CCC 1938 Dubois, Idaho Co.4607

 Joe Uknavage, Jr. served in our nation's Civilian Conservation Corps 1936-1939, then joined the U. S. Navy. I have written about his CCC experience previously, in September 2024. (Click on this photo to go to that previous story.)

Recently, as I reread old letters from Dad I came across specific information about his time in one of the camps. In 1938 he was in Dubois, Idaho, Co. 4607. In his letter of 1993 Dad mailed me a photograph of him holding up a nice-sized trout he had just caught in one of those cold, clean streams that Idaho is famous for. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In this letter he enclosed a newspaper article about some older men playing baseball, senior league baseball for retired guys. He identified the man throwing the ball as his CCC friend who had taken the photo of him holding the fish. He said, "the man with me didn't catch any fish." 

 

That man was George Hasbach, After serving in the CCC's he became "an infielder who hit .280 in the late 1930s for the Cincinnati Reds' minor-league team in Salt Lake City, Utah". He was from Palatine, Illinois, and died there in 2012 at the age of 92.

By August 1933, Idaho ranked third in the nation in numbers of men and CCC camps established, with approximately 19,200 men in 96 camps, although the number of camps in operation gradually declined over the years. Many camps were seasonal, shifting to warmer locations in the region during the
winter months. Virtually every part of the state benefited from CCC activity, with projects that included firefighting, white pine blister rust control, reforestation, irrigation control,
constructing roads, bridges, lookout towers, state and national parks, campgrounds, and telephone lines.

Dad's experience in Dubois, Idaho in 1938 must have left a good impression on him for in 1955 he returned to that state with his wife and four children in tow, to Salmon, Idaho, about two hours from Dubois. We lived there about six months, until school was out in May 1956, then moved to a more remote town named Cobalt where he mined cobalt for a living, and fished, once again, in those cold, clean streams for trout.

Day Arapaho Woman

 

August 17, 1979, an eight year old boy, digging into the side of an abandoned silage pit on his parents’ farm unearthed a human skull and had the good sense to stop digging and run into the house to tell his father. That boy was Zach Day, and his father, Vic Day, recently told me that at first he didn’t think Zach was correct for he knew that the silage pit had been filled with corn then emptied many times over the years and the likelihood of a human skull being in there was remote. But once he saw it, he knew Zach was right, and called the Larimer County Sheriff.

The Sheriff determined the skull was very old, not a recent homicide victim, so he contacted retired Dr. Michael Charney of the Colorado State University Forensic Lab. Dr. Charney excavated the area and found almost a complete human skeleton. Two days later, August 19, 1979, news reporter Gene Sapakoff published his writeup on the front page of the Fort Collins Coloradoan newspaper.

I read that story in 1979 and it piqued my interest for it was a rare local find of Native American skeletal remains. The location, along Boxelder Creek, directly east of the Budweiser brewery, was only four miles east and four miles south of our place on County Road 58, close enough for me to imagine Native Americans crossing our property in years gone by. Recently, forty-seven years after I read that news article, my husband and I were discussing our unfulfilled wish lists or bucket lists. I told him I still have hopes of discovering some old bones, perhaps mammoth bones, or Indian bones like those found east of Wellington back in the seventies. Bob said he didn’t remember any Indian bones found near Wellington, and he added something like, “If there were any found I’m pretty sure I would remember that!” Well, the gauntlet was thrown! His doubt, bordering on disbelief, spurred me on to prove to him and to me that it was a real memory.

Zach Day’s sister, Christine, verified that I was remembering correctly and she put me in touch with her dad. Vic Day remembers so well that discovery and kindly added details to the story not included in the news article. Dr. Jason LaBelle, CSU professor and archaeologist who specializes in hunter-gatherers and has done so much work in this part of northern Colorado, including Soapstone Prairie Natural Area, a place near and dear to my heart, was very helpful in my search for more about this unknown person.

