20th Anniversary Open Letter to the Community Christian Fellowship (CCF) in Even Yehuda, Israel

(Founded in Herzliya/Kfar Shmaryahu, Israel on 12/19/1992)

Dear friends at CCF,

This month marks the 20th anniversary of the founding of CCF, which had its first meeting on Saturday, December 19, 1992, in Kfar Shmaryahu, Israel. The history and formation of CCF is quite unique, and I have wanted for a long time to write a mini-history of its founding. Recently the Lord brought to mind the fact of the upcoming 20th anniversary, so I thought the next best thing would be to write a kind of open letter to you at the Community Christian Fellowship.

By way of introduction, my wife Debbi and I were among approximately five founding families of CCF.  (CCF’s founding members and initial core group included: Tom and Mary Pucci, Doug and Miriam Kook, Phil and Debbi Barth, Emile and Joyce Corneille, Rita Howard, Bruce and Sandy Meyer.  Another key couple who joined in leadership early the first year was Chow Leng and Carolyn Wee.  Due to the length of their eventual stay in Israel, the Wees helped provide important continuity during the first decade of CCF, along with others.)  In the fall of 1992, the Lord (independently) put on many of our hearts the need for an English-speaking fellowship in the Tel Aviv/Herzliya/Kfar Shmaryahu area, with a strong focus on worship and the ministry of the Word. At the time, the available options were either too far away, or fell short in one way or another: Biblical emphasis, sense of community, spiritual dynamic, etc. Following a period of prayer, discussion, and discernment, we sensed the Lord clearly leading us to start something new. It was an exciting process to be part of, and to watch as the Holy Spirit orchestrated things many of us had not previously experienced.

I found it particularly exciting to see how He brought together people with a diverse and complementary set of spiritual giftings, so that various functions of the church were provided for (preaching, teaching, worship leading, childcare, prayer, logistics, etc.). I think it helped that Israel tends to draw motivated and gifted Christians, either for ministry or through their secular work. Our theological backgrounds and traditions were also diverse, although there was a good representation of those with a charismatic orientation. However, the emphasis was on Biblical teaching, worship, community, and prayer, not the promotion of a particular tradition. (Even the name of the fellowship remained generic for the first few years; for a time, it was simply named, the “Saturday Morning Fellowship.”) Within a year, the fellowship had grown to about 50-60 people, including children. At times during the first two years, we probably reached around 75.

It was a blessing to watch how the Holy Spirit led us in decision-making. Because we were relatively inexperienced in church-planting, and had no formal leader, the founding members would come together to make plans and decisions, resolving not to move forward without unanimity, or at least a clear consensus that we all could live with. We did this more as an act of faith, recognizing our need for the Lord’s leading, than as a rigid theological doctrine about how a church “should” be run. It was in this context that CCF’s distinctive pattern of “core group” leadership emerged. Over time, as people moved on, others would emerge as particularly gifted and/or motivated to help with leadership, and these people would be asked, invited, or volunteer to join the core group.

An outgrowth of this leadership model was that we were all being stretched and challenged in new ways, and this resulted in significant spiritual growth. I’m sure each person’s experience differed, but I believe we were all learning to better recognize God’s voice, through prayer, through our dependence on Him, and through listening to one another. I also believe that the spiritual gifts that were already evident in each person were strengthened and developed in this process. Tom, Doug, and Chow Leng were all gifted preacher/teachers, but the regular opportunity to express this gift resulted in a consistency and maturity that was a blessing to receive. Their diversity of style also brought a kind of balance to the teaching: Tom with his pastoral, relational approach, Chow Leng with his classic, motivational messages, and Doug with his desire to grapple with issues of the faith (augmented by his New York taxi-driver stories!).

Most of us leading the worship team had participated in worship music previously, to one degree or another. However, the discipline of regular preparation and seeking the Lord’s mind for direction resulted in a unique depth and often a strong sense of God’s presence. For me personally, this process revived a gift of songwriting which had been dormant for about a decade, and I experienced an outflow of new music, new songs, and new confidence.

Miriam, Mary, Debbi were joined by others to meet regularly for prayer, both for mutual support, as well as to discern needs and pray for our embryonic church. I believe that their prayer provided an important covering that enabled the church to grow, thrive, understand the Lord’s mind, and remain united.

As already mentioned, the fellowship had a somewhat "transient" nature in the early years, due to the fact that many of the members were expatriates on temporary assignments in Israel. However, CCF was also home to some whose commitment to Israel and/or ministry there was long-term, yet who found it desirable to maintain an English-speaking fellowship and worship experience. Their presence helped to create a stability and longevity for CCF.

In addition to ministering to the English-speaking expatriate community in the Tel Aviv area, other areas of ministry emerged. The first was a collection and distribution ministry to the poor, primarily through existing works: this was to both new Israeli immigrants, and to West Bank refugees. The second area was a ministry to Chinese expatriates, led by two families from Singapore. This resulted in the establishment of a Chinese speaking congregation in Haifa (consisting largely of students from mainland China). This ministry later branched out to include outreach in Eilat to (mostly) construction workers from mainland China, as well as another location in central Israel (Beth Shemesh?).

1994-1995 was a watershed time, as we were forced to find a new meeting location, and had major changes in leadership. Approximately half of the core group moved on to other assignments, so we sought the Lord for future direction, praying for a smooth transition to the next stage in the development of the fellowship. We seriously considered taking on a formal pastor, and had a particular candidate in mind, who had made himself available. The core group prayed and met often to consider this question, including an overnight retreat. We also sought the counsel of Wayne Hilsden, pastor of the King of Kings Assembly in Jerusalem, and others in ministry in Israel.

In the end, no clear consensus emerged so, in keeping with our practice of seeking unanimity in major decisions, we chose not to call a dedicated pastor. We did this in faith, not having a clear alternative, only the knowledge that the Lord had blessed us and brought us this far with the existing model of leadership. I don’t think I was the only one who felt some uncertainty about how long the fellowship might last with such an organization, with leaders constantly changing. However, the fact is that the fellowship has survived and thrived for 20 years now, and it is a great encouragement to be writing this letter to you. Obviously the Lord has preserved and sustained the Community Christian Fellowship on His own terms!

