DARTMOUTH ALUMNI ASSOCIATION OF THE PACIFIC COAST
When Winter Comes—in California
Those who say that youth comes but once are wrong. They figure without their skis and snow shoes—and the Sierra Ski Club. And those who believe—after a casual eye at the advertisements of the All Year Club of Southern California—that all California is a carpet of soft scented flowers, lend an ear to the tale of boreal winds and snow seven feet deep, and eight virile (and near-virile) young men, sons of Eleazar Wheelock, and a cabin in the highest of the High Sierra of California.
'Tis true. Semp Smith and Frank Wentworth started it—they usually do specialize in starting things. Semp and Frank, despite their democratic tendencies, have aristocratic connections, among which is a membership in the Sierra Ski Club a most exclusive organization of high-hat professors from Berkeley—with a real stone cabin built with their own hands, high on the crest of the Sierra—7,000 feet above the waters of the Pacific. Semp and Frank believed they could arrange a bid for the Dartmouth Club of Northern California for a real weekend among the snow. We said we'd accept if they could. They did—and we did.
So on the night of February 3rd—while San Francisco slept in the soft scented breezes, eight good men and true heard again that famous Vox Clamantis In Deserto—and climbed aboard the train for the high places.
Semp was there, looking like an educated lumberjack; Ritchie Smith, 1926, and Dave Smith, 1936 (Semp's two stalwarts); Paul Reed, 1925; Al Clifton, 1927; George Stoddard, 1918; Bob Leavens, 1901, and Elmer Robinson, 1914—a1l packing the articles wanted for snow invasion and a mighty yearning for the soughing of the pines in the waste-lands of the North, the crackle of the logs in the fireplace, and that most salubrious of odors—bacon and coffee. All ideas were thoroughly worked out.
There was on the succeeding two days over seven feet of honest to goodness California snow, much of snow-shoeing, much of tobogganing and much of skiing, and much laughing, and, before the cozy comfort of that hospitable fire-place, much bridge and poker and—even anagrams for those whose virility had found its northern limit. And there was much Baconian theory with beans and flapjacks and coffee from the skilful stove of Semp and his rotating K. P.
George proved his Norwegian extraction by taking all honors on skis; Paul proved his kinship to Noah Webster by introducing several new words into the anagram dictionary; Al demonstrated his relationship to Richard Canfield by taking all the poker money; Bob demonstrated his intellectual prowess by climbing the invisible ladders of spelling; Semp, of course, proved-—well you know Semp—and every single one of these sturdy mountaineers proved that there is a magic surcease from the labors of the city, that "they have the still North in their hearts" and that youth of any age, of any class will be served—hot cakes and bacon and coffee high in the California snows, while pine logs snap on the wide hearth, and wind howls in the pines and the snow drifts deep over the sills like H—anover.
-Written for the ALUMNI MAGAZINE
by the '14 man present.
Another true host on the Pacific Coast— Stillman Batchellor '05.
On a week-end late in September, "Batch's" 900-acre ranch in the Russian River Redwoods of Sonoma County near Healdsburg, California, took on a real Dartmouth air. Saturday evening saw the advance guard: George Stoddard '18, our artist; "Walt" Bowman '25, a real handy man; "Abe" Winslow '20 and Mrs. "Abe"; "Whit" Whittemore '04, a man who likes to "range the hills and rough it a bit now and again"; and "Wilk" Wilkinson '10, our outing club surveyor.
Try to picture this Dartmouth man's haven as we saw it. At the end of a 12-mile mountain road, through towering redwoods, along a brook (creek) banked with ferns; over the hill more of the same, and so on until we came upon the VENADO Post Office, a small log cabin—"Batch" is the postmaster three days a week, and he has four clients, but this is not the end of our journey, NO. After getting over this shock, we looked on up the canyon—on the left, wooded hills; on the right, the same, with lots of Redwoods; but between the hills by the side of the road, a large log cabin home, "Batch's" home, therefore a Dartmouth home if you please. "COME IN," says "Batch," who was at the door to meet us. (Oh! Before we go further, I must say this ranch has 40 acres under cultivation, bearing all kinds of choice berries, peaches, plums, apples—like they have in Maine, prunes— like cannot be grown anywhere else, and grapes. You may know this hilly country grows excellent grapes. Some of you may not know how grapes look in their original state—but, WE-KNOW-OTTR-GRAPES.
