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Certain things get caught in my craw and I jus’ can’t seem to cough them up. One is this Nevada news item:

“Nevada lawmakers will be able to workout during the upcoming legislative session thanks to new exercise equipment installed in an empty office on the third floor of the state’s legislature building. The two treadmills, two stairmasters and two elliptical machines come at a cost of $30,000 dollars to taxpayers.”

News item number two:

“Governor Brian Sandoval has released the salaries of some of his staffers. Chief of Staff Heidi Gansert will earn just under $125,000, Dale Erquiaga, Senior Advisor and Communications Director, about $120,000, Press Secretary Mary-Sarah Kinner around $75,000, with the governor making $141,000. The amounts are before factoring a 4.6 percent reduction, the amount state workers lost in 2009 when required to take a day off each month without pay.”

Meanwhile, the base-pay for a sergeant in the United States Marine Corps is only $26,638. Remember, these are the men and women charged with humping around Afghanistan and Iraq, wearing body armor and 80 pounds of equipment in all sorts of weather, day and night, and being shot up on a near-daily basis.

It appears it pays well in Nevada to be a professional politician. No wonder the state has a $3-billion budget shortfall.

The Denny’s was fairly empty at the time I entered and sat down for a cup of coffee and a burger. That’s because it was somewhere between morning breakfast and noon-time lunch.

Shortly after I sat down and ordered my meal, in the door came a man I knew only by the name, Red. He had with him, his ever-present dog, which was allowed into the restaurant because it acted as a service-animal, as Red had epilepsy.

As I sat eating, I casually watched Red as he moved towards one of the seats located at the  front counter. Usually, his dog would lay down next to where he sat, but this time the dog jus’ stood there.

Without much notice, Red suddenly stiffened up and fell backwards into the aisle between the counter and a booth. He was having a seizure.

Immediately, I asked one of the waitresses to call an ambulance and I went over and knelt down by Red. There wasn’t very much I could do for him at the time other than speak gently to him.

However his seizure event became progressively worse. As his thrashing about became more violent all I was able to do was protect him from striking his head on either the floor or some nearby object.

Within minutes the Del Norte County Ambulance Service pulled into the parking lot. One of the EMT’s to come through the door was Chuck Hartwick.

Chuck and I had gone to high school together. We also studied martial arts and emergency medicine after school most nights and I considered him to be a renaissance man long before the term became popularized.

It wouldn’t be the last time I would see Chuck as he worked the ambulance. One early morning I was near run over by a woman, who had been broadsided and in a panic, stabbed her foot down on the gas pedal.

Instead of running me over, she slammed into a retaining wall designed to protect a building near Highway 101. The impact snapped her right ankle in such a way that the injury became a jagged, open wound.

It was Chuck who arrived with his partner driving the ambulance. Together, we packaged the woman up for transport to Seaside Hospital, where doctors were able to save her foot.

But the most interesting time I worked with Chuck was when we were Juniors in high school. Someone said that a girl was laying on the floor in the girls bathroom of C-Hall, bleeding.

I went into the bathroom and found she wasn’t jus’ bleeding, she was having a baby.

Chuck arrived soon after. Needless to say I was happy to see him.

The ambulance soon arrived and they loaded the girl up on a gurney and rushed her to the hospital. All this time later, I cannot recall the girl’s name.

Unfortunately, Chuck passed from this life into the greater-life, February 7, 2011. He would have been 52, September 2nd.

University of Nevada Las Vegas president Neal Smatresk says the school is on the brink of financial collapse. He claims Governor Brian Sandoval’s proposal to cut nearly $48 million from the schools’ budget could force it to declare financial exigency, a move compared to declaring bankruptcy.

However, Nevada university regents gave Majestic Realty, the developer behind Staples Center in Los Angeles 150 days for exclusive negotiations on plans for a 40,000-seat football stadium on campus of UNLV. Majestic Realty also own the Silverton casino in Las Vegas.

The deal allows Majestic and UNLV to work out a plan with authorities including Clark County and aviation officials. It also allows time to seek state legislation to make the campus a special district so taxes generated there can be used to support the project.

