The blaze started around three, the morning of February 16th, 1958, gutting the 67-year-old Crescent Bay Hotel at Second and H Streets. Nine other businesses on the ground floor and next to the hotel were also damaged, causing an estimated loss of $300,000.

Four fire companies responded to the alarm, two from Crescent City and two from Klamath, including the Yurok Volunteer Fire Department, captained by Fire Chief Maynard Sanders. Strong winds carried burning debris to nearby buildings, making suppression more difficult for the fire teams.

The Surf Hotel Coffee Shop at Front and H streets, a block away, prepared that morning for a major March of Dimes breakfast event and the fire caused serious damage to the place. To protect it from flying embers, the Bank of America building, opposite the hotel, had to be hosed it down.

A man was seriously cut while inching himself down the outside from the second floor without dropping to the ground. Another escaped from a third floor window by dangling from his window, dropping down and grabbing the sill on the second floor window, pulling himself inside, and then racing down the stairs and out the door.

“I still don’t know how I did it,” he told rescuers.

Crews pulled three bodies from the rubble, while another remained missing. After examining the hotel’s register and the names of rescued guests checked off, the identified fire investigators identified the victims.

One man’s identity came to light after his parked car was found in the street. He was the boyfriend of one of the other victims.

Four others had to be taken Seaside Hospital for burns and injuries suffered from jumping from windows. A total of 14 people were in the hotel at the time including the manager, his wife, and his 15-year-old daughter.

Hundreds of spectators crowded the area while windows blew out from the intense heat. None of the rain that had poured on the county for days showed up to help with the emergency.

It was dawn before crews had the fire under control. The Red Cross came to the aid of the hospitalized, who lost all their belongings, and the business owners who suffered losses from flames, smoke and water damage.

A lack of water pressure received the blame for the first fire crews on scene to stop the spread of the blaze. Although fire investigators discovered the blaze started in Room 22, and a person smoking in bed suspected, a cause was never fully determined.

The telephone rang and I answered. It was my friend from Oregon, Hank, inviting me on a fly-fishing trip to northwestern Montana. I declines as I had promised my wife I would to go look for work this week.

Good thing, too.

Hank had purchased a new RV and was setting out for ‘Big Sky’ country. He had found a little lake he had visited a few years earlier and had always told himself, once retired, he’d go fishing in it.

The closest parking spot to the lake was about two-and-a-half miles away, so Hank, being no stranger to hiking decided he’d do jus’ that. The following morning found him with his hip waders over one shoulder and a fishing pole in his hand.

Within the hour Hank was ankle-deep in the cold lake water, flicking the end of his pole back and forth waiting for that first strike. As he stood looking out over the expanse of water, he heard a crashing sound behind him.

As he turned to his left, he saw the largest bear he’d ever seen exploded from the bank at him. And before he could react, the beast knocked him several feet backwards into the lake.

Hank struggled to get his feet underneath himself as the bear continued to charge. By this time his waders were water-filled and there was no place for him to go but deeper into the lake.

Soon gravity took hold and Hank sunk into the vegetation line below the lakes surface. Above him he could see the bear, paddling about, looking down on him.

As fast as he could he stripped the waders off and using the vegetation as cover, edged father away from the animal. By this time his lungs were burning and he rapidly surfaced, gulping as much air as possible.

The bear saw him pop up and immediately turned towards Hank. The speed and agility of the bear surprised Hank, who thought he might be able to out pace the bear across the surface of the lake.

Thinking better of it though, Hank dropped below the surface again and headed for the vegetation. By this time he was thanking his lucky-star this particular bear had not learned to dive for a meal from it’s’ mother.

Had that been the case, Hank knew he would’ve been done and there would be no one around to find him for several days or weeks, if at all.

Knowing he’d have to surface soon, Hank clawed his way parallel to the bank and slowly surfaced. He stayed in the water, watching as the bear as it circled around and around looking for his would-be prey.

