Bickel Camp April 2011

April 9, 2011

We are here on sacred ground to honor Danny Papacalos. A hardy miner and a good-natured Greek, Papadakos loved to spend time camping in and around this secret hideaway. That is, this desert spot was a well-guarded secret to Danny and a few city-bound artists. writers, and adventures who discovered Bickel Camp during the Beatnik era. Not being in on the secret, I published the first story about Walt Bickel's gold camp in California State University's Fullerton Daily Titan in 1972. Alex Apostolides, Danny's fellow Greek canyon dweller, explained at the time how the remote cabin was sanctuary, and my story would soon attract hordes of feature reporters. Danny saw it that way too and pointed out how fame could ruin innocent beauty cleverly disguised. So it’s fitting that Papadakos' ashes become dust in such an enchanted spot. Those Greeks were right too. My story did change many things, including Bickel, the camp, and the canyon. In time more stories on Bickel were written, and photographers, painters, filmmakers, and tourists arrived. The changes were forever, but some were for the better. For example, Bickel's circle of friends grew. Today these people are defenders of good things that still survive about the place. Danny often came here to visit his friend Walt after they met prospecting in the early Fifties. I first met Danny in 1970 when he was robust and still a young man. He was hard as jackhammer then, quick and spry, and worked the gold fields like a horse. He lived so until his hair turned gray, grew long, and flowed to his waist. The last time I saw him was at Bickel’s ashes scattering in 1996 up on top of Sandy’s Mesa. He stood there at the base of Black Mountain, looking to be a true man of knowledge. Danny’s open honest face, I noticed had become wiser looking then--in fact he looked like Moses. He somehow seemed taller and carried a staff the day we all threw Old Bickel to the wind. He left too quickly and we didn’t get to talk, and so can be said of all old friends who were quick but are now dead. Word comes now in real time, April 13, 2011, for example that Larry O'Neil, Danny's mining partner has just passed. Laura Ann Bickel calls with news of a good life coming to a blessed end.

People here to honor Danny are attracted to something magic in the wilderness 150 miles north of Los Angeles. It’s not the gold, though along with Papacalos, Bickel, O'Neil and many others, I’ve felt the power held in heavy metal. It’s more a harmonic convergence that brings friends to unite in a proper power spot. It can’t be seen in photographs or described with words. Still I foolishly try to capture with my lens what one feels in a haunted old mining camp. Looking for meaning, I come up short.

So it is I come to be wandering with camera around the Bickel Camp rust. I get a clue of why Danny was taken with this place. Sad, I think, that I was so self-absorbed in the years I could have visited more and learned much from Papacalos. I feel there was much I didn't see. Danny was quiet and would pass the salt at dinner around Bickel's table, but the conversation was always dominated by those of us who competed as story-tellers. This remote high desert site is named after our long-departed friend, but now, for some reason, I feel there’s something more. I look now for what I can only feel, and wonder why like a crazy man I keep producing repetitive images of Bickel Camp. I’m photographing some scenes for what must be over 100 times around this historic gold claim. Situated in the El Paso Mountains, I came here as a 13-year-old-boy 51 years ago. Like Danny The Greek, I’ve been a regular caller to Last Chance Canyon ever since. At this moment, I stand in a cosmic doorway wondering why I’m here. I watch my daughter Analissa and Tom's daughter Stephanie romp the local hills with sun catching their ponytails, and feel I almost understand. Traveling for so long as I have on the beaten paths of this volcanic lava bed, I feel a discovery is near. Finally I consider what mystic fruit I've gathered. I’ve documented the bleaching of wood, the growth of rust around Bickel Camp these many years. In real time half a century passes, and on a crisp spring morning I attempt to capture the return of rocks and old Greek miners to dust.