Back in the day my hiking gear consisted of an old canvas knapsack. It had no frame, no padding, no waist belt, and was too small to hold what you needed.

I also had a walking stick — plucked from a random tree along the way.

My sleeping bag and tent were tied to the outside. I took a light jacket, poncho,  first aid kit, extra socks,  flashlight, rope,  compass,  knife, some matches, my journal and pencils, my canteen and three or four peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

Out the front door of our home I’d go, walking the quarter-mile east to the old logging road and disappear into the Redwood forest. I didn’t go far — didn’t have too — and I’d have my camp all set up by late afternoon and there I’d stay for a couple of days.

I had no idea how good I had it.

It was the oddest thing – I went outside to bring in our flags and I discovered a bottle setting on our welcome mat. Looking west down our street I saw two teenaged girls walking away.

Each turned, looked my direction and continued walking along the side-walk. So I picked the bottle up, brought it in, removed the note inside it and read it:

“Dear Bottle

Alfred Adler said this, “Trust only movement. Life happens at the level of events, not words. Trust movement.”

At first I had thought he meant only trust in action. Don’t trust in voice or words. But reading it over I convey it like, “Trust only movement. Life happens by doing, not talking. Trust movement.”

So should I give action to my thought? Yes! I must trust my moves on a good deep level. Yet talking could also be the movement. I should trust my movement.”

It’s a very cryptic message and I felt obliged to research its possible hidden meaning. I decided to start with Alfred Adler – whose name was familiar – but for unknown reasons at the time.

Adler was a member of the Vienna Psychoanalytic Society and a colleague of Sigmund Freud. His most famous concept is the inferiority complex or the problem of self-esteem and its negative effects on human health which sometimes produces a paradoxical superiority striving.

I knew I knew his name for some reason — then — paranoia struck… 

Holy crap! Was this message meant for me?

No. I realized this note was actually meant for someone else and the two girls had left it on the wrong doorstep.

Looking at it from a merely illogical point of view – which the majority of teens have – I realize it’s one of the two girls way of telling a boy she likes, he’d better act soon or risk losing out. Then again, it could be a really good prank on their part.

Jus’ in case — I’m working on a reply.

Having worked the early shift at the Reno Hilton, I was looking forward to having the next day off. I planned to go to the local drive-in theater at El Rancho and 9th to see a movie, with the hope of forgetting about some of my problems for a while.

Before hand, I stopped at the store and bought a 24-can case of beer so I could have a couple as I watched the flick, “Signs,” starring Mel Gibson and Joaquin Phoenix. Unfortunately, I had a lot more than jus’ a couple.

In fact, I don’t remember anything about the movie. What I do recall is suddenly waking up and realizing it was daylight.

To make matters worse, I was still parked in the same spot I had been the evening before, but now rather than vehicles parked on either side of me, I was parked in the middle of a Mexican flea-market. I was further distressed to learn I had a couple of Latino dudes haggling with one another over who was going to buy my truck.

I gave them the remainder of my beer and drove away quickly.

Grandpa Bill had a small blacksmith shop attached to the side of his home. I would often spend the day with him as he fashioned horseshoes, fixed hinges and othe items for neighbors.

When he wasn’t pounding on his anvils — he had several different sizes — he was using them for entertainment purposes. He called it, “Blowing up Anvils,” and it involved not only the two blocks of metal , but a fair amount of black powder and a fuse.

He would haul the larger anvil out into the pasture behind the house, place the black powder on top of it, place the fuse in contact with the black powder, stack a second anvil on top of that, lite the fuse and run. After get some distance from the set up, the whole thing would explode with a loud clap and the anvil atop the stack would fly up to a hundred feet or more into the air.

Then he’d start the entire process over — adding slightly more and more black powder to the situation in order to see how high he could get the anvil to fly into the sky. By the time he ran out of black powder, our ears were ringing and we were in danger of becoming deaf — yet we always came away grinning like idiots.

I have since figured out that grandpa’s like grandson’s can act like kids at times.