There is a disconnect somewhere in all of this.

Prior to renaming my weblog the more amiable, “Once Upon a Wednesday,” I had called it, “The Wedekind City Manipulator.” I did so as a take off the “Wabuska Mangler,” a Nevada newspaper that never really existed, but was invented by Sam Post Davis, then editor of the Nevada Appeal to help boost sales of Carson City’s leading newspaper.

This was my first article for, “The Wedekind City Manipulator.”  Somedays I wish I had kept the title.

A former mining town, Wedekind City is about two miles north of Sparks and a mile or so south of Spanish Springs on Nevada State Route 445, commonly referred to as the Pyramid Highway. The area is named for George Wedekind, a German immigrant and Reno piano tuner, who found gold ore in the area around 1896, starting the Reno Star Mine.

The mines name was later changed to Wedekind after a rich ore strike was made. Soon a small town sprang up around the digs and a U.S. Post Office was established July 09, 1902. As the mine went bust, postal service to the town was discontinued March 15, 1905.

Today, Wedekind City is simply a footnote in Nevada’s otherwise colorful history of mining, cowboying and tourism adventures. All that remains of the once bustling town is a mined-out, grass and sage covered hillside.

Uncle shook his head sideways and asked, “Any idea where the hell they could be?”

Then he clucked his tongue and his young gelding moved forward onto the trail. I followed along behind him, saying nothing.

I had long come to realize that Uncle was asking himself more than anyone else a question and the way I figured it, talking aloud and asking questions was one of Uncle’s many ways of thinking.

We had been in the saddle before sunup having passed under the shadow of Irish Mountain of the South Fork Range. It was spring roundup and the hunt for the final few beeves in the redwoods and surrounding hills was on.

It tickled me and made me slightly afraid when Uncle looked directly at me and said “Saddle Cracker up. You’re coming with me.”

We were moving south through Uncles grazing rights. The fine grass showed its tender shoots as we paused to give the horses a breather jus’ beyond Lemonade Springs.

“I got a feeling they cut across the Mad on us,” Uncle commented, “There isn’t a sign to cut anywhere over here.”

I said nothing while lying stretched out beneath the shade of a madrone tree.

A few later minutes we were back in the saddle, cutting west towards the Mad River.

“Best get set to cross,” Uncle ordered.

We paused long enough to pull off our boots and tie them around our necks using our bandanas. As we continued toward the river I loosened my pistol belt and pulled it off.

I draped it over my neck as well, making certain to double-check the thumb loop.

The rush of the Mad River could be heard long before it could be seen. The creaking of saddle leather and horses hooves in the soft earth mixed with the activity of the mountain stream made my heart race with anticipation.

River crossing had always been a dangerous part of a range hands occupation. No cowboy ever wanted to cross a swollen, fast-moving, deep and cold river.

“Remember to hang on,” Uncle shouted back as he urged his mount into the brisk waters.

Reaching back, I grabbed a handful of Crackers tail hair. The old mare’s ears laid down momentarily as if she realized what she were about to be asked to do.

Uncle had explained once that Oklahoma cowboys always grabbed onto their pony’s tails as they crossed a river. That way if the rider became unseated from the “hurricane deck,” the horse would drag him to the bank. And if the unthinkable happened and the horse should drown, then the cow hand would have a ready-made flotation device because horses never sink directly.

Neither event occurred as we and our mounts climbed the river bank further south than where we started. Uncle stopped to put his boots on and so did I. And if Uncle were cold, he certainly didn’t show it and I knew he best not say anything either though my body shivered involuntarily and violently.

It was a little before noon and the midday sun soon dried us out. We stopped at Cherry Glade Creek to stretch, eat and rest the horses, determined to ride until after sundown if necessary.

The coffee was strong and hot as I lifted it to my lips. It warmed me and gave me energy.

I swallowed the last of the cold biscuits and honey then downed the last bit of coffee.

“We ought to get a move on, Uncle,” I said without realizing.

I felt my heart sink into my stomach because it sounded as if I had just given Uncle a command.

