Nancy and Larry: A True Story of Love, Adventure, and Happiness

© 2020 Larry W. Tombaugh. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or

transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse  06/17/2020

ISBN: 978-1-7283-6444-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-7283-6443-8 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2020910774

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CONTENTS

Introduction

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Postscript

INTRODUCTION

Over the years, many friends of Nancy Tombaugh, my wife of 55 years, have remarked about how much they enjoyed her company, how they loved to hear her laugh, and what a loyal friend she was but they also mentioned about how private she could be. Nancy loved people, but she was not demonstrative and she kept her private life and thoughts to herself. This book was partly written for them – not to reveal any of Nancy’s secrets or inner thoughts but to let them know about the full, rich life we led together.

It was also written for my two sons, Loren and Mark; for my two grandchildren, Jael and Jonas; and for my brother, Don. Obviously, our boys knew Nancy very well when they were growing up. She had chosen not to pursue her career as a biochemist so that she could devote all her attention to raising our little family. She was, by all accounts, an outstanding, loving mother and they loved her for it. But they knew little about the life she led prior to motherhood or after they left home. And, because my brother was sixteen years my junior, he knew little of the life we led together and the adventures we experienced.

And it was written for me. I had begun to look through some photograph albums at about the time that the coronavirus caused us all to be locked down in the Spring of 2020. The pictures brought back many fond memories and, as the memories continued to flow in, it occurred to me that it would be fun to record them while I had time on my hands. Also, it struck me how fortunate we had been through all of our adventures – whether meeting with presidents and princesses, or traveling in the jungles of Borneo, or reveling in the sights of an African game park, or wandering through majestic cities of Europe – that we always thoroughly enjoyed each other’s company. From this thought, the book gradually evolved. It was great fun to write it because it evoked so many memories of the love and happiness that Nancy and I enjoyed together. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it.

CHAPTER 1

This story begins in a zoology lab at the Pennsylvania State University. It is a tale of love, adventure, and happiness. It is our story.

It was the Spring of 1959. I was required to take a course in zoology and was assigned a pretty, intelligent lab partner named Nancy Graeber. She was from New Jersey, and I noticed immediately that she had beautiful blue eyes and the cutest dimples I had ever seen. She was a freshman and I was a junior.

Things did not get started particularly well at our first meeting. For one thing, the death-like smell of formaldehyde hung heavily in the air, not very romantic. Also, we started off our relationship the first day with an argument. Our lab assignment was to dissect a necturus (mud puppy) and identify and record all the internal organs. Things went reasonably well until we got to one part that looked to me like a kidney, but Nancy swore it was the liver. We debated that issue for most of the lab period. To this day, I do not know who was right, but even at that young age I was smart enough to bow to the lady. It began to look more and more like a liver to me.

In spite of this friendly disagreement, Nancy and I began to develop a relationship. We studied together and went to free events, since I had almost no money. In fact, I worked for all my meals and paid $25 per month to live in a rooming house, Cody Manor, which we disparagingly called Cootie Manor. Nancy, at that time, lived in a dormitory called Atherton Hall.

In the summer of 1959, my good friend, Hans Gregersen, and I traveled to summer jobs with the U. S. Forest Service. Our ultimate destination was the Gifford Pinchot National Forest in Washington, but we took the iconic southern Route 66 through Texas, New Mexico and Arizona. At Flagstaff, we turned north and I got my first jaw-dropping view of the awesome Grand Canyon.

The trip was a great adventure for a boy who never had the opportunity to travel very far beyond Erie County while growing up. Each night, we would simply roll our sleeping bags out wherever we decided to stop, sometimes just alongside the road. At other times we would stay in an organized campground. Hans was an excellent guitar player and had a wonderful voice. I played the harmonica. If we could find a public campground, we would light a fire and unleash the guitar and harmonica. Before long, other campers would gather around and sing with us. Invariably, someone would invite us to dinner. We paid for very little food on that trip.