It was about this time, Hank decided to slip onto the bank. He belly crawled from the gravel lake bed to the sandy shoreline, then quietly and slowly made his way into a thicket of brush on the bank.

Hank sat there, shivering from both the fear of the attack and the chill of the water. He watched as the bear also made its way to shore and up the bank.

The bruin stood up on his massive hind-legs to see if he could find the man. Satisfied the man was gone, the bear huffed, dropped to all fours, turned and wandered across the meadow.

Hank, still using the brush as cover, watched as the bear disappeared into the tree line. Then and only then, did he leave his ‘hiding spot.’

He retrieved his fishing pole and half-ran, half-sprinted up the trail in the opposite direction of the bear and towards his RV. Once inside the vehicle, Hank looked himself over in the mirror.

The bear’s massive claw had swiped him, tearing through his shirt, from his upper left shoulder to below the right side of his stomach and leaving a two-inch scratch mark jus’ below his left collar-bone. Other than that and being shook up, Hank decided he was fine.

Last night, Hank called me from his Oregon home to say he was having trouble sleeping because of nightmares. All I could do was listen and selfishly think, “I’m glad I said ‘no’ to his offer to go fishing.”

The first couple of months after moving to the Reno area, I was lonely.  All I did is work, writing Keno tickets at the Cal-Neva, then go home.

One afternoon, I wrote a ticket for a woman from Canada, named Carol. She was visiting, having traveled with a gambling junket, as they were commonly known.

It was clear she wasn’t having a very good time. So engaged her in conversation as I wrote her what I ‘promised’ was a winning ticket.

She laughed as she paid her fee and wandered away. After the game posted to the number board, she returned having actually won some money.

We were talking about the downtown area as she waited for her pay-out. I told her I was new to town and had not really explored the area, save for the Woolworth and post office down the street.

Carol asked if when I got off work, if I’d walk to the Woolworth with her. I told her that I would be happy too.

Once I clocked out, I raced upstairs and met her near the Keno bar. We wandered outside into the chilly night-time air and towards the Woolworth located jus’ down the street at the end of the block.

Unfortunately, it had jus’ closed for the night. So I apologized and suggested walking over to the post office, which was another block down from the store.

As we walked, we talked about our significant others. Married, Carol had separated from her husband the week before, while I had a girlfriend, who was still living in Arcata, California some 400 miles away at the time.

After checking my mail box, and pointing out some of the interesting designs inside the old post office, we headed back towards the Cal Neva. As we crossed the Virginia Street Bridge, we stopped to chat some more.

Looking down onto the Truckee River, we could see our shadows dancing in the ripple of the fast-moving stream. It was a pair of mercury vapor lamps that helped cast our shadows over the water.

While we talked, people passed by us, en route to who knows where. One sight I had grown accustom to, was seeing the random cowboy, half-loaded on booze, moseying along the sidewalk.

Looking up I saw such a man, attired in older looking cowboy garb, walking our way. His hat, mangled and pants, torn, I recall thinking, “He’s has a good time painting the old town red.”

He stopped about 10 feet from us and peered over the side of the bridge into the water. Carol and I continued to talk, until she stopped and appeared to be focused on something in or perhaps on the water.

“What?” I asked.

Carol looked at me, her eyes wide and frightened, “Do you see his shadow?”

Quickly, I looked, and answered, “No.”

As I studied the water, I slowly turned my head to look at the man standing near us. He stood directly under one the lamps lining the bridge.

My gaze returned to the river, and then to the man – who in the blink of an eye — had vanished. I jumped slightly when I’d seen he had disappeared, and Carol noticed this.

She turned, looked in the direction where the man had been, then took off running in towards the Cal-Neva. Feeling her panic, I joined her.

Safely inside, she explained only ‘vampires’ are unable to cast a shadow. While I didn’t laugh at her outright, I did think she was being a bit foolish.

By this time, her bus was preparing to load and head for another casino. We hugged as thanked her for the visit and apologized for the scare on the bridge.

