I met a Colorado highway patrolman. He told mee there was some “bad water” ahead and to turn around at Drake.

I didn’t quite make it that far.

There was water streaming across the highway. All of a sudden, something that I couldn’t make out, was in the middle of the road in about six inches of run off. Then, uprooted trees, unrecognizable junk and debris floated by. I expected to see the Wicked Witch of the West hover by.

The car careened into the rising wall of water and suddenly the deluge came up to the hood of the car that stalled. There was a car filled with a family heading the opposite direction that had the interior lights on. That sedan floated to the edge of the road and then was swept away into the canyon’s darkness.

A porta-potty floated over and caught my bumper and ruddered the Pinto towards the canyon wall and not into the torrent. I wasn’t able to open the car door, but climbed out of the driver’s side window and waded to higher ground.

A few minutes later a State Highway Department truck pulled up with a bunch of other people. I climbed up and we were all dropped off at Rainbow Bend where we were allowed to crash in the guest bungalows there.

I can sleep through anything.

The next morning, when the waters subsided, the road was totally washed out, trophy-sized fish lay on what was left of the highway. The canyon wall was plastered with pine trees, crumpled trailers and cars. The little store at Rainbow Bend had food, I ate some cold hot dogs.

I don’t know how the rumors started, but we spent the day on high ground since word came from someplace that the Estes Park reservoir dam was ready to crest.

A Chinook helicopter eventually dropped in and flew us out to a Red Cross station in Loveland. The only thing I took from the provisions was a dry pair of socks.

When the big floods hit Colorado’s Front Range in September 2013, I had no desire to get out and inspect any of the high water or its aftermath. As it was, the radio news didn’t indicate any problems. I decided to leave Cheyenne and was stuck in Longmont and being anecdotally guided through town by facebook cronies.

All the routes on the Diagonal and SH 66 were all flooded out, except SH 66 to I-25 to Thornton – SH 402 exit closed; Johnstown exit closed, Berthoud exit closed.

I eventually snaked my way from 120th to US 36 and luckily the westbound lane was open. Overnight, the St Vrain River crested and filled the low spot between US 34 and SH 402. I would have been stranded for several days somewhere north of Longmont.

Okay, back to the story.

There was no reason to stick around Loveland. I bummed a ride to Cheyenne and was dropped off at the Leeper’s house on Oak Court. My family in Laramie was trying to make contact, but there was no phone service. I called home from Cheyenne and was picked up and carted over to Laramie.

There was no access to Rocky Mountain Park for several days. I was eventually able to drive the “family truckster” – an olive green Mercury station wagon with the fake wood paneling – back to work. My boss, Perry Thompson, was gracious enough not to dock my pay for the days I was gone.

The big regret at the time?

All my ranger pals were getting double time and a half for working the rescue, while I was one being rescued. I never did find out if my car turned up anywhere. It probably became rip-rap in Nebraska.

When it was all said and done, I was immediately issued a check by my insurance company and I purchased a sky blue Pinto wagon. I might add, it was involved in a rear end collision with an oil field truck while I was living in Gillette, Wyoming.

My housemate at the time, Tom Padget, worked over the insurance company for a settlement. The differential bolt was dented up against the gas tank, which, had it burst, the tank would have caused at least a fire.

The Pinto goes full circle.

I ended up selling the car to Rick Thamer who drove it to law school in Lubbock, Texas, where he and his wife Janie live today.

After the Big Thompson Flood event, I thought I was living on borrowed time and lived life a bit recklessly while in wild and crazy Gillette. I altered my perspective that I was given another chance, for some reason.

Hmmm, next up will be the attitude adjusting UFO incidents.

When Fireworks Were Legal

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Firecrackers and weed shopping malls would be better than data centers.

I grew up in Cheyenne, Wyoming, where summer wasn’t official until the fireworks stands opened. The nearest one was biking distance from our home in the Cole Addition. In the 1960s, the neighborhood sat on the edge of town, where open prairie began just a few blocks beyond the last houses.

That was then.

When I was a kid, firecrackers an inch and a half long were perfectly legal. The Zebra brand was the gold standard among neighborhood experts. I have no idea whether this was scientifically verified, but I was convinced Zebras had fewer duds than Black Cats. Every kid had an opinion, and every kid was certain he was right.

My parents allowed a few bottle rockets in the alley, but the real Fourth of July celebration happened at the Kishiyama place south of Cheyenne. Looking back, I’m amazed I survived childhood.

One of the men who worked for my dad made an annual pilgrimage to Nebraska and returned with contraband treasures: M-80s and cherry bombs. These were illegal in Wyoming, which increased their appeal. The M-80s were legendary. The cherry bombs looked harmless enough until they detonated with a satisfying boom that echoed across the prairie.

My dad allowed me to light them, fling them as far as I could, and wait for the explosion. Today, that sentence alone would give a safety inspector heart palpitations.

The vacant land behind our neighborhood became our battlefield. My friends and I played endless games of combat among the sagebrush and dry clay. Like countless boys of our generation, we experimented with homemade pyrotechnics that seemed ingenious at the time and reckless in retrospect. We dug foxholes, created miniature craters, and generally behaved in ways that would horrify modern parents.

The miracle is that we still have all our fingers.

