Chapter 14 ~ Page 183
From my days as a mining claim surveyor, I had the habit of subtracting an allowance for the pitch of a slope to figure true horizontal feet, and my mileage estimations were always under those in the guides, and on maps and signs. At the other extreme, meeting a hiker coming our way, and asking, "How far," we usually received an answer from someone that not long ago had ridden in a car at 60 MPH plus, and hadn't adjusted to the fact that an hour's travel now was something under three miles. The only estimation we all could agree to was that the last mile of a day was at least twice as long as the first.
This is why we figured in days. The Indian, mountain man, and pioneer had traveled this way. It helped keep our trip inperspective anytime we came near a highway and watched a car cover a mile twenty times faster than we were able, or looked upat a jet plane doing the same distance in two seconds.
Because our pace wasn't fast enough to blur the eye, as each and every ridge, rise, ravine, river, and slide, swale, and scarf, somehow or the other affected how our route followed the skyline north, I still can today, visualize in my mind how the country lay, and each step we took. I feel even today, I could do the whole trip a second time without a map.
I might be wrong. Anybody that has traveled this particular section can correct me if they like. I remember the trail this day as: starting from Thielsen Creek we hugged Sawtooth Ridge by riding through a tall stand of Douglas Fir. The slope was steep, yet we felt protected by these old growth giants linking arm to arm, forming a natural barrier to keep us from falling.
The new trail came to an end. The old climbed a thousand feet within a mile to reach an amphitheater of mountain wild flowers. We followed a series of "stone duck" trail markers across this dry meadow to the junction of the Tipsoo Peak Pack Trail. Flowering frosted Indian Paintbrush and phlox made it difficult to spot the stones piled one on the other, but a blaze chopped into a jack pine across the clearing happened to catch the morning sun on a patch of bright yellow pitch, thus showing the way.
A Canadian Jay, worried about protecting her young, screamed at us as we crashed into overgrown thickets of these diminutive pines from hummock to highland. Her warning caught a fox by surprise in one pocket meadow. He lay still, hoping we would pass. But the steady beat, beat, beat of hooves upon the resounding ground, accompanied by the eerie squeak of saddle leather, proved too nerve racking. He bolted across our path. A flash. A moment of movement.
This is why we figured in days. The Indian, mountain man, and pioneer had traveled this way. It helped keep our trip inperspective anytime we came near a highway and watched a car cover a mile twenty times faster than we were able, or looked upat a jet plane doing the same distance in two seconds.
Because our pace wasn't fast enough to blur the eye, as each and every ridge, rise, ravine, river, and slide, swale, and scarf, somehow or the other affected how our route followed the skyline north, I still can today, visualize in my mind how the country lay, and each step we took. I feel even today, I could do the whole trip a second time without a map.I might be wrong. Anybody that has traveled this particular section can correct me if they like. I remember the trail this day as: starting from Thielsen Creek we hugged Sawtooth Ridge by riding through a tall stand of Douglas Fir. The slope was steep, yet we felt protected by these old growth giants linking arm to arm, forming a natural barrier to keep us from falling.
The new trail came to an end. The old climbed a thousand feet within a mile to reach an amphitheater of mountain wild flowers. We followed a series of "stone duck" trail markers across this dry meadow to the junction of the Tipsoo Peak Pack Trail. Flowering frosted Indian Paintbrush and phlox made it difficult to spot the stones piled one on the other, but a blaze chopped into a jack pine across the clearing happened to catch the morning sun on a patch of bright yellow pitch, thus showing the way.
A Canadian Jay, worried about protecting her young, screamed at us as we crashed into overgrown thickets of these diminutive pines from hummock to highland. Her warning caught a fox by surprise in one pocket meadow. He lay still, hoping we would pass. But the steady beat, beat, beat of hooves upon the resounding ground, accompanied by the eerie squeak of saddle leather, proved too nerve racking. He bolted across our path. A flash. A moment of movement.
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Text and Photographs © Barry Murray 1971-2007 Mac&Murray Multimedia