Uncle looked up and smiled then chuckled a little bit. “Okay, buckaroo, let’s get saddled up.”

Uncle laughed aloud once again.

We turned our mounts in a northwesterly direction, riding for half an hour. That’s when Uncle stopped and leaned way over to look at the ground.

I moved closer to have a look, but could see very little, other than where the ground was chewed up.

“At least five of them,” Uncle said. Then he pointed up into the hills, “This way.”

Leaving the banks of the Mad River behind us, we pushed our horses deeper and deeper into the woods. This was dangerous for both man and beast as this is where people tended to live on the edge of civility.

A good saddle horse could easily be mistaken for a mule deer and its rider as a jumper onto a mining claim or trespasser into a marijuana field. For this reason we both pulled out our bright red wild rags and tied them loosely around our necks to make certain they could be seen.

The tracks led deeper and higher into the hills. Many of the trails were dim as my Grandpa was fond of saying. In more than one case, we had to make our own path up a grassy or moss-covered slope.

Uncle leaned over and followed the tracks as we pushed on. The tracks led into a small stand of timber.

There in a clearing stood a man and a woman. They had built a make shift corral and had rounded up seven strays and were working on field dressing one of the steers.

The woman saw us first as we rode into the clearing. The man looked up and stepped straight for his rifle.

She looked frightened as she pointed at the man with a bloodied arm and said, “It was his idea.”

I saw his action and already had my pistol in hand.

The double-click of the hammer caused the man to pause in his reach. Then Uncle rode up and picked the rifle up from the fence post and proceeded to empty the shells from its chamber, flinging the brass cartridges a far away as he could.

“Son of a…” the man said in a barely audible voice.

Then Uncle spoke, “I’d jus’ stand right there, both of ya or my young Ramrod will punch holes in both your souls.”

Neither one moved.

For a moment I was distracted by the term ‘Ramrod.’ That meant ‘Boss’ and that Uncle viewed me as an equal in this ugly affair.

The man looked up at Uncle and stated, “I didn’t think anybody would be up here looking for these cows.”

“Well, you thought wrong,” Uncle replied. Then he said, “Now, ma’am if you’d be kind enough to open that gate and light a shuck under them cattle, I’d much appreciate it.”

She did as she was asked. Then she moved quickly over to a wad of blankets that appeared to be tossed on the ground.

I trained my pistol on her until she pulled out a baby that began to cry.

Uncle raised his right hand to the brim of his hat and said, “Ma’am,” as he nodded his head.

Then he looked at the man then the half butchered cow and the nearly starved cow still tied to the far side of the make shift corral, “Keep the damned thing and that one too. It seems you need it more than me.”

Then taking no chances, he tossed the once loaded rifle into the brush, beyond the corral. Without another word he clicked his tongue and dashed off into the woods the way he had come, with me, his Ramrod, hard behind.

After leaving the Marine Corps, I found myself obsessing over why I had lived and why others died. My obsession took the form of writing a few stories in which I was killed. It was my way of coping, until I finally got up enough courage to ask for help.  I eventually learned this was “survivors guilt.”

I know — kind of dark.

The couple in the apartment below was arguing as I lay in bed snuggled up to my girlfriend. This was nothing unusual because this always went on in the apartment below.

But for some reason tonight — it was different.

The voices were more hostile, there was more screaming and yelling. And while the words were muffled, it was easy to tell one voice belonged to a female, the other to a male.

Snuggling closer to my girlfriend, I tried to forget the voices. I was safe and warm, lying next to my girlfriend and I thought this over and over until I faded to sleep.

 Suddenly something jolted me awake. Something didn’t sound right.

Those voices had suddenly become clearer and were jointed by the sound of rushing feet. Then came the crashing of two bodies hurling themselves at one another in a violent struggle.

The struggle was followed by a loud noise — an explosive crack from the apartment below. I felt a chill run up and down my spine, which left me weak, frightened and sick to my stomach.

I forced myself to think over and over again – I’m warm and safe in the bed next to my girlfriend – until I only seemed to fade off into sleep.