Then came the fire.

At some point, a fireworks stand near the city limits caught fire and exploded like the first barrage of World War III. The city responded with an ordinance requiring that fireworks sales be conducted well outside town.

When we were adults, my cousin Matthew came to town over the Fourth of July. We decided to reexperience our childhood. We bought some fireworks and looked for a place to light them off. The Kishiyamas no longer lived on their ranchette. Everywhere we went, fireworks were not allowed.

What a letdown. I don’t know where we ended up, but the experience was no fun.

Entrepreneurs, being entrepreneurs, saw opportunity where the government saw regulation.

Soon, giant fireworks stores appeared south of Cheyenne near the Wyoming-Colorado travel corridors. What had once been a few temporary stands became a regional industry. Colorado customers crossed the state line in droves. Entire warehouses sprang up to meet the demand. Fireworks became big business.

In retrospect, Wyoming may have stumbled upon one of its more successful economic development programs.

Today, when I drive past the sprawling fireworks superstores south of Cheyenne, I think about those childhood summers. I remember the smell of gunpowder hanging in the evening air. I remember bicycle rides to the fireworks stand. I remember arguments about whether Zebra or Black Cat made the better firecracker. I remember the anticipation of waiting for dusk on the Fourth of July.

Mostly, I remember a time when Independence Day felt a little more independent.

Of course, every generation looks back on its childhood through rose-colored glasses. We remember the freedom and forget the close calls. There was something uniquely American about those Wyoming summers in the wide-open spaces, imagined war zones, fighting alongside Sgt. Saunders, of “Combat!” fame. The Fourth of July was the greatest holiday on the summer calendar.

Speaking of economic development, instead of sprawling data centers, a pretty good business would be selling marijuana on the Colorado side of the state line and fireworks on the Wyoming side, straddled by a casino.

From Taboo to Trendy: What Happened to Japanese Culture?

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I wandered through the Rocket Fizz candy store today, looking for a Goo Goo Cluster. On the way out, a shelf packed with Japanese candy sidetracked me.

Matcha Kit Kats.

Pocky.

Gummies in flavors I can’t pronounce.

A few days ago, I read about a Japanese convenience store opening in Longmont, Kawaii Conbini.

Part of me smiles.

Another part of me wonders, “What happened?”

I’m Japanese American. Growing up, my Nisei parents did not celebrate being Japanese. They tried not to attract attention to it.

America had spent years teaching them that being visibly Japanese was dangerous.

My parents belonged to the generation shaped by World War II and its aftermath. The U.S. government code led Americans to believe that the Japanese should be viewed with suspicion.

More than 125,000 people of Japanese ancestry were forced from their homes and sent to incarceration camps.

The lesson my parents learned was straightforward.

Speak English.

Don’t make waves.

Don’t draw attention to yourself.

Don’t give anyone a reason to see you as different.

The result was cultural amnesia.

The Japanese language disappeared from my house. Traditional customs faded. My parents encouraged me to become as American as possible.

I remember a time when Japanese food was considered strange. Sushi was exotic. Anime was niche. Asian products occupied a tiny corner of specialty stores. I packed my lunch when I was in junior high school. I never included maki sushi or teriyaki chicken, two of my faves to this day.

Today, the situation is the reverse.

Sushi is sold in supermarkets. Anime fills Comic-Con events. Japanese video games dominate popular culture. Japanese cars became symbols of quality and reliability.

People seek out Japanese knives, Japanese whiskey, Japanese electronics, and Japanese candy.

What changed?

The generations that fought World War II are largely gone. For younger Americans, Japan is not associated with wartime enemies. It is associated with technology, design, food, entertainment, and innovation.

Another factor is globalization.

When I was growing up, culture moved slowly. Today, a teenager in Wyoming can watch the same anime series as a teenager in Tokyo. A TikTok video featuring a Japanese snack can reach millions of viewers overnight. The world has become smaller.

That’s how I learned about Goo Goo Clusters. When I was in Nashville for a cohousing conference, I tried the caramel-peanut-chocolate candy for the first time. Prior to 1912, candy consisted of one ingredient. A Goo Goo Cluster was the first to combine a variety of ingredients.

America has changed, too.

The old expectation was assimilation. The goal was to become indistinguishable from everyone else.

Today, there’s a greater appreciation for cultural diversity. Americans are curious about differences rather than fearful of them. Food, music, language, and traditions once viewed as foreign are now opportunities to learn something new.

That doesn’t mean prejudice has disappeared. It hasn’t.

There’s been a shift, and the irony is impossible to ignore.

My parents grew up in a world where being Japanese made you a target. Today, consumers seek out Japanese products.

The candy aisle at Rocket Fizz may seem trivial, but standing there, I couldn’t help thinking about the cultural journey.

Maybe that’s progress, or a reminder that cultures survive when people are pressured to set them aside and wait for a new generation to rediscover them.

As I looked at those shelves of Japanese candy, I thought about my parents.

They spent much of their lives trying not to stand out.

I wish they could have seen a day when the once suspicious stood in line because they wanted a taste of what being Japanese had to offer.

Rocket Fizz did carry Goo Goo Clusters, but it was an expensive gift pack. I’ll wait to get one the next time I’m near a Cracker Barrel.