Have A Good Horse
and Roommate
Los Alamos Summer Camp 1939-1942

© William C. Carson

The favorable evaluation of my new horse, Tony, and the mention of a roommate were both included in a telegram I sent to my parents to confirm a safe arrival on July 6, 1942, for a fourth summer at camp. The precedence of “horse” over “roommate” reflected the interest in horses I had gained during the three previous summers, for Tony was considered to be superior, and I was greatly pleased to have him assigned to me.

The events leading up to that Western Union message and ultimately to the compilation of the following collection of photographs occurred over a period of 60 years and give some evidence that the variety of connections that occur during one’s lifetime may not be as random as they often seem. There were decades during which I had few thoughts of Los Alamos other than those triggered by news accounts of nuclear developments. Now, however, the pictures and my remembrances provide a glimpse of activities in the camp during its final four years.

The 60 years started on the afternoon of Sunday, February 26, 1939, in the living room of my family’s home in St. Louis, Missouri, near Washington University, where my father was a professor of English. He had been interested in New Mexico for many years because of various family connections. He had accompanied his mother and the daughter of General Kearney, who was presenting a portrait of the General to the New Mexico Historical Society, to Santa Fe in 1903; in addition, his great-grandfather, William Carr Lane, had been appointed the second Territorial Governor in 1852 by President Millard Fillmore. The lengthy vacations afforded university professors had made it possible for our family to take long motor trips in the West, spending a substantial amount of time in and around Santa Fe in 1935 and 1936. We had followed the Santa Fe Trail in the earlier year as closely as practicable in a 1934 Pontiac.

The immediate cause for interest in the winter of 1939, however, was the visit of A. J. Connell, who was on a trip to attract boys to the summer camp. His target was my brother Bruce, four-and-a-half years my senior. When it was agreed that he would attend, I piped up to say I wanted to go, too. It was quickly pointed out that I would be a year-and-a-half under the minimum age of 12 when camp started that summer. However, Mr. Connell intervened to say that they could make an exception for such an exceptional boy. I was, of course, overjoyed at both his acute perception and willingness to break the age rule. There is no record that Bruce agreed with either conclusion, but his thoughts were quite likely typical of an older brother, and he did report that I was the “most childish” of the campers on the train trip to New Mexico in early July. Regardless, both of us debarked with other campers from the Santa Fe Railroad California Limited at Lamy to be met by Los Alamos counselors in the then standard tan Chevrolet sedans – getting across the arroyos and then up the narrow one-lane Otowi Hill road was accomplished without four-wheel drive.

Bruce and I returned to Los Alamos during the summers of 1940 and 1941. Our parents came from St. Louis in each of the three years to visit Los Alamos and spend a substantial amount of time in Santa Fe. During that period, they became close friends of Cecil Wirth and his wife Virginia. The friendship with Virginia continued for 40 years after Cecil’s death in 1943. The Wirth’s sons, John and Tim, were in evidence during those summers, but the difference of six or seven years in our ages might as well have been decades. In the summer of 1942, I returned bymyself. Bruce was in the Navy and the Wirths in New York for treatment of Cecil’s illness. Mr.Connell acted as Camp Director.

In the early 1970s, my wife, two daughters, and I started returning to Santa Fe on a regular basis. Georgia, as a trustee of her college, Vassar, had been asked to call on another alumna, Faith Meem, widow of the architect John Gaw Meem. As we walked into Mrs. Meem’s house for tea, I remembered that John Wirth had married the daughter of a Santa Fe architect. Mrs. Meem’s response to my obvious question was quite simple, “Yes. He’s outside walking my dog.” Any official nature of that visit and future ones was eliminated.

