Chapter 13 ~ Page 172
This called for yet another day off to celebrate. We rented a boat and motor and did much running about and very little fishing. We also had an 'open-camp' party, bring your own candy bars. It wasn't a black tie affair for our guests came in swimming suits, a favorite fishing hat, and hiking boots.
There were a couple of young boys that had just completed a month long trek south from the Columbia River. They told us about a horse party we would be meeting soon, where the leader was dressed in a fringed coat, and carried both a rifle, and six-gun. In my mind, I dubbed this fellow as "Wild Bill" and made a note to avoid him if possible. I don't set so high on my horse that I want to criticize another's outfit, or method of riding, but Wild Bill types are not the best news wilderness packers have ever heard.
We felt more akin to the backpackers we were beginning to meet enmasse on the trail. As in the Desolation Valley wilderness, we found, where the U.S. Forest Service had spent money building or maintaining a decent trail, it was well used. Ironically, having gone for days without seeing a soul, while in sight of Los Angeles, throughout the wilderness of Oregon there were plenty of lug sole tracks. This might seem as being touched in the head, but to us, meeting a dozen or so people a day was a population explosion.
And, even though this thoroughfare had been built by, and for, the use of horse packers supplying remote forest fire lookout stations, there still was some conflict between hoofers and hikers. Meeting, or passing by a hiker making a tough climb, again, and again, we would hear the ubiquitous "Doing it the easy way, eh?"
Agah! This year our strategy of one-up-manship was to agree, "Well some of us aren't as tough as others." This would lead our victim into the trap of casually mentioning how far he had traveled. Then, we would deliver the coup'de grace by leading The Colonel, with Mexico to Canada pack cover, past his eyeballs. Not only did this save us a lot of explaining while we gathered information on the conditions ahead, we also had the mischievous satisfaction of hearing a, "Did you see that?" or a "But, but, but," to our rear as we rode on.
The more experienced long distance backpacker usually identified who we were, or with what we were attempting, right away, without any games. We in turn could take one look at a hiker and make a fairly accurate guess as to how far he had traveled. The clues we used relied upon the condition of packs. I like to think, however, it was the far away look in the eye that was the identifying mark of those doomed to follow a wandering star.
There were a couple of young boys that had just completed a month long trek south from the Columbia River. They told us about a horse party we would be meeting soon, where the leader was dressed in a fringed coat, and carried both a rifle, and six-gun. In my mind, I dubbed this fellow as "Wild Bill" and made a note to avoid him if possible. I don't set so high on my horse that I want to criticize another's outfit, or method of riding, but Wild Bill types are not the best news wilderness packers have ever heard.
We felt more akin to the backpackers we were beginning to meet enmasse on the trail. As in the Desolation Valley wilderness, we found, where the U.S. Forest Service had spent money building or maintaining a decent trail, it was well used. Ironically, having gone for days without seeing a soul, while in sight of Los Angeles, throughout the wilderness of Oregon there were plenty of lug sole tracks. This might seem as being touched in the head, but to us, meeting a dozen or so people a day was a population explosion.
And, even though this thoroughfare had been built by, and for, the use of horse packers supplying remote forest fire lookout stations, there still was some conflict between hoofers and hikers. Meeting, or passing by a hiker making a tough climb, again, and again, we would hear the ubiquitous "Doing it the easy way, eh?"
Agah! This year our strategy of one-up-manship was to agree, "Well some of us aren't as tough as others." This would lead our victim into the trap of casually mentioning how far he had traveled. Then, we would deliver the coup'de grace by leading The Colonel, with Mexico to Canada pack cover, past his eyeballs. Not only did this save us a lot of explaining while we gathered information on the conditions ahead, we also had the mischievous satisfaction of hearing a, "Did you see that?" or a "But, but, but," to our rear as we rode on.
The more experienced long distance backpacker usually identified who we were, or with what we were attempting, right away, without any games. We in turn could take one look at a hiker and make a fairly accurate guess as to how far he had traveled. The clues we used relied upon the condition of packs. I like to think, however, it was the far away look in the eye that was the identifying mark of those doomed to follow a wandering star.
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Text and Photographs © Barry Murray 1971-2007 Mac&Murray Multimedia