Chapter 9 ~ Page 116
I'm happy to say that my "Murray Pass" worked out well. Bernice and the girls enjoyed topping out in a meadow of wildflowers. The boys were fascinated by the truly wild wildlife we happened across. And I was ecstatic, that without hesitating, or back-tracking, I was able to lead the string across the river and into the woods, to reach the Iceberg, and a trail leading on up Disaster Creek.
What disaster could befall us with Creator leading the way? We made camp early in a patch of knee high grass (I guess intuition told me it was there) by a bend in the creek that slowed the water down into a perfect swimming pool. The only calamity here was that there wasn't enough groceries left in our panniers to spend another day of idealic leisure.
That evening, Bernice produced a spaghetti out of ketchup, noodles, and a smile. She handed James his meager portion, and one of two remaining forks. James, reverting to his all systems crash procedures, or maybe because he really liked eating with his fingers, dropped the fork into the creek. When he bent over to pick it up, his dinner slid off his plate.
The next morning our menu was one bowl of watery oatmeal, stolen from our horsefeed supply. James set his portion down on the small log I was using for a breakfast table, asked where one of our three spoons was, and lay down on the ground to wait until one was made available. I finished, licked off my spoon (a quaint custom we had adopted to save time and hot water), gave it to him, and stood up. The log I had been sitting on also sprung up. James' breakfast did a triple somersault to land in the dirt. Disaster!
On James, starvation looked good. He had lost over 40 pounds since the start of the trip, and now was catching the eye of any girl we passed. This day, we had to travel a few miles of the Ebbets Pass road past picnic areas and campgrounds. We were stopped by a garbage collector and asked to pose for a photograph. He then drove ahead to tell everyone within shouting distance that, "a family riding from Mexico City to Alaska," was coming by. It was as if we were on parade. Friendly campers waved. Yet nobody thought to offer us a cup of coffee, warmed over beans, leftover crusts of bread, and we were too proud to ask.
After passing through this enthusiastic reception, I asked James, "Did you see that cute blond waving at you?"
'Was she a blond?" he replied. "All I saw was a chicken leg in one hand waving through the air."
What disaster could befall us with Creator leading the way? We made camp early in a patch of knee high grass (I guess intuition told me it was there) by a bend in the creek that slowed the water down into a perfect swimming pool. The only calamity here was that there wasn't enough groceries left in our panniers to spend another day of idealic leisure.
That evening, Bernice produced a spaghetti out of ketchup, noodles, and a smile. She handed James his meager portion, and one of two remaining forks. James, reverting to his all systems crash procedures, or maybe because he really liked eating with his fingers, dropped the fork into the creek. When he bent over to pick it up, his dinner slid off his plate.
The next morning our menu was one bowl of watery oatmeal, stolen from our horsefeed supply. James set his portion down on the small log I was using for a breakfast table, asked where one of our three spoons was, and lay down on the ground to wait until one was made available. I finished, licked off my spoon (a quaint custom we had adopted to save time and hot water), gave it to him, and stood up. The log I had been sitting on also sprung up. James' breakfast did a triple somersault to land in the dirt. Disaster!
On James, starvation looked good. He had lost over 40 pounds since the start of the trip, and now was catching the eye of any girl we passed. This day, we had to travel a few miles of the Ebbets Pass road past picnic areas and campgrounds. We were stopped by a garbage collector and asked to pose for a photograph. He then drove ahead to tell everyone within shouting distance that, "a family riding from Mexico City to Alaska," was coming by. It was as if we were on parade. Friendly campers waved. Yet nobody thought to offer us a cup of coffee, warmed over beans, leftover crusts of bread, and we were too proud to ask.
After passing through this enthusiastic reception, I asked James, "Did you see that cute blond waving at you?"
'Was she a blond?" he replied. "All I saw was a chicken leg in one hand waving through the air."
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Text and Photographs © Barry Murray 1971-2007 Mac&Murray Multimedia