Oct 3, 2004
Gary Meyer The Mountain Enterprise
Did you ever notice the El Camino Viejo plaque formerly located at "The Y" intersection of Cuddy Valley Road and Mil Potrero Highway? On Sunday, Sept. 26th it was given a new home and rededicated at The Ridge Route Communities Museum & Historical Society (let's just call it the Museum) in Frazier Park.
A large contingent from the "Ancient And Honorable Order Of E Clampus Vitus" (ECV) was on hand for the dedication. The group had spent the previous week preparing and installing the monument. "Clamper" Gene Duncker, the Master of Ceremonies, welcomed the crowd of about forty people, led the Pledge of Allegiance and gave an invocation. Museum President Donna McDonald introduced dignitaries from ECV, followed by Bonnie Ketterl Kane, Museum Historian, who provided a brief history of El Camino Viejo (The Old Highway).
The plaque was originally dedicated in 1970 at its previous location by Kern County Historical Society, Kern County Museum and E Clampus Vitus Peter Lebec Chapter 1866.
"E Clampus Vitus"? you might ask. E Clampus Vitus began in the late 1840s when Ephraim Bee, owner of the Beehive Tavern in present day Doddridge County, West Virginia, decided he needed some promotional spark for his business. Bee fabricated a story about an emissary from China who had brought to America the ancient traditions, secrets and signs which became the basis for a new order--a brotherhood. In reality it was all a joke to poke fun at the stuffy seriousness of the various lodges like the Elks, the Moose and others.
But when two miners headed for California, C.W. Wright and Joseph Zumwalt, stopped in at the Beehive, they enjoyed the lore so much they took it to California where E Clampus Vitus became the rage among miners of the gold rush era. The allure of ECV was its accessibility to common men who were not part of "higher" social circles. While ECV may have begun as a joke, it did become a true system of support among miners from 1850 through the end of the century. Members wore bright red shirts so others could easily see if they were in trouble. If someone had to leave his claim, brotherhood members would keep watch for him. If the member died, the brotherhood would look after his family. Laughing, Duncker says the Clampers have a saying in Latin: "Per curitate viduaribus orphanibusque--sed prime viduaribus." Translated this means: "For the care of widows and orphans--particularly the widows."
For fun the original Clampers would mock the snootier lodges by cutting up old peach can bottoms, writing corny phrases on the tin pieces and pinning them on their red shirts as badges and medals.
The organization died out after the gold and silver mining booms. But in 1931, three gold rush historians, Carl Wheat, Ezra Dane and Leon Whittsell, held a public meeting which included information about E Clampus Vitus and was reported in newspapers. Adam Lee Moore saw a news article and contacted the men. Moore had been intimately involved with ECV and gave the historians full detail on all aspects of the organization including initiation rites, signs and secrets.
Today, E Clampus Vitus has chapters throughout California, Oregon, Nevada, Arizona and Colorado. The Peter Lebec Chapter #1866 holds Kern County as its protectorate. ECV's mission is to look after one another and find interesting historical locations they can mark with monuments from which the public might learn.
According to Ex Noble Grand Humbug, Duncker, one ECV Peter Lebec Chapter member discovered that only yards away from the end of his driveway is the spot where the last stagecoach robbery in Kern County took place. And yes, there is a plaque there now.
May 8, 2001
by Jeff Kramer
This weekend marked my return to the ancient and honorable order of E.
Clampus Vitus, a rowdy fraternity of mostly middle-aged guys who convene
in the desert to share their passion for history, nonsense and ice-cold
domestic beer.
It's quite the scene, these twice-yearly outings. Picture a ragtag encampment
of tents and RVs strewn across the California desert. Picture hundreds of
unwashed men in red shirts sweltering in 95-degree heat. Now picture a
healthy ration of beans at suppertime, and you start to see why the ACLU
isn't pounding down the lodge door to get women admitted to this male-only
redoubt.
Yes, membership has its privileges. But sometimes there's much to be said
for being ostracized.
All of which helps explain why I haven't been to a "Clampout" since my
veteran Clamper neighbor, J.B., roped me into the group's bizarre hazing
ritual two years ago.
Frankly, I was in no hurry to go back, but J.B. was adamant that I experience
life as a full-fledged "Red Shirt," as regulars are called. So after two years
of lame excuses, such as the birth of my child, I drove to Camp Young,
headquarters of Gen. George S. Patton's World War II Desert Training
Center, to hook up with "the brethren."
Suddenly, it all made sense. As I stood outside the Patton Museum, gazing at
the ancient tanks and vast desertscape where a million young Americans
once trained to fight Rommel, I couldn't help but wonder what kind of a
Clamper Ol' Blood 'n Guts would have made. Coors Lite or Miller Genuine
Draft? Doritos or Cheez-Its? Dune buggie or Sherman tank?