Over the years, we’ve gotten various reports of how the fellowship had evolved and adapted, from friends who either stayed in Israel, or returned after an absence. In January, 2001, I attended a CCF service, and enjoyed getting to know a congregation that was mostly unknown to me. Nevertheless, I still felt a definite connection to the congregation, as I still do now. This is hard for me to rationalize, except that there is a sense of parenthood that comes from investing in a living fellowship like CCF. I hope you also have that same sense about your own involvement. During our time in the CCF, I also gained a greater appreciation for the fact that the lasting substance of God’s kingdom is built in the hearts of his people, through shared worship, fellowship and service (vs. the size, style or perfection of our programs). This probably explains my sense of connection with people I’ve never met or barely know.

I’m sure that other chapters could (and should) be written about the life of CCF over these past 20 years. I also look forward to watching CCF over the next 20 years. Maybe we should start a Facebook group for CCF Alumni! I had hoped to visit you this month, but unfortunately it will have to wait until another occasion. Until then, we wish you every blessing and pray that the Lord will give you a clear sense of his guidance and provision, along with a growing understanding and experience of his presence and power in your midst.

In Him,

-Phil (and Debbi) Barth

Finding Fritz, Sr., Day 11

Dad had an early flight, so we gulped down the skimpy continental breakfast, and drove him off to the airport. We could hardly believe we were parting company, as it now felt normal to be on the road, with our three generations represented. We exchanged hugs and words of gratitude and awe, and watched as Dad walked into the terminal. It was not a very dramatic ending to our 11-day journey, but it hardly had to be: we had plenty of drama along the way, and we’d become much closer as a result. We each knew that we would be thinking about this trip for a long time.

After a quick stop at the post office to mail home the railroad spike I’d found in Hackstaff, Aaron and I returned our car to the airport and waited for our flight home.

Turning to the back of Pop Pop’s diary, I read his final entry:

June 19th, 1922
After a good nights rest in the jail we started on the home stretch. One hundred miles to Los Angeles. With a few lifts we reached Ventura. Here a man in a ford going to Los Angeles picked us up. He took us on a road which went across part of the Mohave Desert. Maybe it wasn’t hot: 110 in the shade. He had seven blow outs while in the desert due to the heat. Was surprised to find so much desert in Cal.

Well at 7.30 P.M. June 19th we drove into the city of Los Angeles. I was sure this was our final resting place as weary travelers were we. We passed through Universal City, Griffith Park and Hollywood before we got to Los Angeles proper. Here we looked up Ray’s cousin Win Rosenbury. Found him at 1505 West 8th St. This is where we stayed while in Los Angeles. Our clothes were in rags. My shoes were no longer foot wear but we had sent our clothes to this place and after a good bath and a shave we put them on. My suit fit me quick for during the trip I had lost 15 pounds. Win took us out that night and treated us to a chicken dinner and the movies afterwards. That night I wrote home and then went to bed. I laid there for hours just thinking of the trip and how lucky we were in getting here for when we started I had no idea of what we had before us. I knew it would be hard but I never dreamed of some of the things we saw and did. After all it was a great experience.

Frederic C. Barth

National Hobos Association

Now signing off. Good Night.

Some of Pop Pop’s words jumped out at me, for they could just as well have been my own: “for hours just thinking of the trip,” “how lucky we were,” “I never dreamed of some of the things we saw and did.” I share his gratitude for such an incredible experience. However, I find myself wondering just how much we succeeded in one of the main goals of our trip: of getting to know my grandfather better, of “finding Fritz, Sr.” With no conscious memory of him, I still find him somewhat elusive.

However, because of our trip, and thanks to his diary, I feel like I’ve caught a few glimpses of him here and there. These glimpses come and go at their own will, like the hummingbird who sometimes visits us on the deck of our cabin in Vermont. If you consciously try to look for him, chances are he won’t show up. But occasionally, while you’re sitting and reading, or just looking out and thinking, he arrives out of nowhere for a sip from the bird feeder. And just as suddenly, he darts away. In the same way, our trip gave us surprising glimpses of Pop Pop that seem just as real, and just as fleeting. Even if they are only a product of our imagination, they are now stored and locked in the same mental box of memories.

Someday our own descendants may read our story after we’re gone, wishing they could know us better. I think I would be honored if they did, and this is what I would say to them: “Because of Pop Pop’s diary, I learned to appreciate the grandfather I barely knew. In it, he gave us a story to guide us, and as we followed his trail, he imparted to us a thirst for making our own adventure, and the inclination to record our experiences. Half of who we are is a gift from those who go before us, and the other half is what we do, and where we go, with that gift. With one foot rooted in the past, we step out with certain ideas about what we hope to see, some of which come true. But it’s the surprises and unexpected discoveries that add adventure to those hopes.”

That’s what I would probably say. But I think I know Pop Pop well enough now to know what he would probably say:

“Maybe it wasn’t an amazing trip!”

Finding Fritz, Sr., Day 10

We saved San Francisco for the last day of our trip for two reasons: first, because it was the primary destination in Pop Pop’s journey, and second, because we thought it would be a lot easier to navigate the downtown area without our large RV. However, by doing this, we had skipped one of Pop Pop’s earlier stops, the Delta Upsilon (DU) Frat House at UC Berkeley, so we made it our first stop of the day. This is how Pop Pop found it in 1922 (14 years after the great earthquake):

June 13, 1922 (cont.)

…Frisco is quite the town. You can see where the earthquake hit it. One part of the city is new while the other is old. Here we were at last. Broke and no grub as yet.

We looked all over the town for people who we had addresses of but found none so I looked up the D.U. House which was at the University of Cal. in Berkley on the other side of the bay. We didn’t know what to do. Ray sold his eversharp pencil to a fellow in a drug store for 50 cents. This got us something to eat and over to Berkley. After a long search we located the D.U. House where we were received with open arms by the boys. They fed us and we told them of our trip. Took a bath and washed our shirts and underware and went to bed. This was the first real bed we had slept in since we left Wes. Wallace at Pinckneyville Ill. nearly a month ago. It didn’t seem possible but never the less it was. Didn’t take us long to doze off on a pillow that night.

