Representatives of the Skamania Saddle Club led the way along the three miles of highway into the town of Stevenson. A quaint little place, a timber town, population 1,000, the county seat of an area 30 by 60 miles, of which 95% is national forest, we rode right up main street waving to people that didn't seem the slightest bit surprised in witnessing a pack train clip clopping along.

After all the attention we had received at the bridge, this anonymity was welcomed. Still, I was puzzled, and stopped to talk with an old-timer about this "ho-hum" attitude. His explanation made sense.
"You live long enough in the Columbia River Gorge, and sooner or later you will see everybody and anything traveling through. It's sort of like setting in a rocker on a front porch and watching the world pass by."
"I'm old enough to remember Charles Llndberg flying under The Bridge of the Gods while on his tour of America. Since the Columbia River is the only low altitude route through the Cascades, we have witnessed everything from blimps, open cockpit mail planes, fleets of army helicopters in formation, to the old Ford tri-motored "tin goose," beating the weather by flying so low here they almost left a wake on the water."

It was an amazing response for one stupid question. I called the rest of my family over to listen to this walking, talking history book. I'm glad I did.

'"Now you take that river," he went on, just warming up, "why that was the highway Lewis and Clark used to claim this land for the United States back in 18-ought-4. Then came the trappers, and pioneers, in canoes, and rafts. When I was a boy, it was steamboats. Sternwheelers shot the rapids and still could make a round trip to Portland inside of 48 hours. We didn't have a highway here until l9-and-26. The river was our road. The navy, every now and then, sends a modern war ship up to The Dalles on a goodwill tour. One of the things they have to watch out for though, is Indians out setting their nets in the Columbia to catch salmon to dry just like they did hundreds, and thousands of years ago.

"How about horses and buggies," queried BJ?

"Son," he said, drawing another deep breath, "glad you asked that. Few buggies around here. No roads. This is packer country. My dad homesteaded here, up on top that mountain, and the only-est way we moved anything about was upon four legs and hide. Our national forest was one of the first set aside by the government. Up until ten years ago pack strings out of here carried all the supplies to man fire lookouts, fight fire, patrol. I'm proud to say I was a packer for forty years . Yes sir. You look as if you run a pretty smart outfit. But I used to throw a triple diamond of my own invention. Yes Sir."