I needed a cook. Bernice answered my letter with a, "Will arrive next Monday." She took the children out of school, bought them all long underwear, and soon was turning out loaves of bread on a tiny wood stove as if she had been doing it all her life. The whole adventure proved a point—we needn't wait until our little ones grew up before we could travel.

At the time of our "bucksaw" dinner we were living in a very pleasant valley within commuting distance of San Francisco. I was freelancing to ad agencies in the city and was a contributing photographer for the very posh San Francisco Magazine. This meant that I wore a vested suit and tie. Bernice had a position at a chic modeling school, and, of course, had to wear everything that was in fashion at the time. It was a lifestyle we had struggled to achieve, but dusting off the slides of Alaska, or talking about growing up in Oregon, we had begun to admit something was lacking.

I admit to being a bit overly dramatic during this dinnertime discussion. Explaining sawbucks, as in pack saddles, I did go on with, "Pack saddles?" Why, to find one today, or someone who can turn a lash cinch into a diamond hitch, you would have to make a search for a shadow of the past!"

Barry Jr. replied—as I hoped he would—that he and I had not done too shabby a job of packing mules up in Montana. Bernice gurgled something into her tea cup about a jackass leading a donkey, and a discussion then followed.

Someone (me) tried to bring the meeting to order by bringing up Jedidiah Strong Smith's name (probably no figure in Western history covered more ground with pack horses) as an example of a man worth talking about. More heated discussion.

The outcome, even though how we arrived at this point of my asking is disputed, was a question from me—"Why don't we go on a long, long, long horse pack trip?"

Today my children claim they thought Dad was just being philosophical, and more or less went along with the mood out of a minor curiosity. I also realize today that part of the reason for this grand journey, was making up for having been left behind, at age six, by my parents, when they took a horse pack trip into Oregon's Wallowa Mountains. Being a young father I relived much of my lost childhood through my own children, and as such I thought their collective, "Where?" was a validation of my dream.