June 14th , 1922
We got up after 14 hours sleep. Felt fine. Got the best meal we had all the way out {from Philadelphia}. After grubbing two bucks from the boys we bid them goodby and started back to Frisco. This time we could see the city very good from the ferry. Sure is pretty. Built on a side of a hill.

89 years later, in 2011, we had no trouble locating the DU house, but unlike Pop Pop, we had no boys greeting us with open arms! No matter how hard we knocked on the door, no one answered. We should have known better, it being Sunday morning, but we tried knocking nonetheless. Finally after giving up, we took a few photos and began to retreat towards the car. At this point, someone exited the front door, apparently to get cell phone reception or privacy. Once he finished his call, we approached him and told him of our mission, and he kindly invited us in to visit the frat house.

After looking around the common rooms, he invited us into the wood-paneled library, which was lined on all walls with old DU yearbooks, meeting minutes, photographs and other fraternity paraphernalia. It didn’t take us long to locate some books from Pop Pop’s era, including a guest book which ended only a few months before his arrival. Hoping to be able to discover Pop Pop’s signature, we searched for a later guest book, but found nothing. Our host explained that there had been a fire some time ago, which probably destroyed the book we were looking for.

Thanking him for his hospitality, we headed down the hill, and towards the highway to the north side of the bay. Rather than cross over by ferry, as Pop Pop did, we decided to enter San Francisco by the Golden Gate Bridge. The high cloud cover added to the drama of the scenery. Once we crossed, we stopped to admire and explore the Golden Gate for a good 45 minutes before heading up the hills to see some of the sights of San Francisco before our reserved ferry to Alcatraz Island. We drove through Haight- Ashbury but due to heavy traffic, had to postpone the famous zig-zag drive down Lombard St., fearing we might miss our 3:15 launch.

In answer to our desperate prayer, we found a parking space near the Alcatraz Ferry at Pier 33, and were nearly the last to board the boat. The mile and a half crossing to Alcatraz Island was swift, smooth, relaxing and short. I couldn’t help thinking of my own trip from Philadelphia to San Francisco in 1972, with my friend, Fritz Kohler. Without realizing it, he and I were also retracing much of my grandfather’s trip, exactly 50 years after him! In 1972, the maximum security penitentiary had already been closed for 9 years, and the island had just been made a national recreation area. Fritz K. had heard it would be possible to visit, which he hoped to do someday. I don’t know if he ever made it, but here I was, 39 years later, doing just that.

Nicknamed “The Rock,” Alcatraz rises steeply from the bay. The austere and fading concrete buildings of the former penitentiary seem to be rooted in the rock of the island. As we approached the dock, a strange mix of images greeted us: a fortress-like building with three rows of dark windows stared blankly at us. Below the soulless windows, fading graffiti announced “Indians Welcome,” a remnant of the 19-month protest and occupation of 1969-1971. Below this, a hundred or so tourists were milling around in front of a bookshop and various National Park signs, waiting to enter the Disneyland-style corral to board the return ferry.

On the other hand, once we entered the prison, a more focused and unyielding vision surrounded and took hold of us. Three tiers of sterile steel and concrete prison cells rose above us like a reverse-pyramid, each level overhanging the one below. Individual cells were barely large enough for the bed, sink, toilet and shelves, let alone a grown man. We were led past the various cell blocks by pre-recorded audio players hung around our necks, which described prison conditions, and told memorable stories of pathological personalities, escape attempts, and prison history. The voices and words of previous inmates intensified the already haunted atmosphere. Nevertheless, despite the desperation of prison life, and despite the absence of beauty or warmth, I found Alcatraz strangely alluring, simply because it was so unique and otherworldly.

Finally, and somewhat reluctantly, we headed back to the dock for our escape to the mainland. Once there, we wandered around the piers of the Fisherman’s Wharf area, made our way to the Maritime Park and watched the subdued sunset beyond the Golden Gate Bridge. Just above the park was the Buena Vista Cafe, famous for having introduced Irish Coffee to the US in the 1950s. We headed there for our last supper on the road together.  Due to its limited seating, people were encouraged to sit with strangers, which we did. At our table we met an attractive, though somewhat inebriated, teacher from Elko, NV. She seemed interested in our story, having just taken the train herself from Nevada to San Francisco.

Eventually she headed over to the club across the street, and our conversation became more muted, realizing that our adventure was winding down. Rather than call a taxi, we decided to take a trolley back to our parking spot, which ended up being more of a hassle than it was worth. We then drove our car up the hill for an anti-climactic nighttime drive down Lombard Street, before making our way down to our hotel near the airport.

Finding Fritz, Sr., Day 9

We got up promptly, and quickly ate our carefully planned leftovers, since we would be turning in the RV today. Before we could do so, we had several important tasks to do: draining the RV tanks at a nearby campground, drive the one hour to the Oakland airport to pick up a rental car, fill the RV with gas, and return the RV – all before noon, since it was a Saturday. Thankfully all went quickly and smoothly, which was a nice birthday present for me.

From Oakland we crossed the San Francisco Bay, but at this point we diverged from Pop Pop’s route. We headed south to Palo Alto, to connect with Aaron’s college roommate, Patrick, whereas, Pop Pop had proceeded directly to San Francisco, his primary destination:

June 13th, 1922 (cont.)
We kept right on plugging westward now and by 6.00 P.M we pulled into Oakland, Cal. A very large place and beautiful. We still had seven cents left. The fare across to Frisco on the ferry was 8 cents a piece on the freight ferry so we had to stem a guy for the rest. There was an awful fog so we couldn’t see Frisco till we were almost across the bay. The ferry landed at the dock and we walked into the city of San Francisco at five minutes after six on the 13th of June 1922. Our journey was over. That is our journey we had set out to complete.

Phila. – To – Frisco

Frisco is quite the town. You can see where the earthquake hit it. One part of the city is new while the other is old. Here we were at last. Broke and no grub as yet.

Our own entry to San Francisco would have to wait for tomorrow, as today would be a kind of a down day, after the intensity of our past week. Despite the fact that it was my birthday, I didn’t mind going with the flow, since the entire past week was more than enough of a birthday present.


