Captain Eulan “Buck” Covey was my Dad’s cousin. He flew a B-26 Marauder bomber in the European Theater during World War II. He completed over 50 missions earning the Air Medal with several oak leaf clusters. He stayed in the Air Force after the war, transferring to jet fighters. Buck was killed in the crash of his F-80A Shooting Star in September, 1950.
Nothing could be worser, than drivin’ in a Mercer,
Get a faster horse Sir, the Bearcat is a courser.
Don’t be goin’ nuts, gotta’ drive a Stutz,
No ifs, and’s or buts, if you got the guts.
Seventy miles an hour, feelin’ all that power,
Don’t be lookin’ dour, make the others cower.
Pull the fenders off, liquid courage quaff,
Boater hat to doff, messin’ up y’er coif.
Win a race or two, Bearcat gets you through,
Give this car its due, the legend it is true.
No better car there was, givin’ me no pause,
It marvels and it awes, I need one just because.
LDT Nov 7, ‘21
1914 Stutz Bearcat Indy Racer
The Stutz Bearcat was arguably both America’s first sports car and its first muscle car. The original Stutz Bearcat was produced from 1912-17. It featured a massive 390 cubic inch four-cylinder engine. The engine had an innovative T-head design with two camshafts and 4 valves per cylinder. The 60 horsepower Wisconsin engine gave the Bearcat a top speed of 81 MPH. Bearcats won numerous races in the Teens.
The Bearcat’s main competition was the Mercer Raceabout. Drivers taunted each other with slogans like, “Nothing could be worser than driving a Mercer” and “You must be nuts to drive a Stutz.”
Leave that urban struggle, give the Earth a snuggle.
no schedule to juggle, no worries to trouble.
Head on down the trail, spookin’ up some quail,
find your Holy Grail, forget about your mail.
Sleepin’ ‘neath the stars, no buses, no cars,
yours’s, mine and ours, no civilizin’ scars.
The coolest mountain air, only costs a prayer,
Alpine smell so fair, city life is square,
Gather ‘round the fire, dreams will inspire,
The wind is our choir, all that we require.
The beauty and the peace, the blessings never cease,
the pressure to release, the joy to increase.
Someday when I die, just let my ashes fly,
at a place way up high, beneath the azure sky.
LDT Oct 31, ‘21
Hannigan Meadow sits high in Eastern Arizona’s White Mountains. At 9000 feet, it is cool in Summer and cold in Winter. It is a Mecca for hikers, hunters and campers and a place to lay back and enjoy nature’s bounty. The nearest town is Alpine, 22 miles to the North.
but the land was cursed, and others got the blues.
Vanquishers from Spain, through Mexico they came,
never could they reign, Apaches took their claim.
Next would come the Padres, robes of black or brown,
then arrived the cadres, the soldiers of the Crown.
Presidios and Missions, soon would dot the Trail,
wild Apache canyons, assured that most would fail.
For peace in the land, make the Spaniard pay,
‘cuz the Chiricuahua band, has got to have its way.
Gotta’ give ‘em tribute, the price the Spanish paid,
no more will they loot, no more will they raid.
Valley fills with cattle, Vaqueros ride the range,
tribe’s no longer feral, did they forever change?
Then Mexico revolts, against the Spanish dolts,
and Apacheria bolts, just like the wild colts.
Dyin’ ain’t so sweet, the Mexicans retreat,
left the cattle and the wheat, knowin’ that they’re beat.
The Mexican War, land’s empty like before,
Gadsden to acquire, in Eighteen Fifty-Four.
Settlers and miners, fillin’ up the land,
jingling cowboy spurs, achin’ to expand.
American Dragoons, playin’ fiddle tunes,
‘til Bascom he impugns, a peace of many moons.
Cochise is on the warpath, settlers they all flee,
runnin’ from his wrath, mercy is their plea.
Now Arizona’s empty, like a broken jar,
surely it’s a pity, prosperity to mar.