Georgia and I moved permanently to Santa Fe in 1992. Since that time, I have managed to connect with John on a number of occasions. I also resurrected the color slides which I had taken during those four early summers and found the transparencies to be in remarkably good condition. John and I have reviewed them many times and selected 17 from the 118 to provide a sense of the varied activities of camp life, particularly the packtrips. (We included only 11 - editor)

Most of the pictures were taken in 1940 and 1941; in the later year I served as a film-carrier for T. Harmon Parkhurst while he took pictures for a brochure. The captions with the photographs are probably accurate, for I made notes at the time. However, a sharp-eyed observer may identify errors. The pictures from 1941 and 1942 were taken with a Kodak 35 with range finder and Kodak No. 1 Kodamatic f3.5 lens, which I still own. The pictures prior to 1941 were taken using an Argus with an f4.5 lens, first made in 1936. Mine has disappeared. In all cases I used the then standard Kodachrome 35 mm daylight slide film, which by necessity was processed by Kodak. There was a special pleasure in mailing the film cartridge in the yellow bag supplied with the film and waiting anxiously for the return of the slides in a box of the same color.

The pictures, however, almost did not make it – one Saturday in 1997 I left the slide box on top of my car after a viewing session with John – it fell off on Paseo de Peralta. Instead of being run over, it was picked up by a pedestrian and returned to John’s office. We can’t be entirely sure if that was a sign, but hope you enjoy the pictures and what they represent.

Horses were the center of camp activities. Each boy was assigned his own for the two-month summer session and was responsible for saddling, currying, etc. This picture was taken in the ranch corral, probably before a day ride. Uniforms of a kind were worn by campers and counselors – gabardine khaki shorts and shirts, Dakota hats, and leather shoes. However, shirts were not often worn – the equipment list specified three shirts and eight pairs of shorts. When riding, heavy leather chaps were added. You learned quickly to be sure there was not a gap that allowed bare skin to be caught between horse flesh and saddle.

Half of the eight-week summer session was spent camping in the Jemez Mountains. The trips were of increasing length, the final one lasted over two weeks with the return a few days prior to the gymkhana on the final day of camp. The elimination of the gymkhana and subsequent banquet in 1942 was just one sign of the approaching transformation. The packtrains that made these trips possible were always led by Ted
Mather with his enormous pack mule, Mike. Legend had it that Ted had driven a gold stage to Silver City. There generally was one packhorse for each two campers; so we took turns leading. I was rather offended when my horse in 1939, Lucky, turned up as a packhorse in 1940. There were about 25 boys aged 12 to 17 in camp, divided by age into two groups, Montaneros and Villeros. Each group took its own pack trips in 1939 and 1940, except for the last one. This picture shows the full camp packtrain in the Valle
Toledo. The groups were combined in 1941 for all trips, four, ten, and eighteen days, much to the chagrin of the older campers.

Another packtrain going through Valle Toledo. Rider number four on the other side of the creek was undoubtedly being reprimanded because of the distance between him and number three – you were supposed to maintain a gap of one horse length. There were actually quite a few rules, though not always enforced. The daily routine, however, was adhered to with considerable care. Campers packed the horses and learned to tie a diamond hitch. Panniers hung on each side with bedrolls and other gear on top.

All this was covered with a tarp – then the diamond hitch. You quickly learned the problems created by a loose pack – and the ensuing chaos created by a frantic horse with a pack under his belly. That could be the same horse that swelled up when you were tightening the cinch to make the unsuspecting think it was snug; it then hung loose when he relaxed.

The High Line Trail on the final pack trip took us to many campsites and 50 miles from the ranch in what is now the San Pedro Parks Wilderness Area. We all had green slickers, really capes, which had holes to stick your hands through rather than sleeves, and spread over the saddle and horse’s rump. There was some confusion when the order was given to put on slickers – it was not an individual decision, except for Ted who had a standard yellow coat with sleeves and decided by himself how to keep dry. It could be exciting if the group decision were delayed too long and 30 people tried to turn around, untie the wet rawhide knots holding the slicker on the saddle, and then swing it on without spooking the horses. I only recall lightning striking nearby once – it hit a fence and really sang.

Again, by the Rio San Antonio. Much of the riding on packtrips was not in meadows or open valleys, but on trails through dense forests. Some pack horses seemed to know the width of the packs and stayed away from the trees – others seemed to think banging against a tree would provide some relief. The riding horses also seemed to believe at times that smashing a rider’s knees against a tree was great sport.