After a fun birthday dinner with Patrick at a local Mexican restaurant, we hung out at Patrick’s planning our day in San Francisco tomorrow, and even fitting in a short nap. Later in the afternoon, we bid Patrick goodbye, and headed off to Stanford University, where Pop Pop actually stayed a few days on his way out of San Francisco:

June 14th, 1922
… From Frisco we took a trolley car to San Mateo. Arrived there at about four in the afternoon. Here we looked up the people we had met in Mo. ... We were now going south on the most beautiful road I ever saw. By six we hit Palo Alto where the Stanford University is located. I’ve seen many pretty colleges but this is one can’t be beat. The architecture is Spanish and sure makes a wonderful sight in among the palms and century plants. Well we found the D.U. {Delta Upsilon} House here and received a hearty welcome and a square meal. That night we took a swim in the pool and hit the hay early. Each Frat house has its own private pool.

June 15th, 1922
After a good nights sleep in a bed we had breakfast at a table. Got a hair cut and looked a little bit better. Went swimming in the pool. Looked Stanford over also the town of Palo Alto. Hit the hay early.

June 16th, 1922
Up early and out on the road again. This time we left our nap sacks and stuff at the D.U. House as we were only going down the valley looking for work. Sure felt funny with out them. Cherrys were sure plentiful so we tried to get a job picking them. We had no luck as they wanted experienced help. Got back to Stanford at six with a gut full of cherrys. Watched a dance that night from a window. We planned to leave in the morning.


As usual, we spent much less time than Pop Pop did, as we explored Stanford. I wanted to see the pole vault facility and Aaron wanted to see the baseball stadium, so we split up for a bit. Then we all went together to look for the Delta Upsilon house where Pop Pop had spent several days. Delta Upsilon is no longer active at Stanford, but thanks to some online research before the trip, we were able to locate the house, now called the Mars House, which is now independent student housing.

Next we headed to the Hampton Inn in Milpitas, the first hotel on our trip. After our road trip, it felt a bit odd to be in normal beds, but that didn’t keep us from getting a good night’s sleep. As Pop Pop would say, “we were all in.”

Finding Fritz, Sr., Day 8

After yesterday’s long and eventful day, we woke to another clear and crisp morning. Our campground was partway up a ridge which gave us a nice view of the towns and roads below us. The evening before, they had only appeared as distant, scattered lights.

The Hunt for Hackstaff
We drifted into our day gradually, feeling a bit subdued by yesterday’s amazing memories. Still, I felt that we had some unfinished business, as I wanted to see if we could find any traces of Hackstaff, the town that rescued Pop Pop and his friends after their desert ordeal:

June 10, 1922 (cont.):
…We hit the water tank at four in the afternoon which was at a place called Hackstaff, Cal. Here we were in sunny Cal. at last. I’ll admit this part of Cal. was sunny. Have often heard of how men saw lakes and things in the desert and I’m not quite sure whether I didn’t see some my selfe.

There were only a couple of Mexican shacks there but it looked like heaven to me. They gave us water and we felt better. We were all fagged out from our forced march. Here Ray found an old mangy cap which he put on. We laid down in the shade of the water tank and waited.


Hackstaff no longer exists on any map, having been abandoned in the years after Pop Pop’s visit, and was later overcome by the Herlong Army Depot. However, we did locate “Hackstaff Road,” which we assumed had that name because it led to Hackstaff. We followed the road for less than a mile before it turned into a dirt track that was so uneven we could barely keep our speed above 10 miles an hour. It was so narrow, we were afraid we would have to back our RV out, unless we found an opening or cul-de-sac up ahead. However, we could see the army base only a mile or two in front of us, so we knew we could only go so far. After yesterday’s exploits, we felt the courage to go for it.

Sure enough, as we came to the end of the road, it opened up at a railroad crossing, wide enough for us to make a 3-point turn. Beyond the tracks we saw a locked chain link gate to the army base, with buildings nearby on the other side. As we got out to explore the tracks we saw a concrete foundation slab, which we guessed had once been the train station. It seemed to be all that was left of Hackstaff, although we later learned that the actual train station was further up the tracks.


We quickly realized that we would not be making the same kind of discoveries as we had yesterday, so we headed back towards the RV. Looking down, I saw a stray iron railroad spike, about 6 inches long. Realizing that this may be the last set of tracks we’d be exploring, I decided it would make a good souvenir, even if it meant having to mail it home to avoid carrying it through airport security.

We didn’t have much of a plan for the next part of our trip, other than following Pop Pop’s trail as it wound down from the California highlands to lower ground:

June 10th 1922 (cont.)
A train came along at 5.00 P.M. so we took it. With this train we rode sixty miles out of the desert into fertile land and trees and grass. It was a wonderful sight to our weary eyes. At Omira, Cal. We were again thrown off but this time we didn’t mind it so much as we were out of the desert. Here we caught a train at seven Oclock which we rode to Orrville {Oroville}, Cal. We could hardly hold on any more. Both as weak as fish. No sleep no food and thirty miles of desert sure took the pep out of us.

Putting the Pieces Together
In our AAA guide book, Aaron read about a Western Pacific Railroad Museum along the way, in a town called Portola. Since Pop Pop had been following the Western Pacific since Salt Lake City, which passed through Portola, we thought this would be worth checking out. We were not disappointed.


The Portola Railroad Museum occupies a former service facility for diesel engines, and now contains a wide variety of engines, cabooses, and passenger cars, along with other relics of the railroad industry. During our visit, we were able to piece together some of the details of Pop Pop’s experiences, and round out our own understanding of life on the railroads.



We saw engines and passenger cars from the 1920s, which helped us visualize better what Pop Pop meant when he talked about things like “riding in the blinds,” (between cars, outside the accordion-like canvas connections between cars) or “the sand house” (where they heated the sand which they used to give the train wheels traction when starting out).