The newspaper story appeared only two days after the discovery of the bones, so not enough time for scientific examination of the remains. This is what it said, “Retired Colorado State University Professor Michael Charney estimated the bones were about 200 years old, probably those of an Arapahoe Indian woman. “I doubt it was an early pioneer,” Charney said. “It’s a complete skeleton and it’s only been chewed away in a few places. I’m not totally sure what sex it is but it looks like an older woman. It looks like she had arthritis, too.” A few paragraphs later, “Charney said the bones, now at his house, are extremely soft, and easily damaged. He plans to take them to the CSU lab today for further examination. Charney is also Director for the CSU Center of Human Identification.”

I asked Vic Day if he searched the area where Zach found the bones for artifacts like beads and he said no, he didn't. His reasoning was that it was a fluke that this person remained undisturbed, for this ground had been dug and worked for many years. There were three silage pits on the land and the bones were only about twelve inches beyond the hardened wall of one of the pits, amazing, really, that they had not been disturbed. He said the Arapaho had a two-phase burial tradition. During the first part the body was allowed to dry and only after the flesh was gone were the bones positioned or folded close to one another then buried. This buried woman occupied a small space of undisturbed ground.

As far as I know there was never an official file number assigned to this skeleton, so no paper trail. I don’t know what further examination of the bones may have revealed. DNA testing was not available for use until 1986. If there were teeth in the skull Dr. Charney may have looked for shovel-shaped incisors to determine if this was a Native American. And if the estimate of 200 years old is correct that puts her born about 1780. The Arapaho people were prevalent in the Cache la Poudre Valley and Boxelder Creek area then. I do know that in recent times a great deal of effort, much of that led by Dr. LaBelle, has been put into repatriating Colorado Native American remains. I can’t be sure that our local “Day Arapaho Woman” found her way back to her people but I am doing my part to honor her by keeping her story alive.

(The image is of Arapaho Feather Head or Feather on Head, used to illustrate one known Arapaho female.)

Patrick's Birthday 2026

I married my high school boyfriend in November of 1965, just a few months after we graduated high school. He and I both thought we would have a baby together the following year. But by the time he got drafted into the Army in the summer of 1966 I had not become pregnant. At that time I had a woman friend, Barbara Petzing, who became a good friend and mentor, and taught me so much about mental health and psychology, Chicago politics, the Civil Rights movement of the 1960s, and much more. I first met Barbara through a friend of hers, a Catholic Priest at St. Joseph's Church in Bradley, Illinois, where I was taking catechism lessons. About my inability to get pregnant, Barbara suggested I find a photo or drawing of a baby just like the one I wanted to give birth to and put that photo in a prominent place, like on the refrigerator door, look at it often, thinking or even saying out loud "this is the baby I want to give birth to and to love". There was a name for that concept, similar to "The Power of Positive Thinking" but not quite that..."Visualization" is part of it. Barbara, as the President of Illinois Church Women United, also believed in prayer and incorporated that into her teaching me how to bring something I really wanted into my life, make it real.

Patrick John was born in June of 1968, fifteen months after I joined my then-husband where he was stationed, in Bamberg, Germany. Patrick was a much wanted and always loved healthy baby boy. I've saved that Gerber Baby image all these years because it was the face I saw in my mind for so long before Patrick was born. I think he looks very much like that Gerber Baby. The actual baby photo I included of Patrick was his passport photo, taken when he was just a month old. And the adult photo was taken in June of 2026. Pat is a wonderful person and RD and I are proud of the man he has become, the husband and father he is, and the life he has made for himself and those he loves. Happy Birthday, Pat! We love you. Mom and Dad

The Happiest Time of my Life

I am now 79 years old. That equates to 948 months. And when I revisit the happiest time of my life I realize it was only a period of six months’ time, 1/158^th of my life. Such a tiny fraction. Yet I find my mind going back to that time and place for the joy it brings to me, an old lady’s indulgence.

 

The year was 1955. I was eight years old. A girl, the oldest of four kids. My dad was happy. I say that because there were many more times that he was not happy and when Dad was not happy, none of us were. Dad had just returned to us in Tuscola, Illinois, after spending about six months “batching it” with Joe Gieser, a fellow miner, in Colorado, looking for outcroppings of uranium. Now he came home to Mom and a brand new baby girl, and told us we were all going out west to live on an Indian Reservation!