The campsites had been chosen carefully and the equipment designed with much thought. It all fit together as an efficient system. The tents accommodated two. The bedrolls were just that,
not sleeping bags. Your saddle served as a pillow – of sorts. There was room between the two bedrolls for the chaps, which served as a place for personal belongings, which included a 45¢ flat can of Arnica Tooth Soap, a solid pink concoction which could be transported safely in a bedroll – the taste of which can be recalled more than half a century later. At the base of each tent wall, a drainage ditch was constructed by cutting the turf and rolling it back; so it could be restored in a way that avoided future erosion. Neither the kitchen fly tent nor the portable canvas latrine, irrelevantly named after A. J. Connell, are shown.

These tents are at the San Antonio campground. The packtrips essentially involved riding and camping – and dealing with equipment. On long trips, a few pack horses were taken every four or five days to meet the camp truck with replenishment supplies. There was no formal environmental instruction as we would know it today, but important lessons were learned simply by being in the mountains. Certainly, respect for nature and horses was taught. We each put hobbles on our own and the pack horses at night. It was a serious offense to get the straps reversed and cause open sores, almost as bad as allowing saddle sores to develop.

While on packtrips, some days were spent in camp and others riding. Dams were built to
provide pools for bathing – they were always breached when we left to preclude the build-up
of silt. It was even possible to build sand castles in New Mexico. Other, somewhat surprising,
lessons were learned. Currency was not allowed, and, in fact, there wasn’t anything to buy.
However, boys seem to have an inherent trading nature – Lifesavers became the medium of
exchange. Specific flavors commanded a premium, particularly butter rum – Economics I in
the Jemez. There were other practical lessons. One day a close friend and I decided to rid
the campsite of a quite large dead tree. After an hour of hacking away with our hand axes,
I thought it prudent to alert Ted Mather, so that he could move his horses before the fruits of
our labor crashed amongst them. He thanked me and, much to my chagrin, went on about
his business. Five hours later I saw him wandering over to move the horses out of harm’s way
– with an hour to spare. It turned out that substantial wagers had been placed on the chances
of our success. When the tree came down, we were each rewarded with 92¢, a candy bar, and
two cans of beer, which we traded to Cecil Wirth for two bottles of soda each.

It was surprising what large trout came out of streams that did not appear wide enough for any
fish to turn around in. This was particularly true of Rito de los Indios. I don’t think I have had
trout for breakfast since.

The morning washing was done from canvas buckets -- only the counselors had attained the need to shave, in this case co-director, Art Chase. The springer spaniel belonging to the Church family didn’t seem to care, probably because he had in mind another busy day of running by the trail. The real bathing done in pools created by the temporary dams entailed slow entry and rapid exit from the ice cold water.

There were elements of harshness – a fawn was killed by a dog, a cow ate many of the provisions, a boy cut his knee badly with an axe and the car that was dispatched from the ranch to pick him up got lost. However, the care with which trips were planned and executed prevented serious problems in situations in which there could have been many.

Meals were prepared by Bences Gonzales. Needless to say, we ate a great deal on these trips – the food was superb. We did not have to deal with the dietary quirks that sometimes appeared on the tables when eating at the ranch in Fuller Lodge. It is not clear why artichoke hearts and olives were considered important, but they had to be swallowed, often with the help of mashed potatoes or bread. I was somewhat limited, however, because I was supposed to lose weight.

The combination of careful monitoring, frequent razzing, and occasional ridicule from a
counselor succeeded, and I did take off pounds.

The sopaipillas were the best ever prepared – to this day. Cooking was done on open fires on rock and
earth “altars” that had been built over the years. I especially remember the lamb roasted in a Dutch oven
– Bences had in some way inserted a carrot in the middle. I was not overjoyed that sometimes the lamb
had been purchased from a shepherd and slaughtered at the edge of camp.

