I believe it was Oct. 5, 1979.
It was about 105 degrees that week. I was a city boy and not
acclimated to working hard labor in the desert. My first job
was to help hand dig a four-foot-deep sewer trench. I was
assisting then caretaker Jerry Gates. He was a very colorful
individual and carried a .22 pistol in his belt – a
skinny fellow with a billy goat beard who spoke in an odd
manner. I later learned he had part of his jaw and tongue
removed due to cancer. I thought, “they’re sticking
me down in this hole with this guy that’s all dressed
head to toe in denim, with a pistol on his belt and a big
cowboy hat with a huge hawk feather sticking out, and I’m
hot in my shorts and T-shirt.”
The two of us were using big steel bars to pry rocks loose
while digging out the trench. After about three or four hours,
I went to lift a big rock, blacked out and fell back down
into the trench. I don’t think it was a heat stroke,
but obviously I had overexerted myself. Jerry, who seemed
so scrawny and insignificant to me, pulled me out. He got
some others and they dragged me to the dining hall and laid
me out on a couch, and pumped me full of water and salt tablets.
That was my first exposure, my first day at the Desert Studies
Center. |