There is nothing better than a practical joke that leaves everyone belly laughing.  Sometimes, though a gag can get away from those perpetrating it.

Our house mate, Kay was busy pulling a few weeds in the front yard one early afternoon, when I saw an opportunity to pull a “fast one” on her. I casually involved her in a conversation as she worked away.

As we spoke, I removed a large plastic, green figure of a Preying Mantis from my pocket and hung it from the back of her blouse. Next I went over and sat on the bench and watched her as she continued to yank the unwanted weeds from our flower bed.

Satisfied she had done enough, she started inside the house. Jus’ as she stepped up onto the porch, she felt a strange sensation on her back, saying, “It feels like something’s pulling on the back of my top.”

Kay reached over her shoulder with her right hand and gently tugged at the blouse. She inadvertently felt the something pulling at her top with her hand and felt it brush against her back.

She panicked – screamed and took off running wildly through the house, crying, “Get it off me! Get it off me!”

Her sudden rampage and shouting through the house sent all four dogs into a frenzy and left me confused about what I should do next. Instead of helping my friend, my scrambled mind sent me in the direction of chasing the animal’s outside.

Meanwhile Kay continued to plead, “Get it off me!”

Finally, I grabbed the damned toy and slung it out the still open front-door, pretending it was a real insect. Then, for my own safety, I decided to wait a few minutes for her to calm down before admitting what I had done.

Soon I copped to my actions. Surprisingly, though she started laughing, saying, “I must have looked funny.”

Then she had me go outside and retrieve the toy bug. To make up for what I had done, I took her to the local ice cream parlor for a cup of soft-serve.  

One morning though, I know I’ll wake up with a big black rubber spider in bed with me.

Kitty Harriman passed away on June 28, 2011. She was the oldest of nine children and lived most of her life in Del Norte County, where she and her husband Dale raised their children, and later their grandchildren.

In her younger years, Kitty was a waitress, then a welder during World War II. Later she was employed as a bank teller, working at the Crescent City branch of Bank of America.

When Kitty and Dale married, she was able to stay at home as a homemaker. As the children got older, she became very involved in scouting with her son and daughter.

She started out as a den mother for Boy Scouts and a Brownie troop leader for the Girl Scouts. Her volunteer and service work with scouting ended up becoming a major part of her life, and she also ended up becoming an Explorer Post leader.

Kitty also held the position of Assistant District Commissioner for the Del Norte District Scouting Area Council for over 35 years. Her effort, dedication, and commitment to the area’s youth can still be seen in our community today and will always be felt by those lives that she touched.

She was preceded in death by her husband Dale, her brother Frank Gochanour, and sisters Faith Lear and Iris Garvett. She is survived by her sisters, Annice Nelson, and Anna Campbell, as well as her brothers Leon Gochanour, Claude Wyland, and Clarence Wyland. She is also survived by her son and daughter, Donald Charles Maynard II, Jacqueline Roberta Maynard.

My wife loves to bake. She had jus’ finished making a couple dozen chocolate chip cookies and she gave me one.

I am — after all — her official taster — when Kyle isn’t around.

Anyway, I had this cookie in my left hand and was getting ready to bite into it, when she asked if I’d like a glass of cold milk to go with it. I told her I would.

As she poured my a small glass, I was standing there with my hands by my side. Suddenly the cookie I was holding was snatched out of my hand.

When it happened I looked down only to find our dog, Chubbs licking his chops. He had devoured my cookie in one gulping bite.

“Hey!” I shouted at him.

Chubbs however was unphased by my scolding, as he stood there sniffing the air for the possibility of another one and wagging his tail with delight. It was the first and only time he proved himself to be a cookie thief — although he was known to help himself to an unattended sandwich or five over his lifetime.

I sure do miss that big ol’ brown dog.

At one point in my life I wanted to take from my military service what I had learned and apply it towards a degree in nursing. With that in mind, I took a part-time job working the graveyard shift at the local convalescent hospital.

It didn’t take very long to realize I was in over my head and would much rather be out in the streets as an emergency medical technician. It took a “nasty” incident to finally change my mind about my goal path.