As I watched the bus pull away, I turned and started walking up town the several blocks to the Circus-Circus parking structure to get my car. All along the way, I kept my coat pulled high around my neck, wondering if Carol could be right.

The old joke goes: “Your Mama wears combat boots.” For my wife, Mary — it was true.

Her mother, and my mother-in-law, Helen Conklin did wear combat boots during World War II. She was a nurse and 2nd Lieutenant in the U.S. Army from 01 May 1945 to 06 December 1946.

Boot camp for Helen was at Fort Lewis, Washington, where she was assigned to the 51st Evacuation Hospital, which was by them seeing action in the European Theatre. Upon graduation, 02 June 1945, she was reassigned to Birmingham General Hospital in Van Nuys, California.

The hospital specialized in general medicine, central nervous system syphilis, rheumatic fever and psychiatry. It also had a small prisoner of war compound.

Due to its nearness to Hollywood, many radio and movie stars visited patients at the hospital. Jack Benny even broadcast his annual Christmas Party from the hospital in 1944.

On 31 March 1946 the hospital was transferred to the Veterans Administration, which closed it in 1950. Official Army records points to a study of an antibiotic ointment used on patients with chronically infected compound fractures, which was one of the first topical uses of penicillin.

Helen Conklin, born Helen Elizabeth Gleeson, 05 January 1923, in Bisbee, Arizona, passed away peacefully at her home in Ramona, California, 29 October 2002. She was laid to rest with full military honors.

A 1875 lithograph of Carson City and a 1907 Sanborn Fire Insurance map places Chinatown between East Second and East Fourth streets, and from Fall Street to Valley Street. The main street was East Third, with Chinatown spread out on both sides of the Virginia & Truckee Railroad tracks.

Population estimates for Chinatown have ranged from as low as 800 to as many as 2,000. In 1870, 697 Chinese lived in the state capital and by 1880, that number had grown by 105.

Ten years later most of Nevada was in decline and Carson City was no exception. The city’s Chinese population fell to 670. By the turn of the century that population had shrunk to 152.

Despite a mining boom in 1910, the Chinese population of Carson City saw an even further decline to 118 souls. By 1920, the number was down to 73, and by 1930 it had dropped even further to 31.

By the time 1940 rolled in, Carson City was seeing a small growth in its over-all population; however this did nothing for the Chinese residents whose numbers hovered at 20. By this time, only a handful of buildings, including the Chinese Masonic Hall on East Third Street, were all that was left of Chinatown.

By 1950, only six Chinese people resided in the county. And by 1960, there were 10 Chinese living in the county and none of them lived in what was left of Chinatown.

The state of Nevada bought what was left of Chinatown in the 50s for future capitol complex expansion. The state razed the last of Chinatown in the 1960s, making way for the Supreme Court, the Legislative Parking Garage, the State Printing Office, the Employment, Training and Rehabilitation and a parking lot.

Shortly after getting fired last week from the radio station, a Marine Corps friend sent me an email. In it was a list of 15 rules for leadership. I had seen them before a several years ago, though I’m hard pressed to say where because I don’t recall.

He explains that while the material is clearly written by someone familiar with the U.S. Army, the rules apply to any military unit or Fortune 500 company. And at first, I wasn’t going to share them — but then I figured — what the hell, it’s good information, so go for it.

Finally, if you know where this originated or who wrote these rules, let me know. I want to credit them with handing out some very sound advice.

1) Don’t be a douche.

I am dead serious.  Nothing pissed me off more than watching some wannabe tough guy treat his people like shit and then hear someone say “that’s his leadership style”.  NO-GO.  I fully admit there are a lot of ways of running a unit, but the foundation of leadership is integrity and love for your people.  You can be hard and have high standards, but you cannot treat people like their existence is to serve you, amuse you, and accelerate your career.  That is not a leadership style, it’s an ego trip.  Get over yourself or you will find yourself getting a wood line attitude adjustment.