Only one holds out, at the Kitchen Ranch,
Apaches cannot rout, a man who’ll never blanch.
Hailin’ from Kentucky, Pete was kinda’ plucky,
brave as he was lucky, to friends he was ducky.
His ranch lush with grass, Rosa by his side,
his fortune to amass, his credo to abide.
The ranch becomes a fort, bastion up above,
raiders he will thwart, Pete’s no turtledove.
One by one the others, are driven from the land,
by Apache brothers, of Cochise’s hostile band.
Kitchen, he holds out, courage does he flout,
no battle is in doubt, whenever he’s about.
Down to his last cow, pigs will have to do,
Great Spirit don’t allow, cuz eatin” pork’s taboo.
Shoot ‘em full of arrows, pincushions they become,
grazin’ with the burros, out there in the sun.
Comes the big attack, the courage he don’t lack,
his rifle it will crack, as they’re driven back.
The Apache get the word, don’t mess with Kitchen’s gun,
no stealin’ of the herd, ‘cuz dyin’ ain’t that fun.
When the wars wars would pause, he hung a few outlaws,
don’t need no legal clause, he hung ‘em just because.
And though it ain’t a sin, the railroad’s done come in,
his profits gittin’ thin, old Pete, he cannot win.
Sells it for some cash, then he makes his dash,
Gambles with his stash, losin’ in a flash.
No, he weren’t the first, to see the Santa Cruz,
Now the land ain’t cursed, ‘cuz Kitchen paid his dues.
LDT Oct 24, ‘21
Captain John Bourke’s description of Pete Kitchen
Pete Kitchen was born in Kentucky about 1819. He fought in the Mexican War of 1846. He may have come to Arizona as early as 1854. In 1862 he started his ranch north of modern Nogales, Arizona. He raised cattle, pigs and produce. His ranch home became a fortified redoubt. No one ventured outside the wall unless they were heavily armed. A sentry constantly patrolled the parapet. The Apache Wars would ravage Arizona until the 1880’s. During the 1861-’72 war with Cochise, the Kitchen Ranch was virtually the only safe haven between Tucson and Magdalena, Mexico.
Kitchen was known throughout the territory for his hams. Pork was the one product that the Apache did not covet. (They hated snakes and pigs eat snakes.) Peace, and the coming of the railroad ended the meat and produce monopoly Kitchen had enjoyed. He sold out in 1883 and moved to Tucson. Bad loans and gambling losses caused his fortune to wither. He died nearly broke in 1895. He was buried in Tucson. His epitaph could easily have been, “Muy valiente! Muy bueno con rifle.”
I walk by this 1974 AMC Javelin a couple times a week. Though I am not a big fan of “orphan” cars produced by small manufacturers like American Motors, this one always grabs my attention. I love its racy fastback profile. The bulging fenders scream SPEED! The body lines are clean and smooth. Somehow, the bumpers managed to meet the Federal crash standards of the mid-70;s without becoming the godawful appendages used on other cars.. It is a beautiful car with an impressive sales and racing record.
The owner tells me this one is equipped with a 360 cubic inch engine and a 4-speed Borg Warner transmission. (When he told me this, the cash register in my brain went Ca Ching.) The car has a straight body, with rust damage to the right rear quarter panel.. The hood is missing its nose piece trim and appears to be slightly off-kilter. (Many Javelins have fiberglass hoods, which might explain its poor fit.) The owner says the car has had two paint resprays over the original black. I assumed it was an Arizona car until he volunteered that it came from New York. Hopefully their winter salt didn’t damage it too much.