Señor Sanchez was nearly one-hundred years old, sharp as a tack and very set in his ways. Often times I would go into his room and find him already dressed, sitting in his wheel-chair watching whatever he found of interest on TV.

One early morning I stopped in to ask him how he was doing and he asked that I help him to the bathroom. It was one of the few things the old man could not do all by himself — as arthritis prevented him from properly cleaning up afterward.

After getting Señor Sanchez to the toilet and seated, I stepped out of the bathroom to give him some privacy. After a few minutes he hollered for me to return, which I did.

As I helped him stand up so I could wipe his bum for him, I noticed his wallet laying on the floor at the base of the commode. I decided to pick it up as I started to pull his pants up.

Unfortunately — Señor Sanchez wasn’t finished going to the bathroom. Without warning, and jus’ as I leaned over to grab both the wallet and his pants, he had an explosive bowel movement.

He literally crapped on my head, in my left ear and down my shoulder. I helped him sit down to finish the job, handed him his wallet and exited the room.

My ability to stifle my gag-reflex has always been good — that is until someone else starts the process of throwing-up — which is exactly what happened.  As I was heading for the shower area, one of the other nursing aides saw me and lost everything in her stomach, which caused me to follow suit.

Meanwhile, I could hear Señor Sanchez snickering at the situation.

My friend Elizabeth Rose gave me a picture knowing that I’d enjoy the subject matter and the knowledge of who created the piece of work. The ink and water-color limited-edition is simply titled: “Iwo Jima.”  

The artist is retired Lance Corporal of the Marine Corps Erich Pichler. He lives in Reno and most everything I know about him, I found online.

Pichler was stationed at Camp Pendleton for boot camp. After earning his Eagle, Globe and Anchor pin,  he was stationed at Naval Air Station Pensacola, Florida, for 7251 School.

Later his permanent change of station was Marine Corps Air Station Yuma in Arizona. There, Pichler worked as an air traffic controller.

On October 6, 1996, Pichler was the passenger in an accident where the vehicle rolled at least three times. He suffered a traumatic brain injury and was in a four-and-a-half month-long coma.

The injury affected his entire body, especially his eyesight, hearing, speech and balance. When his condition stabilized, he was transferred to the Kentfield Rehabilitation and Specialty Hospital in Kentfield, California, where he had to re-learn all the basics such as walking, talking, and even swallowing.

He was released from KRSH in July 1997.

According to his online bio, “Erich has had a love of art since he was first able to hold a crayon. He won numerous awards in junior high and high school.  It has taken five years for him to be able to start painting again.”

It adds a new dimension to the old Marine Corps saw: “Adapt and overcome.”

While the world appears to be reeling over a supposed miscarriage of justice in the trial of Casey Anthony, who was accused of murdering her child, Caylee, another murder case has played out one final time in Texas.

A 38-year-old Mexican man has been executed for the rape-slaying of 16-year-old Adria Sauceda in San Antonio. Humberto Leal received the lethal injection in Huntsville Prison.

Leal was convicted and sentenced to death by a Bexar County jury. His punishment capped a flurry of appeals that argued he deserved additional court review of his case because authorities didn’t tell him he could seek legal help from the Mexican government when he was arrested in 1994.

President Barack Obama joined with Leal’s attorneys, arguing a delay was warranted so legislation covering cases like his could work its way through Congress. Former President George W. Bush did the same in a similar case back in 2005.

No one seems upset by the fact that a current President or a former President have been pleading to save a convicted murderer’s life. Even Nancy Grace remains silent on the subject.

Obama and Bush sided with the Mexican government, asking Texas to review the fact the illegal alien had not been given access to consular officers. Shortly after the execution, Mexico issued a statement of condemnation and said it had submitted an official protest to the State Department.

Caylee’s death may go unpunished — a Florida jury has found Casey Anthony “not guilty,” — and this has left people screaming for justice. Meanwhile justice has been meted out to a convicted killer and no one is bothering to question why U.S. leaders would want to halt this lawful execution.

This is the real miscarriage.