It was jus’ sitting in the sandy earth as I walked by it. At first, I thought it was a piece of plastic or perhaps colored glass or maybe a bit of ceramic.

I picked it up, discovering it was a rock.

Its layers of color jus’ didn’t look natural, especially the light blue one. I had never seen a rock like it.

Eventually, I showed it to a Paiute elder. He said it fell to earth from the moon.

And until I have a better explanation for not only its colors — but why I couldn’t find another one like it in the area — I’ll take the elder at his word.

After visiting Dad’s grave in the national cemetery, I decided to drive up the road to the row of old barracks. I had been there once before and was looking forward to visiting the grounds again.

Barracks Row as it is locally known was home to the 10th Regiment of Cavalry. They were composed of Black horse soldiers, commonly referred to as “Buffalo Soldiers.”

I pulled up near a building that is known as the hospital barracks.

The sound of my wooden heeled cowboy boots echoed on the rough plank flooring. It brought a sense of nostalgia and a hint of sadness to think any number of soldiers passed their final breath in one of the open-bay wards.

Jus’ like the time before, I felt as if I were entering a crowded facility. While I knew no one other than myself was there, I couldn’t help but be impressed by the thought that I wasn’t actually alone.

Then my thoughts turned to Albert Einstein and his theory of parallel universes. While I’ve never fully understood what it was he was proposing in his mathematic equations, I did understand his notion that the past, present and future are side-by-side in an ever-present time-line.

This caused me to have an even crazier thought: perhaps I might be a ghostly feature to a sick cavalry soldier, who couldn’t focus on me, but detected my presence in the corner of his eye. In short, the present had crossed with the passed for an instant in time.

I laughed at myself as I continued to wonder through the ground floor ward.

There was rope across the stairwell leading to the second floor. Hanging from the rope was sign: do not enter.

Since no one was around I stepped over the barrier and proceeded up the steps. Once on the second floor, I found nothing remarkable about the place, other than it had been vandalized by perhaps some teens using the building as a place to party and make-out.

Back down stairs, I wondered over to one of the two, multi-paned windows that over look the parade ground. The glass was obviously crafted by hand as it made everything wavy and disfigured.

As I started to turn from the window, I saw a line of 16 horses and riders forming in a column of two, trotting out onto the parade field. It was a group of reenactors practicing.

They were only a couple hundred yards away as the squad leader put the unit through their paces. I was familiar with this activity as I had once been a member of the 5th Regiment of Cavalry, Reorganized at Warren AFB, in Wyoming.

Then from my left side came a young African-American man, no older than 20 years, perhaps. He was dressed in a traditional cavalry uniform of dark blue trousers and shirt, cloth suspenders, and boots with the leg of his pants tucked in them.

On his head was what looked to be a very well used forage cap. Obviously he was dressed the part for whatever event was taking place out on the parade grounds.

He looked up at me, smiled and nodded. I returned his smile and nod.

It suddenly occurred to me that I was about to let my chance to talk with one of these reenactors get away. So I rushed out of the build and down the steps.

I looked in the direction he had been walking, but he was nowhere to be seen.

Then it dawned on me that the unit on the parade field was no long there as well. I was busy thinking about the fact that they had been able to withdraw from grassy flat so fast, that I didn’t hear the ranger approach me from behind.

“Sir, we’re about to close for the night,” he said.

I jumped as I turned towards him and I must have had a wild look on my face as I made eye contact with him.

He smiled slightly and asked, “You saw them, didn’t you?”

“I — I’m not sure what I saw,” I answered, still feeling a bit confused.

“Yeah,” the ranger replied, “It happens like that.”

I blew into my cupped hands, and then rubbed them together to help shake off the early morning chill.

The fog was hanging low to the ground and it added to my sense of cold as I waited for my VW Bug to warm up. I had a ninety-seven mile trip to make on U.S. 101; the total distance between Crescent City and Eureka.

This was my daily routine as I trekked to my job in the newly created one-hour photo shop I was employed at. The drive did not bother me as I enjoyed driving, especially through the redwood trees.