When we asked the main technician to direct us to the cars that Pop Pop would have ridden, and described Pop Pop’s journey, he took a personal interest and spent a good 30-40 minutes showing us specific cars, features and facts, and explained some of the hobo lore from the 1920s and 30s. We felt very fortunate to get what seemed like first-hand information, custom-tailored to the purposes of our trip. However, our journey back in time got a surreal touch every time our tour guide’s cell phone rang with his Three Stooges theme song ringtone!


Back to Civilization
The drive down from Portola to Oroville was picturesque, following the narrow and twisting valley of the North Fork of the Feather River, which offered views of the river, the railroad, and several impressively engineered bridges and tunnels. Although scenic, it was somewhat stressful in our RV, which had trouble negotiating some of the tight turns and abbreviated off-ramps. It was nearly impossible to stay at the posted speed limit, so we ended up being the frustrating slow-moving vehicle with a line of cars behind. Finally I was able to pull over to let them pass, but chuckled to myself when, about a mile later, the road opened up into a new 4-lane divided highway.

From this point on, our drive was uneventful, and we were clearly back in civilization. We had no trouble locating the Oroville train station, even though it has been converted into a restaurant and an insurance agency. The town had grown quite a bit since Pop Pop’s day, and there were no signs of the round house or sand house he described in his diary:

June 10th 1922 (cont.)
At Orrville we got off and staggered up the tracks to the engineer of the train who was going to take his engine to the round house. We asked him where it was. I guess he thought we needed help. Any how he told us to jump on and he’d take us there. It happened to be about two miles up the track. He showed us the sand house so we went in and flopped. About a half hour later he came back with his lunch and the fireman’s which he gave us. Maybe he wasn’t a life saver. We ate almost all of it and saved the rest for our breakfast. Of course we could have eaten three times the amount. After our much needed meal we fell back and corked off. I want to tell you it didn’t take me long to get to dream land.

We did not intend to spend much time in Oroville, since we needed to get to Stockton to visit my brother-in-law, Dean, and we had pretty much reached the saturation point in exploring old train stations. As we arrived, we had a short-lived sense of anticipation, when we learned that the first passenger train in decades was about to arrive, and the town had organized a big celebration, with people in period dress, a band practicing, local media, etc. Based on this, we got the mistaken notion that the train would be an antique one, so we were disappointed, when a sleek and modern Amtrak engine pulled in. As the train began to unload its scores of passengers, we decided to make a quick getaway, not wanting to navigate the swarms of tourists in our bulky RV.

Heading south, we paid a quick visit to Marysville, where Pop Pop made his next stop:

June 11th, 1922
Woke up feeling much better. Ate the rest of our breakfast. Washed the collars of our shirts as they were black. After we were all cleaned up we look(ed) around us and there before our eyes we beheld a concrete road. Maybe our hearts didn’t beat with joy. We heard of the wonderful roads in Cal. And they sure didn’t lie about them. Once more we were broke. Walked about a mile when a fellow in a grocery wagon picked us up. I suppose we still looked hard hit from the way he looked us over. He gave us a dollar to get a square meal. Well that dollar took us all the way to Oakland, Cal. After a few small lifts we reached Marysville. Here Ray cut my hair and I cut his. We slept there at the jail.


Hoping to find the jail where Pop Pop slept, we used our GPS and Blackberry to find the City Hall, and Police Station, where we learned that the old City Hall, which housed the jail, was destroyed in the 1960s. At least they had a photo of it for us to view.

Stockton Sanctuary
By now it was getting dark, and we were running late for our rendezvous in Stockton. Taking the freeways around Sacramento, it took us about an hour and a half to cover the same ground that took Pop Pop a day and a half:

June 12th, 1922
Up and at it early. Our luck was coming back to us. We made good time and by 6 that night we hit Sacramento, the capital of Cal. Very wonderful city. Oranges growing right in the streets even in the business section of the town. As we had our mail forwarded to Stockton we had to go there. This was a round about way to Frisco but it wasn’t so much out of our way. We walked to New Elk Grove where we slept in the S.P.R.R {Seattle Pacific Rail Road} station.

June 13th, 1922
Bought our breakfast in a small hotel there and then started out for Stockton. After a few good lifts we hit there at noon. No mail so our journey to Stockton was for nothing.


Well, our journey to Stockton was more purposeful. Even though we arrived late, brother Dean, or “Father Dean” as his Catholic parishioners call him, had also been delayed, and returned just as we arrived in Stockton. We called to let him know we were about to arrive, and as we pulled off the freeway, he said, “do you see the gas station at the end of the ramp, with the white car in front of it? Follow it.” This startled me until he explained that it was his car, and he had pulled over to wait for us.

Leading us to St. Mary’s Church in a depressed area of downtown Stockton, we pulled in and joined him in a lively Spanish prayer and worship service already in progress. Despite the language barrier, we enjoyed the spirit of the service, and afterwards, managed to squeeze the RV through the narrow gate into the church courtyard. I was reluctant to park on the street, since I doubted the parking police or street people would be as uninterested in our overnight RV as WalMart had been.


We spent about an hour visiting with Father Dean and some of his parishioners, mostly in and around the RV, which seemed to provide unlimited entertainment for the children, with its gadgets, ladders, moving beds, etc. With an early departure in mind, we said goodbye to Dean and headed off to bed.

Finding Fritz, Sr., Day 7

When we got up we saw why we needed the heater: the mountains surrounding Winnemucca still had a layer of snow on them, and they were only about a mile away! The temperature outside was around 45 degrees; pretty cold for early June. I was glad for a good night sleep, knowing that today had the potential to be one of our best.

After breakfast we headed to the Tourist Information Center in preparation for the next part of our trip. According to Pop Pop’s diary, he left Winnemucca on a train to Gerlach, Nevada:

June 10th, 1922
Left Winnemucca at 11.00 A.M. on a Shriners special going to Frisco where they were having a convention. We rode up on the coal car as big as life in broad day light. The crew were wonderful. About ten of us rode this train. At Gerlach we got off for no reason at all.

I love the irony of Pop Pop’s statement about getting off the train for no good reason. They had one of their best and most stress-free train hops, which probably would have taken them the remaining 450 miles to San Francisco. Maybe their appetite for adventure wasn’t yet satisfied, and they didn’t want to get there quite so soon. If so, they certainly weren’t disappointed, because they were about to have one of their greatest adventures – and so were we, as we tried to follow their steps.