This car is important for a number of reasons. 1974 was the last year for Javelin production. It was also built at the end of the Muscle Car Era. Due to the OPEC oil embargo, tighter emissions standards and higher insurance costs Muscle Cars briefly fell out of favor. This car has a very desirable drivetrain. The 360 may not have been the largest engine available from AMC, but it is bigger than the 305 engines powering AMC’s Trans Am Championship race cars. The four-speed manual transmissions is still coveted by old-school enthusiasts. Coming at the end of the Muscle Car Era, the engine is a bit down on power, but still pretty zippy by the standards of the Malaise Era. (There are plenty of ways to improve the power without destroying either the car’s authenticity or the planet. An E-85 Carburetor or a throttle-body fuel injection system would produce low emissions and could easily be hidden under the air cleaner.)
Probably the most compelling reason to love this car is its racing heritage. In the late 1960’s, tiny AMC decided to take on the Big 3 in the Trans Am racing series. They were up against well-funded factory teams running Mustangs, Camaros and ‘Cudas. When they didn’t succeed at first AMC turned their racing program over to Roger Penske with drivers like Mark Donohue. Their Javelins won the championship of this popular and competitive series in 1971, ’72 and ’76.
The AMC Javelin is the little car that could. It performed and handled well without costing an arm and a leg. Clean originals like this one are worth a small fortune. If I had it, I would only fix its mechanical issues and add a set of period-correct Magnum 500 wheels. The patina would stay.
Vintage Racing at Sonoma A Javelin leads a Boss 302 Mustang and a Barracuda
Note to self: The end opposite the felt tip is thicker than the tip. Remove by pushing the tip through the tube. Then install the new pen tip first in the tube. The cap is permanently glued to the top part.
I’m skippin’ graduation, to drive across the nation,
A man on the run, the pomp do I shun.
Head out ‘cross Dakota, knowin’ not one iota,
Prob’ly used my quota, this is no Minnesota.
Motored to Des Moines, someone to rejoin,
her heart to purloin, maybe make some coin.
“You ain’t the one for me!” she finally sets me free,
At last I can see, she wasn’t into me.
Head out once again, at lovin’ I can’t win,
Where do I begin? just a lonesome Bedouin.
Stop at Omaha for gas, damn ol’ starter’s stuck,
I ain’t got much class, and I ain’t got no luck.
Fix it with a wrench, then I’m on my way,
I’m never in a clinch, I can run all day.
At Rifle Colorado, parkin’ on a hill,
Goin’ with the flow, I will eat my fill.
Midnight run to Moab, stop outside a bar,
Thought I’d take a stab, at sleepin’ in my car.
Tendin’ bar tomorrow, thanks to Aunt Irene,
Ended all the sorrow, life becomes serene.
Only one week later, for Vancouver I am bound,
Nuthin’ can be greater, than haulin’ mail around.
Turnin’ North at Elko, lonesome highway blues,
Twistin’ like a gecko, wishin’ I could snooze.
Columbia River Basin, the freeway is so nice,
The future I am facin’, but I don’t think twice.
Message from Wah-Choo-ka*, in Arizona Land,
And never had I saw, a salary so grand.
Next mornin’ finds me packed, headin’ down the road,
And it’s a cold hard fact, it’s my next abode.
Mojave desert’s hot. Sonoran ain’t much better,
Radiator’s shot, wish my tongue was wetter.
Rollin’ into town, journey at an end,
Cool enough to drown, one more night to spend.
Lookin’ kind of rough, clean up in the park,
Barely got enough, for Finley’s Trailer Park.
Up in the High Desert, I could spend my life,
Soon I am a convert, and I’ve found a wife!
LDT Oct 17, ’21
*Fort Huachuca, Arizona
I arrived in Sierra Vista, Arizona in the late afternoon of July 4, 1970. My odyssey over, I slept in my car in the desert that night. The next morning, I cleaned up as best I could at the city park. Then I rented a tiny vintage trailer for 50 bucks at Finley’s Trailer Park on Fry Boulevard. The rest of my money was spent on a frying pan and some food. I called home to get my last VA education check sent. It would be a long month before I got paid.
Outlaws, Outrages and Outright Lies 