Last month my wife and I took a protracted road trip through the Pacific Northwest and eventually worked our way through Idaho.  Along the way, we were scheduled to stop in the picturesque little town of Orofino, where it had become a ritual to stop by the home of retired Bell Gardens police chief, Ferice Childers.  Prior to transferring to Anaheim P.D. in ’74, I had worked for that small L.A. county department for five years and the chief had become sort of a hero to me.  His administrative style and support of his personnel had become legendary back in the day and virtually all of us who had served on that P.D.  idolized him.  We became fast friends as the years slipped by and the wife and I would make countless trips to his charming retirement home along the Clearwater River, in a secluded storybook valley of northern Idaho.  While in his mid-eighties, as Alzheimer’s began to devastate the once sharp mind of the old ex-lawman, his eyes still lit up and his spirit would perk, as we discussed our incredible experiences during the wild, old days in that little city in southeast Los Angeles County.  Fortunately, his long-term memories were the last thing to go and he always recalled the old times.

       During the first week in July, as we had begun our vacation along the Rogue River in Oregon, the chief’s son called us and said things were looking bad for his father.  The old warrior had contracted pneumonia and was rushed to a local hospital.  He wasn’t expected to make it.  We drove for most of the night, hoping to see him alive, one last time and arrived early in the morning.  Despite transversing Oregon in record time, we would arrive too late.  His son, whom we had never met, told us the sad news and then asked us to come to the chief’s home for an evening of reminiscing and story telling.  Eventually, we sat around late into the night and exchanged pleasant memories about his larger-than-life father.  The son had lived in Florida during portions of his adult life and had missed some of the great moments of his father’s accomplished life. Now he was hungry for stories about his father.  At about 1:00 a.m. we wrapped it up and what had begun as a sad occasion had turned into a celebration of fond memories.  Talking about the old days had taken some of the edge of the pain we were all feeling.  Acceptance was slowly taking its place.  There would be no funeral for the old lawman.  His son would comply with his last wishes of cremation and a plain urn that would be placed into the grave of his earlier deceased wife.  No services, no fuss, no muss—a simple ending for an unpretentious man.

     Just before we left Orofino, the chief’s son pressed a lard leather case into my hand.  It contained his father’s chief’s badge.  “I think he would want you to have this,” he said matter-of-factly.  “You friendship with him stood the test of time.”  I felt humbled and grateful as we left the little town and headed towards the Nez Perce mountains.  It had been a sad time arriving on the prior day, but now we had made a new friend and would have continued reasons to return to this beautiful area.

    A day later we had entered Nevada and set the car’s GPS to head for home.  Usually, we take I-80 through Truckee and then work our way down to Sacramento.  For some reason, we weren’t paying attention as we passed through Reno and allowed the GPS to take us down through Carson City—not really the route we had wanted.  Frustrated, by what I perceived as an unnecessary detour, I hurriedly looked for an exit to backtrack our route to Reno.  A moment later the red lights in my rear-view mirror re-focused my attention.  One of Carson City’s finest had nailed me with his radar gun.  “65 in a 45,” he quipped as he smilingly asked for my license and registration.  I noted he already had his pen in hand. Moments later I noticed a furrow in his brow and he commented about my unusual name.  He then asked if I had ever been a cop in Southern California and added that his dad had been a L.A. County police officer back in the day.  Finally we put two and two together and realized his father and I had gone through the academy together, back when the earth was still cooling and had often talked about our friendship during those years.  What a stroke of luck…what a relief.  He gave me his dad’s phone number and told me to have a nice day.  I promised him I’d give his dad a call and slowly drove out of town, counting my blessings.

     Suddenly we weren’t in a hurry anymore and decided to follow the crazy route suggested by the GPS.  The insistent female voice had really become annoying when I tried to turn around.  At times it sounded like an angry high school librarian scolding you for talking too loud.  We continued along 395 and passed little towns called Minden and Gardnerville and passed Topaz Lake.  Eventually the angry GPS lady seemed to calm down and routed us west on 89 and then into the high Sierras on Highway 4.  My wife and I looked at each other is disbelief as we continued to climb higher and higher into the snow-capped peaks and were sure something or someone was playing a sick joke on us.  I swore an oath that the GPS would be replaced when we got home.  As time passed, a strange thing began to happen.  We began to pass through some of the most beautiful areas of California I had ever seen.  Little places named “Big Valley” and “Cottage Springs” began to appear and they were incredibly pristine.  We hardly encountered anyone else and were so overwhelmed by the picturesque splendor, it was difficult not to stop every five minutes and absorb God’s handiwork.  At the 10,000 foot level the snow pack was still unbelievably thick for a warm July afternoon.  We made a snowman and frolicked like teenagers along the crystal clear lakes.  The trout swimming along the surface looked inviting, but we had brought neither fishing poles nor ice chests.  Our original route home would not have contained such pleasant distractions.  We spent several hours breathing in the clear mountain air and continued making frequent stops for the remainder of the day.  Sometime during the early evening we hit civilization again as the GPS voice brought into Sonora, CA.

    The trip had been a reminder of sorts that even though we encounter sad or frustrating events in life, somehow there is always an upside.  My old friend had died in Idaho, but I made a new one in the form of his son.  The traffic cop in Reno had nailed me when I was speeding through his town, but I had lucked out incredibly by knowing his father.  Once again, I would have the opportunity to re-connect with another old friend.  The odd route forced on us by the GPS turned into the nicest days of our vacation.  This time around every dark cloud really did have a silver ling.