Ghost Towns and Desert Trails
Looking at our AAA map, the most direct road to Gerlach was a 100-mile dirt road that followed the train tracks, and we wanted to find out if it would be safe to drive that way with our RV. We also saw two ghost towns on the map that we thought would be fun to find. However, based on the advice of the Info Center, we decided to skip the ghost towns and go the long way around to Gerlach, taking the paved roads. Even though it added 110 miles, it was actually 2-3 hours quicker, and we really wanted to get to Gerlach, for several reasons.

First, Aaron had learned that Gerlach may soon become a ghost town itself, due to the fact that the local Gypsum plant was closing. As a result, the local school was about to complete its final term. But even more than that, I was especially interested to find out more about one of Pop Pop’s greatest adventures just west of Gerlach:

June 10th, 1922 (cont.)
… At Gerlach we got off for no reason at all. There we got another special at 12.30 A.M. The conductor saw us and chased us off the blinds {between cars-see left photo} but we got the steps {see photo below right} which wasn’t very comfortable but it was good enough in a pinch. We rode this way for about 50 miles when the train slowed down and they threw us off. Here we stood right in the middle of the desert with nothing around us but a small shack where we found a telegraph operator. He informed us that no trains ever stop there but he said we could get one thirty miles up the track at a water tank there.

This was the one part of Pop Pop’s trip where we actually lost his trail, since neither the AAA maps nor the online map engines showed any roads in this part of NW Nevada. However, I was able to trace the railroad tracks out of Gerlach on Google Maps. This was an important clue, because, based on Pop Pop’s estimate of the distances, I was able to guess that he and his friends were kicked off the train in the vicinity of a place identified as Sand Pass. Zooming in, I could see a few buildings, and I had strong hunch that one of them might be the telegraph operator’s shack. If only we could find a way to get there! Our best bet for finding any new clues would be in Gerlach, so we gave up our search for the old Winnemucca train station and headed down Interstate 80.

Comparing the road map and some of the historical maps we brought along, it was clear that some of the interstates and railroads followed the wagon trails of the early 1800s, such as the Oregon Trail and the California Trail. At a rest stop we learned about and saw the “Fortymile Desert,” a notorious and waterless part of the California Trail that was so difficult that it was generally traveled at night by the wagon trains. To us it seemed pretty harmless at first, cruising through at 70 miles an hour, but it didn’t take much to imagine the hardship of trudging through for several days.

Northeast of Reno, we left I-80 and headed north towards Gerlach, and made several stops to ask the locals about any possible roads to Sand Pass. No one we asked had any idea about the state of roads in that vicinity, and most had not heard of Sand Pass. So we pressed on to Gerlach, following a barren, but oddly attractive desert valley, and catching a glimpse of Pyramid Lake along the way. It reminded me of a desert version of Crater Lake, with its deep blue waters and pyramid rock rising out of the middle.

Gerlach, NV - Desert Gateway
Coming into Gerlach, the cluttered evidence of the gypsum mines and surrounding businesses overtook the gradual ebb and flow of the surrounding desert. At the edge of town we rejoined the railroad that we had left back in Winnemucca, and stopped to explore the tracks which we could see extending straight to the horizon in both directions.

After a few minutes taking photos and taking in the surroundings, we saw what looked like a train engine approaching the station, from the west. As it got closer we could see that it was actually a kind of amphibious truck, with both train wheels and retractable road tires. We watched as they approached a kind of grade crossing, where they let down the tires, which raised the rail wheels off of the tracks. Once they pulled the service vehicle away from the tracks and parked by the station, we went to the crew chief and introduced ourselves and our day’s mission. He was a very experienced technician for the Western Pacific rail line, and he lived down the tracks in California. As a result, he was familiar with Sand Pass, as well as with the buildings there, and told us that there was indeed a gravel road that would take us directly there. He bragged that he had once driven a passenger coach down that unpaved road. This raised our hopes somewhat, and we thanked him for the information. However, I was a little skeptical, due to his cavalier attitude. There was a lot at stake driving a rented RV 80 miles down an uncharted desert road.

We wandered around town a bit, which had an unusual mix of run down restaurants, old RVs, and junk stores, since it is the final launching out point for the annual “Burning Man” celebration, a week—long “celebration of self-expression” in the middle of the Black Rock Desert to the northeast. We were considering entering one of the restaurants to get more information about the road to Sand Pass, when I looked at my watch and saw that it was nearly 5:00 pm. Across the street was a small shop marked “Tourist Information.” It hardly looked official, with hand-painted letters on some of the signs, and I wasn’t even sure it was open. However, if it was, it would probably be our best bet, and might be about to close.

Sure enough, we got there just in time. Inside was a gentle and husky man named Bill, dressed as if for winter, who confirmed that we would be his last customers of the day. As we described our journey, he became very interested, especially when we showed him Pop Pop’s diary. As I read him the part about Gerlach and Sand Pass, he began to filming it using his smart phone. He then showed us some old photos of the former train station, taken shortly after Pop Pop’s visit in 1922. Finally, he assured us that we could navigate the road to Sand Pass, provided we keep a reasonable pace of about 35 miles per hour. There would be several ranches along the way, and the state maintains the road so that it stays level, not full of ruts and gullies. This was the news we wanted to hear, since it meant we could reach Sand Pass in daylight, and also gave us the prospect of help if something were to go wrong along the way. As Bill described the route, he began to show us some detailed Bureau of Land Management maps of the area, which sealed the deal: armed with these, we felt we couldn’t fail! We thanked him and in my mind thanked the Lord for sending such a godsend.

The Search for Sand Pass
About 6 miles up the road, we saw the sign for the turn-off for Sand Pass. It also listed towns in California, which encouraged us to venture on. Before long we were surrounded by dry earth and sage brush, with only occasional signs of human life: an infrequent car, old fence posts and wire, and even a few dilapidated ranches. From looking at the map, we saw that we were following one of the old California Trail wagon trail cutoffs, which added to our sense of adventure.