My first boss was a hard ass.  We had the best trained unit in the Brigade because he was always pushing for additional training.  On the surface of it, one would argue he was doing everything right.  When one of my NCOs found out his mother was dying, the commander actually tried to convince him that he shouldn’t go see her, because his guys needed him more.  This was pre-9/11.   He was willing to trade one of his men’s last moments with his mother in order to minimize the risk that his unit might get a slightly lower grade on the training exercise. Instantly, everyone realized that all his training wasn’t to take care of us at all – this guy was really just a spotlight Ranger. His actions led to my first counseling by the Battalion Commander, but that is a different story.  In short, don’t be a douche.

2) Your guys are more important than your career. 

This ties in nicely with my last point, but it is worthy of its own bullet.  You’re all going to be civilians someday, no matter how much you love the military or how long you serve.  Years from now, the fact that you made Colonel or Sergeant Major won’t erase the fact that you threw some unsuspecting subordinate under the bus to avoid punishment, and it certainly won’t remove a stupid decision you made based on pressure from above that got someone killed or injured.  Every leader I’ve ever respected has been willing to stand in the Gates of Fire when it mattered.  If you’re not willing to do this for your people, be honest with yourself and quit.  Join corporate America – you’ll just annoy people, not get them killed, and you’ll make more money.  Everyone wins.

3) Be good at your job. 

Every day you should be working your ass off to be technically and tactically skilled (note I didn’t say proficient – you need to be better than that).  You should be asking questions, reading, practicing, and training.  You can be a super-nice dude or dudette who loves your troops, but if you don’t know how to train them, lead them, and they aren’t ready for combat, you are a colossal failure.  If you look deep inside, you’ll know the truth of where you are in this regard.  Either fix it or quit.

4) It’s not your platoon. 

Imagine you’d been doing a job for 12-15 years and grew so good at it that you were chosen ahead of others to lead 40 men into combat…with one caveat.  You’re not actually in charge – some kid young enough to be your son is in charge…and you have to train him… but he rates you.  You couldn’t make this shit up, right?  When you’re walking into that platoon, appreciate the fact that you’re not the badass here.  You, like your men and your platoon sergeant, have a job to do, and it is your job to do that as best you can.  Acknowledge their experience and allow them to help you grow.

Towards the end of my time with my first platoon, my platoon sergeant and I were a team to be envied.  We had figured out who was going to do what and we had each other’s backs.  He had been very “anti-PL” over the last few years (I was his fourth platoon leader), but decided to give me a chance when I shook his hand for the first time and said, “SFC Stewart – it looks like I’ll be spending a year or so in your platoon.  Thanks for having me.”  I’ll give full credit to my dad, a former NCO, for that one but it was my firm intent to let him know I needed to learn and that I respected his position and sacrifice, and our men benefited as a result.

5) It is your platoon. 

We were at CMTC getting ready for our field problem.  I was at an OPORD and my platoon sergeant had everyone in the bay cleaning equipment.  Two of my new soldiers got into a fistfight over something stupid (one of them fancied himself a rapper and the other one felt his rap sucked – damn eighteen year olds).  My platoon sergeant punished them by having the entire platoon outside in the mud wearing all of their recently cleaned equipment.  He was smoking the ever-loving shit out of them when I rolled up on the scene.  Spotting me, he made the motion to stay back (this was NCO business).  So I hung low and watched from a distance so my guys couldn’t see me.  Just then Sergeant Major Chickenhawk rolled up – the same Sergeant Major that I hated and had recently outlawed this kind of “hazing” because it was politically expedient to do so.  He grabbed my platoon sergeant by the shoulder and started digging into to him in front of my guys.  I ran over and told the CSM that this was my platoon and that he could have the conversation with me.  He told me that this was NCO business and I responded that my platoon sergeant was acting under my command with my permission to discipline the men.  He walked me over to the battalion commander.  They had me don my gear and do mud PT to “show me” how it felt.  Well – you can’t smoke a rock.

