Chapter 9 ~ Page 115
We were brought back to the present the next day by one of the few commercial pack strings we met on the trail. And, a welcome visit to their resort store.
Only problem here was that Bernice just had $3.27 in cash money to spend. Which came first—staples, or candy? In the mountains we all craved chocolate (I rarely touch it elsewhere) and, unwisely, she spent too much to satisfy a sweet tooth.
I was tempted by offers from tourists who thought our horses for hire. James was insulted. Forgetting that five months ago he hadn't known a lash cinch from a lead pipe cinch, he couldn't understand how anyone could compare our well-tied diamonds with the sloppy squaw hitches the local packers used.
His mumbling led a man dressed in Bermuda shorts and starched white shirt to remark, "From Mexico? My God you people must be tough."
Being the first time we had heard this particular comment, I was about to bashfully disagree, when Bernice and my daughters returned from the store with the tiny sack of groceries that were to last until reaching Lake Tahoe. Looking at their straggly, dusty, hair; chapped hands: sunburnt faces, I had to admit to that fellow, "You're right."
We were so tough we didn't even need a trail to cross over the next mountain. We didn't even care if there was, or wasn't. Bernice and Daisy took the lead following a few ancient blazes that lead to an abandoned miners shack. From there on, we were on our own, going cross-country over a high pass with only an eye for the country, and topographic map, to show the way.
I will admit to being lost in the woods only one time in my life. That was long ago. Since then I have "lost my camp" a few times, but as we were traveling with our home lashed on a pack horse's back, even that wasn't possible on this trip. The expression my family used to cast doubt on my scouting abilities was to ask if I was leading them on a "scenic detour?"
In spite of their loudly voiced opinions, I always enjoyed taking off on an uncharted short-cut, knowing that if we crossed this ridge, somewhere on the other side was a creek, that would lead to a river, and if that was so, then we could turn north again and head for a mountain that looked like an iceberg. This is somewhat the method used by the mountain man and Indian. From a few sketches traced in sand they could figure out from the lay of the land just how to reach a spot unknown to them except for a description as rabbit ears peak, window gap, or the iceberg.
Only problem here was that Bernice just had $3.27 in cash money to spend. Which came first—staples, or candy? In the mountains we all craved chocolate (I rarely touch it elsewhere) and, unwisely, she spent too much to satisfy a sweet tooth.
I was tempted by offers from tourists who thought our horses for hire. James was insulted. Forgetting that five months ago he hadn't known a lash cinch from a lead pipe cinch, he couldn't understand how anyone could compare our well-tied diamonds with the sloppy squaw hitches the local packers used.
His mumbling led a man dressed in Bermuda shorts and starched white shirt to remark, "From Mexico? My God you people must be tough."
Being the first time we had heard this particular comment, I was about to bashfully disagree, when Bernice and my daughters returned from the store with the tiny sack of groceries that were to last until reaching Lake Tahoe. Looking at their straggly, dusty, hair; chapped hands: sunburnt faces, I had to admit to that fellow, "You're right."
We were so tough we didn't even need a trail to cross over the next mountain. We didn't even care if there was, or wasn't. Bernice and Daisy took the lead following a few ancient blazes that lead to an abandoned miners shack. From there on, we were on our own, going cross-country over a high pass with only an eye for the country, and topographic map, to show the way.
I will admit to being lost in the woods only one time in my life. That was long ago. Since then I have "lost my camp" a few times, but as we were traveling with our home lashed on a pack horse's back, even that wasn't possible on this trip. The expression my family used to cast doubt on my scouting abilities was to ask if I was leading them on a "scenic detour?"
In spite of their loudly voiced opinions, I always enjoyed taking off on an uncharted short-cut, knowing that if we crossed this ridge, somewhere on the other side was a creek, that would lead to a river, and if that was so, then we could turn north again and head for a mountain that looked like an iceberg. This is somewhat the method used by the mountain man and Indian. From a few sketches traced in sand they could figure out from the lay of the land just how to reach a spot unknown to them except for a description as rabbit ears peak, window gap, or the iceberg.
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Text and Photographs © Barry Murray 1971-2007 Mac&Murray Multimedia