Chapter 12 ~ Page 165
However, if we had followed this new trail we would have come to a gap of 50 miles separating the end of what was now marked on the maps, with the beginning of the old, established, Oregon Skyline Trail.
Another small coincidence, perhaps only mildly amusing to those as myself—you may have noticed—possessed with a warped ear for alliteration, which is the repetition of words in a sentence starting with the same sounds. The community we were heading for near the Oregon border was a power company damsite named Copco. From Campo to Copco. Yes? So what?
Well, frankly, from Bear Valley to the border was boring. I had a lot of time to play around with words in my mind. Now that we had had a glimpse of our first state line; now that we were traveling on abandoned logging roads; now that there seemed to be grass and water at every bend, the last three days of California dragged on ever so slowly. My children had developed a talent of reading while riding a rocking horse. Here, Colette even tried sleeping by laying cross-ways over her saddle, feet hanging down one side, her head the other.
I just might be remembering this section as being so-o-o long on account of one little mistake made in planning. The previous summer had coincided with one of my tries at quitting smoking. This had ended during the bitter cold days of Utah when I lit up my pipe again, more or less to keep my hands warm. Now I had the habit again with a capital "H" for HEEBIE-JEEBIES.
Laying in our supply caches, I purposely rationed my tobacco with the intent of forcing myself to taper off again to nothing. Instead, I was now reduced to smoking dried, used, tea leaves. Long before the fur traders had come to this country, the Indians smoked a weed called Kinnikinnick. Trusting that our historian would know what to look for, I asked Barry Jr. to find me something to smoke. He returned with a pouchful. I fired my smoke-pot up.
"Hey," I exclaimed between puffs, "this Kinnikinnick isn't half bad."
"This isn't what you think it is Dad," answered BJ with a cough. "The best I could do was substitute dry skunk cabbage leaves."
Whatever, I sure had the campfire all to myself that evening. And, upon reaching our cached supplies, instead of having to listen to another lecture on the health hazards of smoking from my three children (I eventually quit), they fell over each other trying to find the tobacco to load up a pipe for me. Ah, contentment!
Another small coincidence, perhaps only mildly amusing to those as myself—you may have noticed—possessed with a warped ear for alliteration, which is the repetition of words in a sentence starting with the same sounds. The community we were heading for near the Oregon border was a power company damsite named Copco. From Campo to Copco. Yes? So what?
Well, frankly, from Bear Valley to the border was boring. I had a lot of time to play around with words in my mind. Now that we had had a glimpse of our first state line; now that we were traveling on abandoned logging roads; now that there seemed to be grass and water at every bend, the last three days of California dragged on ever so slowly. My children had developed a talent of reading while riding a rocking horse. Here, Colette even tried sleeping by laying cross-ways over her saddle, feet hanging down one side, her head the other.I just might be remembering this section as being so-o-o long on account of one little mistake made in planning. The previous summer had coincided with one of my tries at quitting smoking. This had ended during the bitter cold days of Utah when I lit up my pipe again, more or less to keep my hands warm. Now I had the habit again with a capital "H" for HEEBIE-JEEBIES.
Laying in our supply caches, I purposely rationed my tobacco with the intent of forcing myself to taper off again to nothing. Instead, I was now reduced to smoking dried, used, tea leaves. Long before the fur traders had come to this country, the Indians smoked a weed called Kinnikinnick. Trusting that our historian would know what to look for, I asked Barry Jr. to find me something to smoke. He returned with a pouchful. I fired my smoke-pot up.
"Hey," I exclaimed between puffs, "this Kinnikinnick isn't half bad."
"This isn't what you think it is Dad," answered BJ with a cough. "The best I could do was substitute dry skunk cabbage leaves."
Whatever, I sure had the campfire all to myself that evening. And, upon reaching our cached supplies, instead of having to listen to another lecture on the health hazards of smoking from my three children (I eventually quit), they fell over each other trying to find the tobacco to load up a pipe for me. Ah, contentment!
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Text and Photographs © Barry Murray 1971-2007 Mac&Murray Multimedia