At one point in California, we hiked to the summit of the 13,008-foot Kona Peak on the east side of California, bordering Yosemite National Park. It was a strenuous day, and we were both exhausted when we returned to the car so we decided to treat ourselves by staying at a hotel that night – an old hotel that looked like a scene from a western movie. We were on the second floor near the top of a large stairway from the lobby. The bathing facilities were at the other end of our hall. We agreed that I would shower first. Wrapped only in a large bath towel, I walked down the hall and luxuriated for some time in a steaming hot shower. Regrettably, I made the mistake of not taking the room key with me and, of course, the door was locked from the inside. I knocked gently on the door for Hans to let me in after returning from the shower. No response. I knocked a little louder. No response, but then I could hear loud snoring from within. I knocked louder, but the snoring only intensified. After pounding on the door to no avail, I had no choice but to go down to the lobby, wrapped in my towel, to get another key. It was about 6:00 p.m. and the lobby was crowded with incoming guests. Extremely embarrassing.

A couple of days later, Hans dropped me off at the Hemlock Ranger Station, administrative home of the Wind River Ranger District, and went off to his summer job at the adjoining Mt. Adams Ranger Station. Both of those headquarters were just north of the Columbia River. Hemlock itself was a small Forest Service community located about 8 miles north of the little town of Carson, Washington along the Wind River. Lodging for the summer was in a very comfortable bunkhouse with several other summer employees.

The first few days at the Ranger Station taught me a profound lesson. The boss, the District Ranger, pulled me aside one day and told me that he wanted me to be the crew chief for the initial survey crew (P-liners) for logging roads. I had the temerity to ask him why, with all the other summer employees, he had chosen me. His answer made a lasting impression on me. He said, Larry, I don’t know any of you. But I watch all of you walking to the mess hall each evening, and you are the one with a bounce in your step and a seemingly positive attitude. Wow!! What a lesson! I spent the rest of the summer managing a crew and doing preliminary surveys for potential roads. It was hard but very satisfying work, and it gave me my first experience in managing other people.

Nancy and I corresponded faithfully to each other throughout the summer. I really looked forward to receiving her letters and the reassurance that she was still thinking of me. After all, a lot can happen in a summer when two people are 3,000 miles apart.

Hans would occasionally drive over to see me at Hemlock and we would go off on an adventure somewhere. One weekend we hiked into the rugged Goat Rocks Wilderness Area. On another, we drove to Long Beach, Washington and met a couple of local girls at a dance. Yet another time, we decided we wanted to climb Mt. Adams, a 12,281-foot snow-covered long-dormant volcano. We established a base camp the night before the climb so that we could get an early start. Climbing to the summit using our borrowed ice axes was a bit strenuous but well worth the effort. It was a clear day and we could see for hundreds of miles. At that time, Mt. St. Helens was another perfectly shaped cone to the west. We could see it, Mt. Rainier, Mt. Hood in Oregon, and all the way to Mt. Shasta. A memorable experience.

We had met a couple of girls in Hood River, Oregon the week before and had asked them to go to a movie with us. So, when we got down from the mountain we drove to my bunk house where we showered, changed clothes, bought a six-pack of beer, and set out to meet our lady friends in Hood River. We picked the girls up at their homes and were off to what we all anticipated would be an enjoyable evening. Actually, it was a disaster. The movie had barely started when Hans and I fell sound asleep. The girls woke us up when the movie ended and we took them home, never to see them again. I am sure those western girls made great sport of the two eastern dudes (or duds) for some time.

On the way back from Hood River, on the Washington side of the Columbia River, the Volkswagen suddenly lurched to a stop. It was off the road and tilted up at about a 45-degree angle like it was trying to climb the embankment. The sudden stop woke me up. I said, Hans, where are we? He woke up and startled me by saying: I don’t know, you’re driving! I wasn’t, and we had no idea where we were. I will never know how we found our way back to our quarters.

Near the end of the summer, my crew was instructed to do a preliminary survey for a road near the Pacific Crest trail. It was far from any access point, so we had our packer lead a string of mules to our base camp. The mules carried all of our equipment. Unfortunately, they stepped on a nest of bees and, as they were stung, they bolted and started to run. Within minutes, we had equipment scattered all over the mountain. We collected everything we could find, then went on to set up our camp where we were to stay for a week or so. As we were getting the camp established, one of the summer employees from Portland who had been cutting firewood ran a machete into his knee. He was bleeding pretty badly. We treated it as best we could and I radioed into headquarters that we needed to get him medical attention. The district assistant at that time was a former cowboy from eastern Oregon. He trucked two horses as close as he could get to