Forty miles into the desert, we crossed a small bridge, and were surprised by a small pond with some cattle and an abandoned building nearby. I later learned that this was the Bonham Ranch, and the pond was fed by an artesian well. We stopped to explore a bit, but pressed on, knowing that our hours of daylight were running out.

Soon afterward we saw two old buildings in the distance, which we took for another ranch. We were not expecting to arrive at Sand Pass for another 20 minutes or so. It wasn’t until we almost passed the buildings that we saw the railroad tracks rising up the hillside, which alerted us that we must be near the pass.

We backtracked a bit to the short dirt access road to the two buildings, one of which looked like it could have been a home at one time. It had a covered porch in front, but all of the windows were missing. The buildings were empty inside and one was covered with graffiti announcing that they belonged to the Pyramid Lake Indian reservation. It was clear that they had not been lived in for a long time, which stoked our enthusiasm and belief that we had found the actual telegraph operator’s location.

We spent a good 30 minutes taking in the scenery, and savoring the satisfaction of having found an important puzzle piece of my grandfather’s journey. Unlike many of the other locations he visited, this spot was essentially the same as it would have been in 1922, and we had fun imagining and even re-enacting what I must have been like for Pop Pop when he came through here.

The railroad passed by above the houses, so we walked up a steep incline to get a better view of the houses and the expansive Smoke Creek Desert below. We noticed that this section of the tracks was relatively new: instead of the traditional wooden railroad ties, these tracks had separate concrete ties under each rail. The path of the tracks made a distinct cut into the hillside, and there was a man-made mountain of dirt below the two houses. We figured that at some point since Pop Pop came through here, they must have re-laid the tracks. At this point, we recorded the following video, which sums up our discovery of Sand Pass:



As Aaron and Dad returned to the RV, I found myself wanting to stay longer to soak in the sense of adventure and accomplishment. It was the same feeling I felt at the top of Mt. Sinai, Huayna Picchu, and other peaks I’ve climbed. Very few things make me feel as alive as I do at these times. Unfortunately, the sun was getting very close to the surrounding hills, and we still had about 25 miles or so of uncharted desert tracks to follow before we reached civilization. As we pulled away, I looked over my shoulder for a last look at Sand Pass, a little puzzled by the strong sense of connection I felt to this place. Maybe it seemed like a geological incarnation of the grandfather I never knew.

Picking up Pop Pop’s diary, we read:

June 10th, 1922 (cont.)
… no trains ever stop there but he {the telegraph operator} said we could get one thirty miles up the track at a water tank there. There were two other fellows with us. The four of us started out on the run as it was very cold. It sure was a good thing there wasn’t any sun for awhile. I guess we covered about twenty miles before the sun hit us and when it did Oh! Boy. I didn’t know whether I was coming or going. Ray had lost his hat on the train so he was in a bad way. We tied a bunch of red hand kerchiefs up and made a hat for him. We hit the water tank at four in the afternoon which was at a place called Hackstaff, Cal. Here we were in sunny Cal. at last. I’ll admit this part of Cal. was sunny. Have often heard of how men saw …and lakes and things in the desert and I’m not quite sure whether I didn’t see some my selfe.

Unlike Pop Pop’s entry to California, our day got cooler and darker. As we drove, I think we were all in a reflective mood, and we began to reminisce about past events, and our combined memories sometimes clarified details for one another. Our questions led to some surprising revelations, such as Dad telling us about boyhood exploits, and about the fact that his grandmother was the daughter of a Methodist pastor.

An hour after leaving Sand Pass, we crossed the Nevada-California line, and the sign there told us that our destination, Doyle, CA, was only 12 miles away. The sign also told us that the dirt track we were taking had a name, “Fort Sage Road” This surprised us a little, since, as far as we could tell, the roads in this area did not seem very organized or planned. If they had asked us, we would have called the road, “Jack-Rabbit Trail,” since we nearly clipped a few as we blindly drove in the deepening twilight. An hour after entering California, around 10:00 pm, we finally reached a paved road, and tried to find a place to make a quick dinner. Now that we were in somewhat of a residential area, we tried to keep our generator use to a minimum.

According to our guide book, the closest campground was at least 45 minutes away, and we were weary after our long, eventful day. We decided to drive a few miles back into the desert and just pull over for the night.

However, our adventures were not quite over: out of nowhere, a sheriff of Lassen County appeared behind us. We did not see him until the blue lights started flashing, and we dutifully pulled over. He walked up to us and asked if he could “help” us. We told him we were looking for a place to pull over, fully expecting him to courteously, yet firmly, tell us that it was against regulations to “dry camp” in that part of California. Instead, much to our surprise, he told us of three unlisted campgrounds within 5 miles of us, one of which was on federal land, and therefore free of charge. He offered to escort us there, to help us avoid running into the free-ranging livestock along the way. We laughed at the irony of being rounded up and led by a sheriff to our night’s lodging, just as Pop Pop had been a dozen or so times on his way across country. I couldn’t help feeling this was somehow orchestrated, and that Providence was also having a good laugh with us!

It didn’t take long to fall into our beds at the Fort Sage Trailhead campground, grateful to the Bureau of Land Management for such a well-placed and immaculately clean location. I began to drift off to sleep, with the memories of the day swirling together in a random cascade of images and thoughts. What a day this had been! A perfect mix of fulfilled hope and unexpected discovery!

Finding Fritz, Sr., Day 6

We started our day at the International House of Pancakes, just down the street from our “campsite” in the WalMart parking lot. Having completed his “Sabbath year” of rest and reflection, Aaron marked the occasion by treating us to breakfast. It was vaguely reminiscent of my grandfather’s free breakfast when he passed through here:

June 6th, 1922
We slept well till seven when we were awakened by the sheriff who had breakfast for us. After we finished it instead of letting us go, he made us cut the grass around the city hall. It sure was some lawn. In this jail there was an artist. He had all the walls covered with drawings he had done. They were very good. He wouldn’t tell us why he was there but he said he had three years to do. While cutting the grass we met the mayor of the town. He told us we would find a good road between Provo and Salt Lake City. After they left us go we took the mayor’s advice and hit the highway which was one sheet of concrete all the way to Salt Lake. Were picked up by two Morman fellows who took us one hundred miles to Salt Lake City. Here I got the surprise of my life. We found the Mormons very sociable and the city is the most modern one I was ever in.

