Chapter 12 ~ Page 160
Coincidentally, this momentous sighting of Shasta was made, according to my navigation notes, just as we reached our first 100 mile mark of the summer. Even with breaking the string in easy, and two layover days, we were rolling along. Having a familiar snowcapped mountain to guide the way, we could at last dare to think that our prospects of reaching the Oregon border were believable. And, at the rate we were traveling we would, depending on circumstances, leave California behind in ten days.
The proprietor of the grocery store solved the problem of where to camp that night. He sent his children along to show us a little meadow bordered by a slow moving creek. One rode along behind me, hanging onto the saddle with white knuckles. The other negotiated the rocky trail on bicycle, so both would have a way to return home.
This spot happened to be on private land. This didn't stop our guides, for they knew where a hole in the fence was located, and "Papa," said it was all right. Later on "Papa" arrived on a tiny, tiny, motor scooter. He covered it so well only the handle bars and headlight were visible; an oversized pistol holster he was wearing practically drug on the ground. He had started thinking about logging operations ahead, and wanted to warn us to be careful.
As thoughtful as his concern was, we weren't really worried. I wrinkled my brow out of appreciation, but smiled inside thinking about how smoothly everything had been working out. Even Jed and Mandy were acting like old trail veterans. What with The Colonel leading our parade, meeting up with a few log trucks didn't sound much of a problem.
What I was a bit more apprehensive about, was crossing the dam at Lake Britton the next day. This turned out to be a one lane bridge, a bottleneck that caused us to become trapped in a logging truck traffic jamb. However, this in turn accustomed our new horses to the sight and sound of these frightening looking vehicles that carried their own hind wheels piggy-back going into the woods, and drug loads 65 feet long on the way out.
To avoid this continuous stream of traffic, over very narrow dirt roads that hung hundreds of feet above the rocks of the Pit River, we eventually detoured to a connecting series of abandoned log skid roads. Crossing a creek choked with the debris left from tree falling, we stopped mid-stream for a much needed drink. Sugar lay down. I don't know if this was by plan or accident, but by the time Colette had jumped off and pulled him up again, the water ran red with blood.
The proprietor of the grocery store solved the problem of where to camp that night. He sent his children along to show us a little meadow bordered by a slow moving creek. One rode along behind me, hanging onto the saddle with white knuckles. The other negotiated the rocky trail on bicycle, so both would have a way to return home.
This spot happened to be on private land. This didn't stop our guides, for they knew where a hole in the fence was located, and "Papa," said it was all right. Later on "Papa" arrived on a tiny, tiny, motor scooter. He covered it so well only the handle bars and headlight were visible; an oversized pistol holster he was wearing practically drug on the ground. He had started thinking about logging operations ahead, and wanted to warn us to be careful.
As thoughtful as his concern was, we weren't really worried. I wrinkled my brow out of appreciation, but smiled inside thinking about how smoothly everything had been working out. Even Jed and Mandy were acting like old trail veterans. What with The Colonel leading our parade, meeting up with a few log trucks didn't sound much of a problem.
What I was a bit more apprehensive about, was crossing the dam at Lake Britton the next day. This turned out to be a one lane bridge, a bottleneck that caused us to become trapped in a logging truck traffic jamb. However, this in turn accustomed our new horses to the sight and sound of these frightening looking vehicles that carried their own hind wheels piggy-back going into the woods, and drug loads 65 feet long on the way out.
To avoid this continuous stream of traffic, over very narrow dirt roads that hung hundreds of feet above the rocks of the Pit River, we eventually detoured to a connecting series of abandoned log skid roads. Crossing a creek choked with the debris left from tree falling, we stopped mid-stream for a much needed drink. Sugar lay down. I don't know if this was by plan or accident, but by the time Colette had jumped off and pulled him up again, the water ran red with blood.
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Text and Photographs © Barry Murray 1971-2007 Mac&Murray Multimedia