I pointed my car southward on 101 as I left the city limits and pushed my nearly worn out tape of Ian Tyson in to the player and cranked up “Navajo Rug.”

As I turned the music up I saw the flashing lights in the rear view mirror. It was a California Highway Patrol coming up fast on behind me. Another unit sped past me; this time it was a Del Norte County Sheriff unit.

The VW slowed down as it started up the hill into the trees. It always slowed down as it headed up the steep incline.

“Must be a heck of an accident ahead,” I muttered as noisily slurped at my coffee cup.

I had completed the first left hand curve just passed the scenic view when I came upon the accident and a surge of adrenaline pump itself through my veins.

The Datsun Z-280, or what was left of it, was rammed up underneath the shiny silver tank of a big rig. The big rig had jack knifed while headed north and its tank had crossed sideways into the southbound lane jus’ as the Datsun was making the corner.

“Bad luck,” I thought as I slowed to a stop.

I set the brake and turned off the engine, knowing I wasn’t going anywhere as all lanes were blocked off.

Then reached over the back of the seat and pulled out my first-out bag. My bag contained nearly everything medical that I would need in the event of a serious emergency.

“I’m a paramedic,” I said to the Highway Patrol Officer.

It was the same one who passed me a few minutes ago.

“Great,” he replied, “Go ahead.”

The county sheriff deputy was on the other side of the truck. He was busy flagging traffic to a stop.

The tanker truck driver yelled to me, “You a Medic?”

I trotted over to him, “Hospital Corpsman –yeah.”

The odor of gasoline was in the air and it was the first moment I had noticed it.

“Are you the driver?” I asked the man.

He nodded his head and answered, “Yeah, but I ain’t hurt.”

“Good,” I responded, and then I asked, “You hauling gasoline?”

“Yeah,” said the driver, “And the tanks leaking.”

Looking over at the Patrol Officer, I shouted, “Get those cars out of here. We’ve got a gasoline leak. And don’t use your radio.”

The patrol man shouted back, “Okay!”

Then he made the three cars he had stopped turn around and head back down the hill. He followed along behind them on foot.

I looked at the truck driver, “I need you to go tell the Deputy on the other side to get traffic back around the curve. Tell him that we have a gasoline leak and to not use his radio until he’s safely around the curve.”

“Yeah, sure,” he responded as he slipped between the embankment and the front end of his cab.

Setting my bag down, I opened it and put on a pair of latex gloves before leaning into the semi-conscious drivers’ window. She moaned lightly and turned her head from side to side.

A quick check revealed she had broken arm her near her upper right shoulder. She also had some sort of rib injury to the same side.

The worst injury though was a deep gash in her right thigh. That’s where the steering wheel had sliced through the skin and muscles down to the bone.

I could see the gleaming whiteness of the bone as I gently assessed her.

The odor of gasoline brought fear to me as well as nausea. The idea of being burned did not appeal to me.

The young woman opened her eyes and looked around. Then she screamed.

“Calm down,” I said as gently as I could to her.

She started flailing her arms. Then she pulled at the steering wheel attempting to free her self, but remained trapped.

However in the struggle she managed to loosen the steering wheels pressure from her thigh. The lack of pressure caused her wound to gush as her heart pumped out her life fluid with each panicked beat.

Climbing into the compressed frame of the sports car through the shattered passenger window, I knew I had to stop the bleeding or else she would die. Once inside I pushed down as hard as I could at the point where her hip bent.

She screamed loudly and struck out at me. So I turned my left shoulder into her and continued to apply all the pressure I could.

Then a face appeared at the drivers’ side window. It was a fire fighter.

“What’s happening?” the person asked.

“She got a partial amp and nasty bleeder,” I said, “And I need some hemostats.”

The fire fighter disappeared.

The gloves I had put on were now useless; filled with blood, inside and out.

The fire fighter returned and said, “I could only find two.”

He handed them to me through the window. Next I lowered my left knee down on the affected leg with the idea to keep the blood flow to a minimum as I clamped the hemostats into place.

