Joining the mysterious ranks of the Clampers*
“From here on out you are nothing. In fact, you’re less than nothing, you’re a PBC, a Poor Blind Candidate, a friggin’ Puke!” my sponsor, “Cornflake,” said as he handed me a chicken egg and some string.
Written all over the eggshell, in thick black Sharpie, were terrible and immoral things, the types of things most southern states consider illegal. And worse yet, the egg said that I—the knucklehead now wearing what some chicken pooped out around my neck like a bad luck medallion—apparently wanted to do these things to people called the “Hangman,” the “Humbug” and their poor (and somewhat wanton) “widders.”
It was at about this time, a late Friday morning at Angel’s Restaurant, a tasty bbq place in Mammoth Lakes, California and official E Clampus Vitus (ECV) Watering Hole, when the reality of what I was about to do fully settled in like a fat guy plopping down on a barstool. So when Cornflake said it was time to head out, my heart began to race—with one thought in particular racing through my head: What the hell was I drinking when I accepted an invitation to join the Clampers?!
After chugging down his Budweiser, pulling out a cigarette and taking a few steps towards the door, Cornflake turned, shot me a look as if I were nothing better than an ashtray or worse yet–an appletini-drinker–and warned, “And God help you if you’re wearing anything red!”
Credo Quia Absurdum
As we made our way south, stopping at other Official ECV Watering Holes like Tom’s Place Resort, McMurray’s in Bishop and E and J’s in Big Pine, the “Red Shirts” escorting me gave a history lesson on the Ancient and Honorable Order of E Clampus Vitus, while I coddled the egg and began calling it “My Precious.”
“First of all, anything I tell you has been gathered from various sources including liberally plagiarizing, stealing, absconding, pilfering, looting and misappropriating the work of others. Be that as it may, I believe it to be reasonably accurate,” Cornflake said, as we rolled our way down the Owens Valley.
“Just how E Clampus Vitus came to be is a matter of some conjecture depending on the occasion at hand or how much the interpreter has had to drink,” Cornflake explained, as he pulled a pack of smokes from the chest pocket of his red t-shirt.
“But basically, there was a guy named Ephraim Bee who was rejected from joining the Masons or the Odd Fellows or the Royal Mounties or whatever the men’s group of the time was, because they said he wasn’t upstanding enough. So he decided to start his own men’s club that would be open to all men of ‘upstanding character’ and would mock the hell out of the groups that rejected him,” Cornflake said, as early summer clouds made their way from the snow capped Sierra to the tan-topped Inyos.
“Upstanding citizens who were willing to be put through a withering blast of humiliation and still keep their cool,” added “Kelso,” a recent convert to the historical drinking cult of the Clampers. “Hell, the motto, Credo Quia Absurdum, basically means, ‘I believe it because it’s absurd.’”
“But you do have to be invited to join…or sometimes they just come and haul you out of bed at three o’clock in the morning,” Cornflake said, with a devious chuckle.
“Well it looks like the fun is over for you, Puke. We’re here: Taboose Creek Campground. Now it really starts. Are you ready?” Cornflake asked.
“I…I, I guess so. Yes, “ I stuttered out, while staring in amazement at the sight of an entire campground being taken over by hundreds of men wearing red t-shirts.
“Yes, what!”
“Yes, Sir, Mister Red Shirt, Sir,” I answered back, while hugging My Precious and keeping my eyes on the lookout for anyone who looked like a hobbit.
Watermelon Hats
The rest of the afternoon My Precious, an odd mixture of other Pukes of all ages, races and odors, and I put up tents, cleaned up trash and occasionally sang songs about little teapots and adult film plots involving Pukes and surly farm animals.
At some point, the sun went down, the moon came up, bottles of beer and booze got tipped up and before I knew it the sun had returned in streaks of violet.
As is often my custom after a night of big drinking, I greeted the sun by violently streaking the grounds around my tent in upchuck. My Precious tried to console me, but instead decided to turn my shirt into a Denver omelet. Rest its delicious-when-fried-up soul, I’ll never forget what little I can remember of the nearly 24 hours we spent together.
I didn’t have long to morn though, for as soon as I got out of my tent I was summoned.
“McKenna! You good-for-nothing, sack of cow manure. What the hell happened to you? I’ve seen better looking turds! … And where in God’s name is your egg, son?!” the “Major” hollered at me, in his piercing drill sergeant voice.
The Major then slowly strolled up to within a few inches of my face, the brim of his black cowboy hat skimming my forehead. As the smell of his freshly planted dip of chewing tobacco filled my nose, he said, “Now don’t make me remind you that I’m a retired Navy Seal and I can make your life a living hell! You hear me, boy?”