 

 

 

 

Let me tell you, we were excited! Well, probably not Mom. She was leaving her closeknit family of four sisters, two brothers, and her aging parents, and all her belongings except what could be stored on top of the car in a canvas carpack, headed for parts unknown. But she loved my dad, and trusted him, and was one of those 1950s obedient housewives who never considered “putting her foot down”, so off we went in our Kaiser sedan, Dad driving, Mom in the front seat with four-month-old Kathy, me, Mike, and Fran in the back seat, headed west.

 

 

 

 

After days of travel, living on bologna sandwiches, we pulled into a wooded campsite in the heart of the Spokane Indian Reservation at Wellpinit, Washington. There was a uranium mine there, near the campsite, and that’s where Dad would work for the next six months. A couple of families moved there, too, miners’ families, and two geologists, our neighbors. Each family had their own trailer house, but no running water, no electricity, and no toilets. It wasn’t long before a couple of the men set up a generator for lights, built a small outdoor toilet we all shared, but we never had water piped in.

 

 

 

Now, as an adult, I realize the hardship my mother dealt with. Four kids to feed and clothe, washing our laundry, including diapers, in a big pot over an open fire, hauling our drinking water from a creek upstream of our camp, sending my brother and I off to school on a small bus that came down into camp for us, and no friends and family to rely on.

 

But, for me, it was an 8-yr-old’s dream! There was a running creek in camp that let to a beaver dam. Dad took us kids fishing there where he caught small trout and brought them back to fry in a cast iron skillet. There were wild strawberries on the hillside behind our trailer. There were kids in camp our age to play with, and fight with, too. And Mom and Dad were so busy that we had freedom to explore with no boundaries, no fences. I still remember the strong scent of pine, the taste of fried oysters the geologists offered us, the dog whose face was peppered with porcupine quills, the bicycle Dad bought and the day I learned to ride it, the collie puppy. I was so happy in this old CCC camp surrounded by mountains and pine trees, free to explore nature without fear.

 

But it only lasted six months, and maybe that’s what makes it magical. Like an exotic vacation.

Only years later did I realize that the Indian Reservation is not a happy place, not for the Native Americans who call it home. And that mine? It polluted the streams and rivers and land so much it was designated a high priority clean up site by the government! And I mentioned what a hardship it was for my mother. So, how can I feel good about my role there, how can I be so insensitive to what it was like for those around me?

 

I have learned a thing or two from this six months’ life adventure. I liken it to the experience of a young man who joins the military and goes off to war. He is at the peak of his health and athleticism, most likely not married so only responsible for himself. Free to make up the rules as he goes, within the limits the military imposes. It’s not hard for me to understand how his years in the military can be remembered as the best years of his life. But if one looks at the bigger picture, what war is all about, the killing and the dying and the destruction, it seems wrong to remember those as the best years of one’s life. But I understand that.

 

 

Old Postcards

Today I came upon some old postcards I've been saving for over twenty years. I've kept them because I like the art work and for the first time I tried to learn more about the artist. On the back of the cards was written "The Riker Company, Western Americana Art, Box 668, Salida, Colo." Also, "Historical R. R. Series, 1966 H. Riker, 2-25-66 400". It took some time online to find his name was Hugh Riker and he was my father's age. I hadn't expected that. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I really like all the history included on the back of each postcard. By the way, they are not traditional, single sided postcards. They are postal notes that open up like a greeting card so that a personal message can be written inside.

 

 

 

 

 

 This is what I learned from his obituary. Hubert Dale “Hugh” Riker was born December 8, 1921, in Muir, Michigan, son of Alta and Sam Riker. He grew up in Flint, Michigan, where he attended the Flint Institute of Arts during his public school days. His fourth grade teacher recognized his artistic talents and encouraged him to develop his gift of drawing. He attended Layton School of Arts in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, School of Practical Arts in Boston, Massachusetts, and Chinard School of Design in Los Angeles, California.