I felt proud to be a Clamper, a feeling that deepened when I met Ben
Rosenblatt, J.B.'s latest recruit, or "Poor Blind Candidate."
A pal of J.B.'s from their Air Force days, Ben immediately distinguished
himself as Clamper timber by getting on the wrong jetliner to come to the
Clampout.
That anyone would actually fly to one of these things in the first place is
probably a sign of a larger problem, but for now let's just stick to Ben's
itinerary.
Last Thursday, Ben, 38, departed his home city of Detroit via Southwest
Airlines for Ontario. He was supposed to change planes in Nashville. He
didn't.
"I could have sworn they said the plane was going to Ontario, but what they
said was 'Orlando,' " Ben said.
He didn't suspect something was wrong until the plane landed a second time,
and he exited the terminal.
"I got to the street and the first thing I noticed was there were five cars with
Florida license plates," he said. "They have that big orange or peach."
Is this guy Grand Noble Humbug material or what?
Eventually, Southwest rebooked Ben, and he arrived in Ontario 14 hours
after his journey started. But it was all worth it. He made it to the Clampout,
survived the hazing and is no doubt busy recruiting Poor Blind Candidates
back in Detroit or in some similar-sounding city such as Des Moines.
Wherever you are, Ben, welcome to the Clampers.
We may not be the best-looking, most sophisticated guys in the world. But
we sure smell bad.
October 18, 1998
Ever have the urge to spend a weekend in the desert
with 400 drunken, unwashed men?
Me neither.
Nonetheless, when my neighbor, J.B., invited me to
join something called E. Clampus Vitus, curiosity took
hold.
What exactly was E. Clampus Vitus? And did it
respond to penicillin?
J.B. explained that the Clampers — as members call
themselves — are a hard-drinking parody of more
respectable fraternal organizations such as the Elks.
"We just hang out in the desert twice a year," J.B.
explained. "We're Clampers."
A little digging showed that the club roared to life
during the California Gold Rush as a social circle for
miners. Historians revived it in 1931, and today
chapters dot the West.
And so it came to pass that three of those chapters —
including one that encompasses Orange County —
gathered last weekend for a "clampout" in Jawbone
Canyon, a sad-ass strip of desert outside Mojave.
Arriving there was like stepping into a scene from
"Road Warrior." Bearish men staggered about a
postapocalyptic sprawl of motor homes, 4x4s and
wind-whipped tents. There was much scratching,
burping (or worse) and boastful exposing of pendulous
midsections. Almost everyone was drinking beer,
albeit light beer. It was 10 a.m.
In short, it was an ideal setting to observe how large
groups of men behave when left to their own dubious
devices:
Observation #1: Swearing Is Not Optional.
If you're in a four-wheel-drive vehicle and you wish to
warn the driver of a large rock in the road, shouting
"Watch out!" will normally suffice.
A Clamper, however, expresses the same idea more
colorfully, e.g., "There's a bleepin' bleep in the
bleepin' bleep, you stupid bleep!" To which the driver,
after hitting the rock, replies: "Thanks for the bleepin'
warning, bleephead."
It's like a bleepin' foreign language.
Observation #2: Men Are Easily Amused.
Actual Clamper exchange:
First Clamper: "Whoa!"
Second Clamper: "Look at that!"
Me: "What's everybody looking at?"
First Clamper: "Some guy just drove over a cooler!"
Observation #3: Bored Men Embrace Ritual.
I was one of 44 Clamper hopefuls — known as "poor
blind candidates" or PBCs — at the clampout. As
such, we were subjected to a daylong hazing that
included singing stupid songs, enduring idiotic verbal
abuse and being required to hang fresh fruit from our
necks. The top-secret initiation ritual involved a
blindfold admittance to the sacred "Hall of
Comparative Ovations" and much sounding of the
hewgag.
Don't ask.
At one point, we were asked if we'd willingly mount a
wild ass. Answering in the affirmative, I was promptly
ushered into the fraternity of Clamperdom.
From there I retired with J.B. to a converted city bus
that was home to two ancient Clampers from Helper,
Utah.
It was then that I began to ponder all I'd left behind to
become a Clamper: the big-screen TV, my lovely
wife, our two cats ... the big-screen TV.
It was time to go home and relearn how to eat with
utensils — but only until the bray of the hewgag again
summons me into the company of men.
Heck, next time I may even run over a cooler.
You can reach Jeff Kramer at (714) 647-6897 or
JeffK@link.freedom.com
E-mail me!!!Are you a Clamper ??