The Major then paused for a few seconds of eternity, just long enough so he could give me the kind of nasty look usually reserved for people found guilty of stuff like bestiality or blasphemy against beer, before hollering, “We’re going to see what kind of man you are today, son! So here, take this inflated pink flamingo and you better pray I don’t see you treating it the way you treated that poor egg.”
As the sun slowly took the night’s chill out of the air, the Pukes, my new companion “Pinkie” and I were escorted back up to Bishop to start the Little Slippery at Rusty’s Saloon.
The Little Slippery is the first part of the initiation ritual for E Clampus Vitus. While just about every western state and a couple eastern ones have Clamper Chapters or Outposts, about 40 or so individual groups in all, not all Chapters do their initiation rituals or “Do-Ins” the same way.
But in general, the Little Slippery and Plaque Dedication part of the procedure are open to the public. As in, the public driving up and down Main Street in Bishop on the beautiful June morning while I and about 60 other watermelon hat-wearing PBCs serenaded, waved to and welcomed traffic to town.
For what seemed like hours stretched into months, the Poor Blind Candidates were paraded around downtown Bishop, stopping here and there to pick up trash or sing the national anthem. All the while, steady calls of, “Just 10 more minutes,” echoed from the hordes of Clampers hovering around the Pukes like a bunch of beer swilling red-shirted goblins.
Just as it started to visibly wear on some of the Pukes around me, an Inyo County Police car rolled up in front of us and stopped (giving us Pukes a glimmer of hope that this nonsense would soon come to an end). He grabbed his PA and then called out to the delight of the crowd of Clampers and onlookers of all ages, “Okay boys, just 10 more minutes!”
The Big Slippery
The only thing most folks know about the Clampers—besides the fact that they spend lots of money in bars—are the historical markers they’ve put up all over the western U.S.. The Golden State, especially along the mighty Sierra Nevada, is literally polka-dotted with such plaques. From the fire engine red wall of Ken’s Sports in Bridgeport to the desert sands of Panamint Springs in Death Valley, the Eastside is freckled with Clamper plaques. After all, honoring history (especially while drinking beer) is a big part of Clamperdom.
In fact, countless historical figures are believed to have been Clampers including: Gene “the Singing Cowboy” Autry, former President Ulysses S. Grant, car maker John Studebaker, famous author Horatio Alger and even Mark Twain, who, legend has it, first heard the story about the celebrated jumping frog of Calaveras County at a Clampout.
For our Clamper class, a bronze plaque was placed on a large piece of Inyo County native dolomite—as is tradition for ECV Slim Princess Chapter 395—just off Highway 395 to honor the spot where the Los Angeles Aqueduct first began several miles below Big Pine.
After the dedication, the Pukes were rounded up and shipped back to Taboose Creek, where about 300 grown men wearing red shirts awaited the final stage of the initiation, the dreaded Big Slippery.
As to just what happens during the Big Slippery, most non-Clampers don’t have a clue—at least they didn’t until now.
What happens is that each Poor Blind Candidate gets … sworn to secrecy, while learning new meanings for terms like “dirty, ” "brotherhood" and what it smells like to be fish bait.
If I were to tell you what actually happens during the Big Slippery, I’d not only be breaking a vow, I’d forever piss off a whole bunch of Clampers. And quite frankly, I like drinking with the boys.
After cleaning up from the Big Slippery and putting on my first official “Red Shirt,” Cornflake escorted me to the chow line.
“You did a fine job. I’m proud of you. You smell like crap and I don’t want to go anywhere near your tent, King Ralph, nor do I want to know what you’ve done with that flamingo, but I want you to know this,” Cornflake said, as he put his arm around me, “you’re a Clamper now, and no matter where you go in your life you’ll always be a Clamper and you’ll always be able to find a brother.”
Since that day, I’ve also been to Do-Ins in Mono County (Bodie Chapter 64) and Alpine County (Snowshoe Thomson Chapter 1827) and Cornflake’s words have rung true. As does the Clamper myth that the initiation always gets easier every year—unless you’re going in the Bodie Chapter, in which case it’ll probably never get easier than giving birth and it will certainly smell worse.
After all, E Clampus Vitus isn’t even Latin. It literally means nothing. But it means a whole red-hot hell of a lot as well.
As Twain, showing of his Clamper roots, once wrote, “Sometimes too much drink is barely enough.”
*[This article is appearing in honor of the first official charter Do-Ins in Idaho, the Snake River Chapter 1811, to be held September 10th, 2011.This article originally appeared in the Fall 2010 issue of Eastside Magazine.]
