It was evening, the campfire was blazing heartily, and our group crowded round, enjoying the comradery. It was a balmy and clear summer evening in 1978. Our camp was somewhere northwest of Shirley Basin near Bolten Creek. There’s no way I could find the location today, but it was near Chalk Mountain, somewhere in the middle of nowhere.
I recall it well, although my memory is just that — a recollection that is subject to fuzziness these many years later. I apologize in advance if my remembrance is slightly different from others who were there and recall it differently.