I probed inside the gaping wound with my fingertips.

“Aw, man, the femoral is ripped to pieces,” I said complainingly. “No wonder she’s losing so much blood,” I continued thinking.

As I continued to work the hemostats into place the fire rescue crew set to work carefully removing the top of the car. They had to work slowly and cautiously as one spark could cause the tanker truck and the car to become engulfed in flames.

I soon discovered neither hemostat worked.

They were slightly bent and failed to close properly. I softly cursed.

Looking around the car, I tried to find any thing that might be a suitable replacement for the hemostats. That’s when I saw the paper clips that had fallen from the cubbyhole on the dash.

I picked one up.

Pushing my hand back inside open wound in the woman’s thigh, I squeezed the slippery end of the artery between my thumb and fingertip and gently coaxed it out of the muscle that hid it.

“What are you doing?” a voice asked abruptly.

I looked up the fireman and answered, “I’m trying to stop her from bleeding to death!”

As quickly as possible I continued to fold the tattered ends of the artery together and attach the paper clip to it, and then I pinched it down hard. Then I attached the second one beside the first and pinched it down, folding them both over.

Finally I locked the two hemostats into place atop the paper clips. Blood slowly filled the wound, but the artery did not squirt and the paper clips held.

“I need a bunch of four by fours,” I demanded.

Someone handed me a package of the gauze squares as another voice commented, “That’s slick work there, pal.”

I packed the gauze into the wound to help slow what bleeding was occurring. Within minutes the firefighters had her out of the remaining frame of her sports car and on her way to Seaside hospital.

“From there, she’s going to get a Coast Guard ride to Eureka,” one of the firefighters said to another.

I picked up my bag and walked over to the car, where I sat until I was it was okay to leave by the highway patrol.

An hour and a half later I wheeled my way into the parking lot of the photo lab. I got out of my truck and proceeded to tuck my bloodied shirt into my equally blood encrusted pants.

I was nearly forty-five minutes late for work.

Stepping inside the photo shop, everyone looked up at me, and from the expressions on their faces I could tell what was coming. Barbara, the shop’s manager came out of her office and walked up to me.

“You’re fired!” She said in a very brisk tone of voice, adding, “Here’s your check, get out!”

“You’re not even going to ask me what happened?” I asked.

“Get out, I don’t care,” was her response.

I shrugged my shoulders and replied “Okay.”

With that and a sigh I walked out the door, climbed in my VW and pointed it north, towards Crescent City. I was looking forward to a hot shower and clean clothes.

As I pulled out of the driveway, I thought, “There are other jobs out there — besides I don’t want to work for a company that puts money before life.”

I heard the call, “Corpsman,” and I came rushing to the aid of the stricken Lance Corporal.

He was shot through the calf of his right leg as he worked to deepen the fighting hole we now found ourselves huddled in. Also in the hole, which was more of a trench, was a Corporal.

The Corporal was busy with his entrenching tool digging out the red earth in order to have more cover in the event of an attack. The Lance Corporal had been standing atop the dirt the two had excised from the ground when he was hit.

The wound was through-and-through. I was jus’ finishing packing the bullet-hole and wrapping a length of gauze around his calf when a shadow quickly passed over my head. Without warning a man with a machete’ was standing over the Corporal hacking at him.

The Corporal immediate started defending himself, using the entrenching tool. He was losing the fight as the attacker swung the sharp sword-like weapon down on the Marine.

Without a word, I grabbed the Lance Corporal’s entrenching tool and swung it like a club at the man’s head. It sliced though the top of his skull and he dropped right where he stood.

I quickly looked the Corporal over for injuries and though his entrenching tool was severely bent and his flak-vest was sliced open, he had no wounds to show for his troubles.

Then together, we lifted the now-dead attacker up and tossed his limp body over the dirt berm of the fighting hole. I returned to the wounded Lance Corporal and the Corporal returned to removing more dirt from the trench.

And though we would occasionally run into each other at chow or at religious services, we neither one ever spoke of that day and the events that occurred in the half-completed fighting hole.