 

 

Mr. Riker was a veteran of WWII, having served in the North Atlantic aboard the U.S. Coast Guard Cutter Escanaba, where he participated in the heroic rescue of 133 survivors of the S.S. Dorchester that sank off Greenland after being torpedoed by a German submarine.

 

 

 

 

 

 Hugh was a kind, peace loving gentleman, always seeing the good in everyone he met. He saw beauty in all of God’s creations and always thought happy, positive thoughts. He was a loving husband and wonderful friend, filled with wisdom, always supportive and encouraging people to be their best and do what is right. He lived his Christian faith. He was a disciplined man, not only with his work but with himself. He loved people but he also treasured his quiet time. He was an avid reader and kept three or four books going at a time, until Parkinson’s slipped in. He said the Hamilton, Texas, library was the best he had ever seen for a town its size.

 

As a little boy he sold the Saturday Evening Post & The Grit door to door. As he got older he sold the daily newspaper on the street corner. He was fascinated by the newspaper industry and later did lettering and layouts for several cartoon strips.

 

 

 

 

 

In 1961, after a career in advertising, he launched his art career with a one-man exhibit at the U.S. Embassy in Mexico City. He loved Mexico and its culture. Mr. Riker taught work-shops in watercolor, drawing and pen and ink calligraphy throughout the Southwest and Mexico, and English at the Mexican-American Language Institute in Uruappan, Mexico. His work appeared in Arizona Highways and Ford Times. He exhibited throughout the United States and Mexico. He was a prolific artist having drawn many of the historic Court Houses in Texas. He authored and illustrated Ghost Towns and Mining Camps of Colorado, Learning to Draw in Pen Ink, Vol. 1 & Vol. 2, Wit & Wisdom Under the Tree of Knowledge, and published a travel column for newspapers. His last major project was the 1999 Historic Texas Forts Calendar that he researched and worked on for a year and a half before printing.

Hugh Riker passed away July 1, 2004, in Hamilton, Hamilton County, Texas. The personal information about Hugh's loved ones I have not included here. Reading this much about his life makes me want to see photos of his studio, and I really want one of those Texas Forts calendars! I got out my old postcard collection today to see if I could find a home for it, for downsizing is my goal. And now I want to add to it! Yikes!

Earthship Home near Taos, New Mexico

The summer of 1973 Bob and I started the remodel of an old farmhouse on a small acreage in Larimer County, Colorado, our dream come true. Influenced and enthused by our reading material that included Handmade Houses, by Art Boericke/ Barry Shapiro, Mother Earth News Magazine, Shelter by Shelter Publications out of California, and Peter Rabbit's Drop City Dome book, we decided to build a large addition to the farmhouse in the form of a 5/8, three frequency geodesic dome attached to the story-and-half, sixty-year-old house. 

 

 

Before we got too far into the project we opted to take a driving vacation with our 5-year-old son, Patrick, to southern Colorado and into New Mexico, to visit alternative housing that interested Bob. We visited Drop City, already a ghost town near Trinidad, Colorado, populated with abandoned domes made from triangles of steel chopped out of car tops, then welded together. We took photos of those structures then continued our trip toward the west, our destination about sixty-five miles from Drop City, up into the mountains near Gardner, Colorado, where the former residents of Drop City were establishing a commune they named Libre. We only spent an afternoon there, mingling with the folks, asking a few questions, before heading back to the interstate and south into New Mexico. 

In Taos we rented a motel room and visited the Taos Pueblo the next morning. We three loved that experience immensely and took many photos of the adobe structures built about a thousand years ago. I've written about that and will again. 

 

 

 

 

 

But this story is about another unique housing development on the outskirts of Taos called Earthship. Bob probably read about it in the Denver Post for it garnered a lot of attention in 1970 and 1971 when the first house was started, the Beer Can House. 

 

 

 

The day we drove up to the jobsite two men were working there and were friendly but busy, so we took a few photographs and left them to their project. 