Yes, your platoon sergeant has more experience.  Yes, he can run circles around you in a lot of areas.  Yes, he should probably be in charge over you – but he isn’t.  You are, and anything that happens or fails to happen in your platoon is your responsibility.  Furthermore, in this scenario, I had a great platoon sergeant and I agreed with him.  But not all platoon sergeants are good and not all good platoon sergeants are always right – you need to trust your own judgment and execute accordingly, even if it means pissing your PSG off.

6) Don’t lie, ever, for any reason. 

This isn’t grade school.  Your actions matter.  If you fuck up, admit it as soon as possible, even if you think it’ll hurt your career.  The team cannot work on a solution until they know the truth, and this is one of the few jobs in the world where lies can get people killed.  Furthermore, the military, for all its faults, is one of the few places on earth where honest mistakes are actually forgiven.  Conversely, it is one of the few places where lies are extravagantly and brutally punished, and rightly so.

7) You make mistakes – admit them. 

Don’t be that guy.  Your men don’t expect perfection.  They expect you to strive every day for perfection.  You’ll be wrong a lot.  Fess up, get over it, get their feedback and drive on.  They will respect you infinitely more and they will trust you for it, as opposed to committing themselves over and over again to proving, quite creatively and to everyone’s amusement, that you are often wrong.

8 ) Leader is not equal to BFF. 

I loved my guys.  I still love my guys, even though I’m very far removed from being in command.  Many good-intentioned leaders make the mistake of believing that being a great leader means never having your guys be upset with you and hanging out with them all the time.  There’s nothing wrong with taking your platoon out for a night on the town.  There’s nothing wrong with socializing with guys when you bump into them at a bar.  There is something wrong with passing out on your PV2s couch at 3AM.  Once you become “one of the guys”, you’re no longer their leader, and they need you to be in charge a lot more than they need another buddy.

9) You’re not the smartest guy in the platoon. 

A lot of guys make the mistake of thinking that because they have achieved a certain rank, or have a certain degree; they are in some way superior to the others in their unit.  In my first platoon alone, I had 7/20 privates or specialists with college degrees – one with a master’s degree.  One of them was literally a genius, having maxed out the MENSA (weak-ass organization, by the way) test.  You’re not in charge because you’re the smartest or most talented or anything else – you’re in charge because you signed up to be the LT.  Don’t act superior, because you aren’t – just do your job.

10) You can never quit.

You don’t have to be the fastest runner, or do the most pushups, or be the best at combatives, or be the best shot, but you can never quit.  The second your guys see you give up, you’ve lost them.  Period.

11) You are not the focal point of your subordinate’s lives.

They don’t spend their nights thinking about you, your speeches, or your goals.  They have wives, kids, girlfriends, bills, friends, and problems.  Acknowledge that – your men are not here to serve you.  They’re here to serve your country.  You’re here to serve them.

12) But your subordinates watch everything you do. 

Just because they don’t live their lives around you, doesn’t mean you’re not important to them.  If you lie, they assume it is okay.  If you quit, they assume it is okay.  Your actions, not your mission statements, speeches, codes, creeds, etc. will set their standard of behavior

13) Get your boss’s back.

Everyone wants to be in charge…until they are there.  We all think we could do a better job than our boss – sometimes it’s very true and sometimes it isn’t – but as long as he or she is working hard to take care of your men and complete the mission, you owe it to them to ensure they succeed.  You’ll be there someday, and you’ll find that despite your best efforts, you are very fallible.

14) Have a sense of humor. 

