Here’s another tribute to the late David Daniel (1945-2026) from longtime friend Bill Crawford. He and Dave met long ago as fellow US Army soldiers and remained in close contact until Dave’s recent passing.

Bill, a writer and photojournalist, composed this poem while on a road trip from Death Valley to Mt. Whitney. He, “Young Dave,” and Jim Provencher, paused in the desert to relieve themselves and noticed a rusty fuel can in the brush. To poke fun at Dave’s affection for the writing of Lowell-native Jack Kerouac, Bill composed this Mexico City Blues-style poem, his first and only effort at verse.

Young Dave’s Lament—The True Untold Story of the Rusty Panamint Can

By William C. Crawford

Jimmy Pro held the Jetta at steady 80,

speeding hard West.

Golden Hour Light beckoned as we hoped to

avoid arrest.

We raced to photograph a majestic mountain

Lady, but our full lizzards prompted an early stop.

The High Sierras went on hold as we happily

squeezed out every last drop.

Jimmy saw it cocked sideways, half covered

by scrub mesquite.

We set it dead  upright; the morning

sun lit it just neat.

I called out to Young Dave that this rust

Bucket might hold a million colorful stories…but

He blew me off in an instant, saying

“Hell yeah!”—his words were just noise.

But that pinged, rusty can was really a big treasure,

not just junk as Young Dave imagined.

For the grizzled old miner who once

toted it was bonafide desert legend!

Death Valley Sam started hauling borax

in ’99 with 20 leather tough mules who conquered the heat.

But when he found his first yellow eyeball

sized nugget, he realized gold was neat.

Rhyolite was home, a burgeoning ville

which featured a stock exchange and indoor tennis court.

Sam prospered big time by prospecting

hard on the desert floor as he pushed due North.

Kerosene was a staple, it provided light

and heat.

His five gallon can was a fixture strapped

tightly to his truck, nothing more than a heap.

The gold ran slim by ‘09 and after.

Hauling borax now failed to satiate Sam

who could no longer find what he was really

after.

His truck was found deserted outside

a seedy Rhyolite saloon.

The body was another mile out, dead stiff

under the pale desert moon.

How Sam’s rusty can came to be out in

the Panamint, we can never really know.

But it was crammed full of stories

from that exciting gold rush so very long ago.

I unscrew the rusty cap and listen

against the desert wind.

Sam’s strong, gravelly voice is

heard at last again.

Young Dave coughed up a hearty laugh

as I cupped my ear to the can.

He shouted out an inane obscenity and off

To the car he ran.

Sam’s voice held steady as gold

rush tales poured out.

Enough to fill my writer’s notebook,

and I didn’t even need a spout!

I turned in Sam’s gripping words to

fancy lit magazines scattered ‘round.

Dave’s cynical smirk later changed

a bit when my fat author’s check rolled in bound.

Now every time I drain my lizard in my

old shaking hand,

I picture Young Dave foolishly mocking Sam’s battered

can, amid the desert sand.

****

Bill Crawford lives in Winston Salem, NC.  He is a social worker, writer, and photographer.  He was an army photo-journalist in Vietnam. His previous contributions to this site include:

I Hear You Lima Charlie

A Christmas Encounter with the Drifters

My Last Day with Ollie Noonan