Chapter 2 ~ Page 29
I had planned for an easy first day of ten miles. After 16 of detouring, we still had three to go to the recommended camping area when the fireball of an orange sun began to set behind strange desert mountains. My eye was well familiar with the contour lines that popped peaks out of U.S.G.S. topographic maps, but I had not yet developed the knack of predicting good campsites. These maps showed green forest and brush, but nothing about grazing. Later I learned to read that a reasonably open, flat, area clear of brush or forest, which had some water, meant grass—hopefully enough to hold our string for the night. On a few occasions my forecast of a meadow turned out to be solid rock, or sand, which gave me a choice of beating my head against, or burying same in.
However, this time, without realizing the problems involved, we were traveling dumb lucky. Just before dusk we happened upon a cool, grass edged, stream. Rather than push on to the "recommended campsite," which we were to discover later had an 'outdoor convenience,' but no grazing, we put the matter to a seat of the pants vote. Blisters on our imagination won. This was far enough.
And just as well, for from the moment we started to dismount, our day fell apart into little pieces. To describe it I need a ragtime piano playing Bernice, The Poor Packers Wife, or Why Oh Did I Ever Leave Old Campo.
Singing along, the words go something as:
Oh we took a lash rope and tied it to a tree,
Tying up Biggy, he stepped on me.
Chiquita pulled off her pack on the rope,
With a laugh and a giggle took off at a lope.
No-Name played the fool and danced around,
Stepped over the rope and was hung two feet off the ground.
At the sight of water, Charlie's knees got weak,
With a hop and a jump, tossed James in the creek.
(chorus)
Catch Skookum,
Oh, catch Petite,
Oh, catch Pokey,
This trail life can't be beat
However, this time, without realizing the problems involved, we were traveling dumb lucky. Just before dusk we happened upon a cool, grass edged, stream. Rather than push on to the "recommended campsite," which we were to discover later had an 'outdoor convenience,' but no grazing, we put the matter to a seat of the pants vote. Blisters on our imagination won. This was far enough.
And just as well, for from the moment we started to dismount, our day fell apart into little pieces. To describe it I need a ragtime piano playing Bernice, The Poor Packers Wife, or Why Oh Did I Ever Leave Old Campo.
Singing along, the words go something as:Oh we took a lash rope and tied it to a tree,
Tying up Biggy, he stepped on me.
Chiquita pulled off her pack on the rope,
With a laugh and a giggle took off at a lope.
No-Name played the fool and danced around,
Stepped over the rope and was hung two feet off the ground.
At the sight of water, Charlie's knees got weak,
With a hop and a jump, tossed James in the creek.
(chorus)
Catch Skookum,
Oh, catch Petite,
Oh, catch Pokey,
This trail life can't be beat
Colette bent down to brush four legs,
One came up and stomped on our eggs,
Bernadette scared another with hobbles,
He took off and smashed a liniment bottle.
BJ mixed it well setting up a tent,
And added some oats to the gooey omelet.
My wife, I admit, sure is a winner,
Out of this she concocted a dinner.
(repeat chorus)
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Text and Photographs © Barry Murray 1971-2007 Mac&Murray Multimedia