 

 

 

 

 

It inspired us to consider used construction materials and methods in our own house building project, which we did. 

 

 

 

 

 

It kept our costs down and added character and fun memories to every aspect. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I found this story about Earthship and its founder, architect Mike Reynolds, and am happy to know it didn't turn to dust like Drop City. In fact, they have a few rentals now so tourists can experience living in an Earthship in Taos, New Mexico!

 https://share.google/UknMl8mS9sDerT7X7

 

 

 

 

Bob thought this form of construction was similar to adobe but with a different inner core. I've read that others tried it with aluminum cans. I wonder how well this beer can house held up to wind and weather. In today's world there is a housing shortage, especially for young people like we were then, needing an affordable place to live. We've seen Tiny Houses designed to fill that need but there are more and more homeless people on our streets and along streams and railroad tracks. I would like to see more developments like Earthship in Taos.

An Easter to Remember

 

April 1974, Bob and I made a road trip with our friends Jim and Sue Foster, from Waverly, Colorado, south down I-25 all the way to Taos, New Mexico. Driving a 4-door Ford sedan, provided by my employer Union Mfg and Supply Co., the trip was comfortable with plenty of leg room for us long-legged travelers. Jim and Sue were great traveling companions, easy going, never an argument, and quick to laugh. It was a leasurely drive with plenty of stops along the way, to stretch, fill up the gas tank, and visit the restrooms.

In Taos we rented a two-bedroom motel with a kitchenette where we ate some of our meals, mostly breakfast. We learned quirky things about one another such as how Jim liked hot water on his dry cereal rather than the traditional cold milk. 

 

 

 

 

And they were astounded at how many diet Pepsi’s Bob consumed in a day. Jim was trying out new health-enhancing techniques including hanging upside down every chance he got.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Visiting Taos Pueblo was a cultural experience for us all. This pueblo has been occupied continuously for over 1,000 years. 

 

 

 

 

 

It is a sovereign nation representing the Tiwa-speaking Taos people. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We ate freshly baked bread from the onsite horno oven and marveled at the structures and ancient cemetery. 

 

 

 

 

 

 At a small grocery store Bob loved the group of dogs gathered at the door, led by a cat. Jim was fascinated at the way the dogs took to Bob right away.

 

  

 

 

We found a picturesque jewelry store outside the pueblo where silver and turquoise handmade pieces were offered for sale, but we didn’t buy any jewelry.

 

 

 

 

 

We met a group of Jim's friends from his college days, artists who invited us to their studio. An eclectic group whose non-traditional art was exciting and inspiring. This photo of Ruth (on the left) and her friend whose name I have forgotten is one of my favorites from the trip. We went out to dinner with them, too, and I remember it well, because I became upset when one of Jim's friends raised his voice in complaint at dinner. I don't remember what his complaint was but he was certainly vocal about it!

On Easter Sunday we attended an outdoor “Blessing of the Animals”, honoring St. Francis of Assissi. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It was chilly and windy that day as we watched the ceremony move along the street, the priest blessing each pet and farm animal brought forward. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Surrounded by children and animals we felt blessed, too, to celebrate Easter this unique way.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

On our return trip we detoured to Bent’s Old Fort in southeastern Colorado near LaJunta. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I recently read that the adobe structure is in disrepair and needing serious structural reworking, but in 1973 it was beautiful. 

 

 

 

 

 

Bob and I had visited Bent’s Old Fort with our son Patrick in 1972 and fell in love with the place. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We knew Jim and Sue would appreciated it, too, and they certainly did.

 

 

 

 

Back on I-25 headed north for home we stopped at a rest stop with trees and running water close by. Jim took a photograph of me while Sue walked along the creek gathering stones and bark and other odds and ends which she used to make a charming impromptu  arrangement of nature’s bounty.

 

 

 

 

 

 

And then there were several hours of driving, talking, and listening to music on the radio. We were all grateful to the grandparents for keeping our children while we experienced an extraordinary Easter in New Mexico.