We reached Salt Lake at 2.00P.M. Our first thought was food so we went to a restaurant and spent the last of our money which happened to be 40¢. I want to tell you we sure felt queer 700 miles from Frisco and broke. We walked all over the town trying to hock our camera but had no luck so we held on to it.

Our 2011 ride into Salt Lake City was also one of concrete and industry, which obscured an otherwise attractive valley between two mountain ranges. I also was impressed by the cleanliness and orderliness of Salt Lake City, once you get used to the confusing street numbering system. However, unlike Pop Pop, our first order of business was to visit the Mormon Temple Square.


Having been there previously, I let Aaron lead Dad to the important monuments and sites, while I took advantage of the renowned genealogy tools offered by the Latter Day Saints. I wanted to solve a puzzle that was nagging me about Pop Pop’s trip. The family legend was that he took this trip in 1922, after finishing his service with the Navy. However, his high school yearbook said he “did his bit” for the USA during World War I, which ended in 1918, shortly before his graduation in 1919. Thanks to the Mormon internet resources, I was able to locate my grandfather’s PA veteran burial record which solved the mystery: he served on the USS Rochester from April 1918 through January 1919. As an 18-year old he was too young to be drafted, but apparently enlisted in the Navy, to support the US, but avoid fighting directly on his father’s native German soil.

After rejoining Dad and Aaron, we headed west of town to pick up my grandfather’s trail :

June 6th, 1922 (cont.)
About 6.00P.M. we hit for Garfield, Utah. Our idea was to take a train from there as it would be too much of a risk to take it from a big station like Salt Lake. A Morman woman picked us up and took us there. The mosquitoes were terrible. They bit twice. Here we waited for the train which was to come through about 12.30 {am}. Maybe it didn’t go through too - All we saw was a streak. Well we were out of luck. Things sure looked bad for us. We walked back to town and woke the sheriff up. He was some guy, didn’t even make a fuss when we got him out of bed at one in the morning. He gave us a bed to sleep in which sure felt fine. I guess we didn’t sleep much as we were worried about our future. We had all of 600 miles of desert to cross and no money.

Aaron and I found Garfield on a Google map search but learned that the town had been abandoned, due to the expanding copper plant nearby. Many of the townsfolk actually moved their houses to the nearby town of Magna, UT. All that was left of Garfield was an intersection with some weed-covered railroad tracks, so we took off to see the Great Salt Lake, and continued to read Pop Pop’s diary:

June 7th, 1922
Mr. Sheriff certainly was good to us. He left us shave and then gave us a swell breakfast. Asked us how much money we had and when we told him we had none he gave us five dollars for our camera. Now you can’t beat that, and he was a Morman too. Well we left Garfield in very good spirits. Walked up the railroad tracks to a place along the lake called Black Rock. Here we washed our clothes in fresh water which was on one side of the tracks.

The Western-Pacific R. R. ran their tracks across the edge of Great Salt Lake on an embankment so on one side there was fresh water and on the other salt. We then bathed our selves in the fresh to get clean, then we went into the salt water. Talk about salty! It burnt our eyes so bad we had to get out. Made our skins itch all over. A bunch of Morman kids didn’t seem to mind it at all. After we were all cleaned up we again swung our packs and walked. We walked right into the desert which starts at the edge of the lake. It wasn’t so bad at the beginning but the farther we went the worse it got. We came to a small town. I forget its name. Here we bought some milk and a loaf of bread. We sat down and ate it and then waited for the train. Took the train at about eight. Rode it blind {between the cars} into the desert to Wendover, Utah. Arrived here at 3.30 A.M. We just laid around in a box car all day. It was too hot to sleep.

After we read Pop Pop’s diary, we wandered alongside the Salt Lake, which still has a small Marina, despite the fact that the lake has been receding steadily due to evaporation. On a visit in 1972, I remember being able to float in the water, and experienced the same burning eyes that my grandfather mentioned. However, now you can only wade in the water, unless you walk a long way out. As we wondered what our next stop would be we looked out and saw clearly the “black rock” from Pop Pop’s diary. The unpaved access road to Black Rock quickly became impassable for our large RV, so we had to settle for a nearby pull-off on the highway, where we could also see how the railroad embankment separates the fresh and salt water.

From here we headed off into the long Utah and eastern Nevada desert. We were glad we were able to cross in a matter of hours what took Pop Pop over two days and three trains. We were also glad for the unseasonably cool weather. Apparently June in 1922 wasn’t so cool:

June 8th, 1922
After sweating the day away we got a freight at 6.00 P.M. If there was one bum on it there were three hundred. No kidding. All kinds: cow punchers, sheep herders, bums, ni--ers, etc. so we joined them. They were on the roofs inside, up on the engine. The crew couldn’t do a thing with them there were so many. We rode this into the desert further. All the guys were singing. We had a swell time on it. The towns in the desert are about 130 miles apart so if you get on a train you are good for a hundred miles or more. We rode this to Elko, Nev. where we slept in the sand house of the round house. You see each round house has a sand house where they keep sand. There is allways a furnace going in there to keep the sand dry so it made a good place to sleep as it gets very cold in the desert at nights. Arrived at Elko at about 1.30 A.M.

June 9th, 1922
Left Elko, Nev. At 7.30 P.M. Rode blind baggage to Winnemucca, Nev. At first we had no idea about the length of the desert but now we knew. We had covered about three hundred miles of it and we were still in it. Well after a hard ride we blew into Winnemucca at 12.30 P.M {midnight}. Here we slept in the sand house.

Like Pop Pop, we ended our day in Winnemucca, NV, stopping briefly near the Bonneville salt flats to fill up our nearly empty RV. It cost $200 to fill the 60 gallon tank and 3 credit cards, since most cards have a $75 limit for gas stations! Using our blackberry and GPS we located the Winnemucca WalMart, parked our RV, turned on the heater to make up for the high Nevada desert, and dropped off to a deep sleep.