You will be tested.  When I came on board my first platoon, my guys tried to get me with every snipe hunt in the book – PRC-E8, keys to the indoor mortar range, box of grid squares – you name it.  Skillfully, I held out for three weeks, until that day in the motor pool.  In formation, the motor chief announced that today was the day that everyone had to turn in vehicle exhaust samples.  Promptly, the motor sergeants disseminated to each platoon a vehicle exhaust sample kit, which included labels, sharpies, and garbage bags.  My guys grabbed the bags, turned on their vehicles and began throwing the garbage bags around the exhaust pipe, filling it, then promptly tying the bag off and labeling it.  This just didn’t seem right – all the more so when they asked if I wanted to help get samples.  I balked.  They guilt tripped me.  Finally, even though I was at least 25% sure I was being had, I filled a bag with exhaust and started walking to drop it off at the motor chief’s office.  Sure enough, they snapped about 2000 pictures of this jackass 2LT running around with a bag of exhaust.

They got their laughs and busted my balls about it.  We were about to head to an 18-hour computer simulation exercise.  Immediately afterwards they had a room inspection with all their gear laid out.  They, of course, had done this the night before, knowing they’d be going right from the exercise to the inspection.

As all the guys moved to the simulator, all the officers got called back to the bays for the OPORD.  When I came back, I asked them, “Don’t you guys have an inspection tomorrow?”

“Roger, sir” they responded.

“Man, it’d suck if someone dumped everyone’s gear into one huge pile and then covered it in baby powder, wouldn’t it?” I asked.

Their faces dropped.  They fucking hated me.  I had gone way too far and clearly was getting back at them for the exhaust sample thing.  For the rest of the exercise it was hard to get anyone to talk to me – even my platoon sergeant was edgy.

The exercise ended and we all came back to the bays – they knew they only had an hour to salvage the inspection.  When they busted into their bay, they found that none of their stuff had been touched and was in perfect inspection mode.

“Sir, you are a fucking dick!” my platoon sergeant shouted.

“Why’s that sergeant?” I asked.

“You said you dumped all our shit out on the floor and covered it in baby powder!”

“No, sergeant – I said it would suck if someone were to do that.” I smiled.

I could take it, but I could give it back too.  There would be no more fucking with this LT.

15) Do the right thing. 

This is the last and perhaps most important aspect of leadership.  I am a big believer that in almost every single case, people know the right course of action.  The bigger question is whether they have the courage to make the right decision, even when making that decision could be personally harmful.  Decide now to always be a force of good.  Don’t justify away indiscretions.  Don’t sell out.  Your life will be easier, your men will respect you more, and you’ll sleep at night.  More importantly, you won’t start down that slippery slope towards being one of those leaders that will do anything to get ahead. We all want to think we’re the next coming of Patton or Eisenhower.  No one thinks they are a bad leader, but it doesn’t take much to get there and it happens incrementally – one little lie or moral concession at a time.

There had been a well-established Chinatown in Crescent City until the mid-1880’s. It was located along 2nd Street between G and H streets, along H to 2nd and 3rd Streets. They were expelled following the fatal shooting of a city councilman in Eureka, February 1st, 1885, during what the was called a ‘Tong War,’ by newspapers. The ‘Celestials’ were rounded up, herded onto ships and sent to San Francisco.

Is there and old friend you haven’t talked to in a while?
Let not another day go by without tending that friendship.

You and I have old friends that we value greatly;
Some we’ve known since childhood, grade school, high school.
Others are from our first job, perhaps a special get-together.
Still others are our friends because our folks were friends.

We tend to keep these friendships,
If not outwardly,in our hearts.
Many are so strong — years have passed,
Fresh as the day that they were new.
We also make new friendships as we grow.

If we haven’t heard from one another in a while,
We reach out:  a phone call, an email.
Failing to keep track of who calls more often.
Instead, we focus on what is important –-
The friendship.

In attempts to be polite, I will stifle
Many of beliefs and ideas,
Fearful of hurting  another’s’ feelings
When I speak truthfully.

Slowly, I am learning –
Much trial and error on my part,
It is possible to be honest
Without being mean or rude.

How else can I let someone know how I feel?
And others let me know who they are?

Censoring thoughts cuts us off,
Expressing the true self cannot hurt.
Unless I speak the truth,
No bad idea challenged,
No good belief shared.