One of the rides from camp on the final pack trip took us to the top of San Pedro. While at the
ranch we were required to write home every Sunday. The letter had to be presented as a kind
of ticket for Sunday dinner. I don’t remember anybody being denied a meal, but then I don’t
know how many envelopes filled with blank pages were mailed home. A letter was also required
on the long pack trip. In 1939 and 1940 mail went to Santa Fe from the ranch only on Tuesday,
Thursday, and Saturday; every day service had been instituted by July 1941.

Another ride led to having lunch with Cecil Wirth on top of Chicoma Mountain, the highest in the Jemez. These lunches were largely sandwiches and fruit, but also included wedges of iceberg lettuce topped with salt, not even Kraft dressing. We had been advised early on that A. J. Connell had once forced a boy who had buried a pickle he detested to eat it after a dog dug it up. I can’t recall a similar event, but considerable stealth was employed in disposing of unwanted items. Unfortunately, no such alternative was available when eating in Fuller Lodge, though the number of unpalatable items was greater. Oscar Steege, a counselor, and Maury Lonsway, a senior camper, were particularly pleased to be on the top of Chicoma Mountain.

Each camper was evaluated on the basis of various criteria: selfishness and mistreatment of a horse were particularly negative; working together and improvement were rated highly. Each week boys in each group were ranked with a leader and assistant leader at the top and inevitably somebody on the bottom. I don’t recall there being a rush to see the new list, but it did create some dissension in
the “ranks,” particularly if a leader was too picky when inspecting the way a bed at the ranch had been
made or the orderliness of a tent at a campsite.

Cecil Wirth stopped to look toward Pedernal on the way back to the ranch from the Chicoma campground. While all of the trail riding was done with a saddle, other riding both in camp and at the ranch was bareback. This often involved jumping on horses that were more attuned to walking along a narrow trail on the side of a steep slope than springing over jumps. I crashed to the ground frequently during the first two summers, but suffered nothing more serious than aches, bruises, and a loss of dignity.

While the pack trips and camping were the focus of the eight weeks, the time at the ranch was hardly
idle. There was little empty time between the early morning pre-breakfast exercises and early bed on
sleeping porches. There were half-day and day rides, softball, tennis, volleyball, arts and crafts, and on and on. I spent much time in the darkroom. There was even nude swimming in the Rio Grande – with the occasional opportunity to wave with great glee and daring from a safe distance at the passengers riding on the narrow gauge Denver Rio Grande & Western Chili Line. The real highlight of these expeditions was the
opportunity to have chocolate cake and soda – I always had Squirt – at Edith Warner’s, The
House by Otowi Bridge, which subsequently became famous.

Day rides through the forests with no pack horses separating riders allowed one to hold a branch stretching over the trail out of the way of the following rider – or release it at the proper time to hit his face. It was much harder in this case to prove intent than it was if caught hurling a pine cone at the next horse’s rear.

As a change of pace, automobile trips were taken from the ranch to ruins, pueblos, and villages – less than 60 years ago threshing was still done by horse hooves at Cordova.

In the fall of 1997, John Wirth and I found the remnants of the poles that had supported the joyous Oscar Steege and Maury Lonsway on the top of Chicoma in 1941. Fifty-six years is a long time in an individual’s lifetime, not much in terms of changes in civilization, and nothing in geologic history. Los Alamos had been transformed from a privileged and beautiful sanctuary imbuing respect for nature to a nondescript government town producing nuclear weapons. The camp life had many faults and shortcomings, but the overriding influence was positive and enduring.

I cannot point to any events that resulted in searing memories – except
perhaps after camp on September 1, 1939, being wakened in a bedroom on Acequia Madre in
Santa Fe by a newsboy shouting that Hitler had invaded Poland. There is some eerie connection
to the fact that fourteen years later I was the navigator on a Strategic Air Command RB-36
flight crew training to unleash atomic bombs. There may be a little too much symbolism in
making that connection, but there is no question that those four summers in camp taught me
to love and respect the Western environment. The 1997 trip to the top of Chicoma was one
of many that I have made in the Jemez, Sangre de Cristos, Northern Arizona, and Southern
Utah in the last seven years. There can be no doubt that the influences of those early summers
resulted in our retiring in Santa Fe in 1992, in a sense coming full circle.