Austin High School - Castilleja Yearbook (Austin, NV)

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The cleats crunched the gravel as Leo, a leading mountaineer in the Montana Young Athlete Thirty Miles Marathon Enduro, arrived. Leo had come from Washington State University to practice in these hills for the Enduro. He didn't know these roads but he seemed to think he could find his way back. It was hot but this country was beautiful; birds were singing and every once in a while a chipmunk would run across the road in front of him. Leo looked at his run- o-meter—seventeen miles. He looked to what he thought was the east. If he had a compass he would have known it was due south and would have seen a huge thundercloud coming. Leo turned into the sagebrush. He had to be turning back. His watch and his diamond inlay Saint Christopher medal shone in the disappearing sun. Up in a bare saddle watching Leo stood an old man about fifty-five. He wore a brown ragged beard and shoulder length hair. A smile flashed across his face for an instant; then he turned and limped back to his horse. He loped around two rock knolls to a hill where huge boulders sat. Leo ran into a gully. The old man set off a rock. It rolled and bounced down the hill. Leo stopped. He heard sagebrush breaking. The rock hit him. His leg was under the rock. He knew it was broken but he wasn't worried. Leo knew they could track him down. Then he passed out. When he awoke he saw the old man above him holding the watch and Saint Christopher medal. Hey! Wow! Help me move this rock, Leo said. Sorry son, the old man said and left. Leo still wasn't scared. He looked up the hill and saw the rain. He heard the water rushing down the gulley from the cloudburst and he cried. —Dwight Bennett

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SNOW White upon the ground Natures cover for the earth; Soon to quickly melt. —Seventh Grade Class Fall, 1971 CREEK QUIET Among such stillness- The cry of the cicadas Sinks into the rocks. —Mark Sell 8th Grade Fall, 1971 FIRE Fire in the forest; Death and suffering to all; To die for nothing. —Jay Winrod 8th Grade Spring, 1971 STORM The coolness of the Air, the mixing of the clouds; Then the fall of rain. —Mark Sell 7th Grade Spring, 1971 21

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UNTITLED James Frank Wooten was the average, fun-loving weatherman. He was in the demolition department—one expert in his field. The time was two-thirty five. He synchronized his watch with the Captain. You can do the job very easy Jimmy. It's an old people home, the Captain told James confidently. While you're at it there's a coke machine in the lobby; you can rip off the change box. Sure, Cap'n. I got my kit all ready last night, James said. James headed out of the office. He was wearing his white repairman suit. He got into the cream Volkswagen van and drove towards the Monsanto Hills Retirement Home. Nurse, nurse ! Come in here ! Did you read in here where these lousy, long-haired hippies got caught with all that no-good dope? , Old Tony Valentine complained to anyone that would listen. Yes, Mr. Valentine. Now calm down or I'll have to take that paper away from you. Nurse Sandy Lazer spoke sternly to Old Man Valentine. Sandy was 24, bright, pretty, and also a member of the weathermen. She thought to herself, I'll be glad when they blow up that old pig. Sandy checked her watch; two-twenty-three. Jimmy should be over. She'd better go let him in. Jim was wearing a good disguise as Sandy led him into the storage room. O. K. Sandy, you better split. I'll go in fifteen minutes, James whispered into her ear. Sandy hurried down to the main desk. She thought to herself, If this fat ox would hurry. The nurse at the desk kept asking her questions about her dress and dumb stuff like that. Sandy looked at her watch—only twelve minutes to leave. James was sweating furiously. This was the most delicate part. If he cut too far into the green wire it would explode in ten seconds. These wire pliers were hard to use. He slipped and completely bisected the green wire. James Frank Wooten knew he was a dead man. Sandy Lazer walked toward the door and thought to herself, I'll be glad to see these rich old hags gone. Then she thought no more for the Monsanto Hills Retirement Home was leveled to the ground. —Dwight Bennett 8th Grade Spring, 1971 23