Within the cabin, there was such a congenial atmosphere, and there you see why "Batch" is happy—Mrs. "Batch" and the little daughter Eloise, both charming hostesses. A big steak dinner was under way and soon served, with biscuits and jam and other homemade delicacies, so greatly appreciated in the woods. After dinner—the dishes—you never call upon Dartmouth men in vain.
In the "pantry"—yes, that is what we New Englanders call it, and "Batch" also has "piazzas" on his log home instead of porches and verandas—well, in the "pantry" there lay an 80-pound pig, stiff as a board. He was ushered in, as there was scheduled for the morrow a "Barbecue for Dartmouth Men and Women." Into the pig were dashed a few cups of salt and pepper, all well distributed; then in we rolled a half bushel (all right, call it a bucket if you must) of onions peeled with consolidated weeping. The task of sewing Mr. Pig up was accomplished. He was carefully wrapped in sugar sacks and more sacks, and tied securely.
About this time, in walked Perkins '04, Mrs. "Perk," and daughter from Sacramento, just regular campers. So "Perk," after sampling the grapes, joined in assisting the Pig over across the lot where, deep in the ground, a fire had been burning since early morning, resulting in a big bed of wood coals. HOT?—well this was to be a Barbecue, not just roast pork, fried chops, etc. One, two, three, Mr. Pig and his onions were heaved into the coals and rapidly covered with a foot of dirt, then a fire was built on top to cinch the bet. "I wonder," someone said, "it is 10:30 P. M.; he may come out all right tomorrow, but. ..."
Back to the cabin we went, to find a welcome redwood log fire raging in the monster fireplace. After listening to an interesting review of '04 and '05 days, with photo album to illustrate, the usual gentlemen's game started, while the ladies played bridge. It ended when "Walt," holding four threes, discarded one in hopes of drawing a full house. Then to bed, to sleep—all except Walter; he could not seem to get over it.
Next morning there were two shifts for breakfast, and then signs to be painted for guiding the luncheon guests, and fruit to be squeezed for the punch. On a big sign down the road, George's brush skillfully depicted Heap Big Occum to guide the Dartmouth Alumni of the Pacific Coast to the beautiful Redwood Grove. On the way you were told to "Walk your hosses." "Fat" Prescott '10, Mrs. "Fat," and two sons, ignored the sign and suffered a severe jolt when ye Studebaker hit the corduroy culvert. It was christened "Ledyard Bridge" so others might beware ("It" refers to the culvert.) Another sign read, "Report to the Dean in 24 Hours," but we were not moved by that so much as by the ones showing the senior fence, the nurses' home, and the last of all buildings our artist so ably termed "Chi Phi House." Up and at 'em Chi, they haven't seen the new house yet. [Editor's note: The President, Vice-President, and Secretary and Treasurer are all Chi Phi, how come?]
From the San Francisco Bay section, 90 miles away, came Vance Campbell '12, Mrs. Vance, and daughter; "Bill" Patterson '09, and Mrs. "Bill"; John Post '05 and his two little daughters; Fred Stripp 'OB, Mrs. Fred, two sons and two daughters; Karl Baldwin '18, Mrs. Karl and two sons; Howard Billman '04, Mrs. Howard, and two babies from Geyserville; Howard Almon '22, and Mrs. Howard; Dr. "Hal" Ellis '18, and the bride of a few days; our honored president "Dick" Danforth '08; four bachelors, "Tom" Flint '24, "Al" Clifton '24, Karl Brooks '22, and the realest bach of all, Guy Spokesfield '10.
Forty hungry mouths, the tables set, salads, pickles, big red apples, coffee smelling, ALL Set—then, without ceremony, Mr. Pig was hoisted from his 15-hour steaming bed and placed upon the table. "Batch," with his trusty knife, removed the covers and 0 Man!—Stand back gentlemen and control yourselves, ladies and children first. Out rolled the onions and one youngster asked Mother the pertinent question—"Do pigs eat onions like that?" The Barbecue was on—you never tasted such meat. Even the doubtful ones ate heartily. After seconds on everything, including ice cream and cakes, we had some more barbecued meat; you just couldn't keep from it.
Then, a stroll through the redwoods—we hated to go home. That atmosphere—the Batchellor atmosphere—a Hanover in the West—gave our big family one more very successful reunion. Before we left, our host and hostesses assured us a place to hang our Dartmouth hats any time we felt like roaming the hills, and "bring the little folks," said Eloise. It's just too darned bad she wasn't a boy, for she can never be a Dartmouth man.
