journey was some $2,500, which had been paid for by Grandfather’s estate. Therefore, I had made sure to purchase only the best outfit and supplies that money could buy.
My list of dry foods was quite long, since they would be my staples until my garden could be harvested. These staples, for the most part, were in moisture-proof containers that I could reuse for other foods. These supplies included such items as rock salt, vinegar, and sugar, which would be used in drying and pickling vegetables and game foods. Honey, dried fruits, and fruit juice were valuable for their sugar value and to help prevent scurvy. Most of my food items were packed on the mule Harry. On my mule Harriet, I carried my tools, building materials and farm implements. And the knapsack on my back held all my personal items.
In my saddle bags I’d packed food supplies for the trail: three loaves of hard bread, ten cans of beans and chili, one pound of coffee, a small coffee pot, can opener, six sandwiches, ten apples and ten candy bars. I’d brought the trail food so I could concentrate on traveling without having to do any hunting during my journey.
I also carried three firearms: a Smith & Wesson .32 caliber pistol, a lever-action Winchester Model 94 rifle, and a Winchester Model 12 pump action 20-gauge shotgun. Ammunition: eight boxes, 160 rounds of 20 gauge shotgun shells; two boxes, 100 rounds of .32 caliber rim fire short pistol shells, with another 25 rounds on my gun belt; and four boxes, 200 rounds of 32/40 long rifle shells, with another six shells in my rifle. Both my Winchester rifle and shotgun I had strapped in saddle boots on either side of Blaze. Other weapons were my 12" hunting knife and a small hatchet, both hanging on the gun belt, and a 6" switchblade knife in my pocket, all razor-sharp. In my bedroll, I’d stashed my sleeping bag, two wool blankets, a yellow rain slicker, a rubber poncho and two 4’ by 6’ waxed-canvas tarps.
This endless list of supplies kept rushing through my head like the river. Lying there, looking up at the countless stars, I thought, Details, details… whatever I’ve forgotten, I'll have to live without. Whatever I really need I will make, grow, or hunt.
When I tossed two more logs on the fire, it snapped and popped back at me, while the nearby river roared like a freight train. To this nighttime symphony, a single wolf added his contribution, crying out in the distance. His sounds reminded me that I would not really be alone on this trip, as these predators would always be with me. Slipping deep into my sleeping bag, I covered myself with a blanket and was soon in a cocoon-like slumber.
Chapter Two
On the Trail
The early morning sun lit up the eastern sky with a regal, brilliant red glow rising behind the mountains. As I opened my eyes to the second day on the trail, it took me a minute to remember where I was and what I was doing. The morning was starting clear and crisp with heavy dew covering my supply bags and bedding. Rolling over, I faced the pool of river water I’d crossed the day before. There, on the other shore about three feet into the water was a young doe. She looked to be not much more than a yearling. Her hide was a beautiful light brown with white patches on her forelegs. Her mouth and nose were a shiny jet black. Backlit in the early morning light, she’d take a sip and stop. Sip and stop. Each time she paused, she’d raise her head with ears straight up and sniff the air for any scent of trouble, turning her head right and left. After a few more drinks of water, she turned and effortlessly jumped 10 or 15 feet back into the underbrush and out of sight. What a beautiful scene to start the day. Then I reminded myself that this was just the kind of animal that I would have to hunt and kill if I were to survive in the wilderness. Wondering silently if I could kill such a noble animal, I shook off the thought and began my second day.
Crawling out of my sleeping bag, I moved to the edge of the river to brush my teeth and wash. As I knelt down, I looked out to see two, then three, fish breaking water in the center of the pool. Fish for breakfast, not a bad idea! I’d save my washing for later so as not to scare the fish. From one of the trail bags I removed my fly pole, reel and a wet fly. In a few moments I was back at the dark green pool. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Gus, now awake, watching my every move. Maybe he was hungry too.
I was in luck, a strike on the second cast. I hooked a fat 14 or15 inch sea run cutthroat trout that knew how to fight. Reeling in the first fish, my long bamboo pole bent down with its tip almost in the water. It was a good fight. In the next few minutes, two more fish, each weighing about two pounds, joined the first, lying on the rocks of the riverbank. Now to put my knives to the test, stowing my fishing gear, I set to the task of cleaning the fish. As I threw some of the guts into the water, I noticed small crawfish coming out from under rocks and devouring the innards. Crawfish... I hadn’t factored them in when I was planning my available food list. I wondered what other things haven’t I thought of? Damn. I was still full of doubts, and things like this didn’t put my mind at ease.
Overnight, the fire had burned down, so I stirred the coals, threw in bits of twigs and grass and the fire jumped to life. Warming my hands, I watched the white smoke rise into the air as the fire took hold. Nothing could be wasted on this trip, so I moved the tin pot of last night’s coffee closer to the fire.
During my training in New Mexico, I learned a few outdoor cooking methods. “Indian style” seemed like a good way to cook these fat delicacies. Near the water, I found three sticks about 3 feet long, which I sharpened. With the sharpened end first, I stuck it into the fat end of the cleaned trout and slid them the length of the fish. Then I placed the other ends of the sticks into the sandy ground around my campfire. Securing the kabobs with rocks, the skewers now held the fish in the hot air over the flames. After a few minutes, I turned the fish. What a wonderful aroma, cooking fish, coffee and burning wood. Soon I began eating my first fish right off the stick. As I ate, I saw Gus move to within six or seven feet of the fire, laying across some small rocks and watching my every move. When I finished with the first fish, eating all but the tail and bones, I threw the carcass towards Gus... he didn't move an inch. The same thing happened with the second fish... he wouldn’t move towards the remains on the rocks. About halfway through the third fish, I’d eaten enough. This time I threw the half-eaten fish directly at Gus's face and with one swipe of his powerful jaws, the fish tail, bones and meat were gone. A few minutes later both the remaining two tails and carcasses were also gone. This surprised me, for it was the first time that Gus had eaten in front of me or taken any food from me. A sign we were bonding? Maybe, but I couldn’t count on it. Within a half hour I’d washed my dishes, cleaned up my camp and packed my bedroll, including the still damp clothing from yesterday. All these items were loaded on my animals and we broke camp to move up the next trail. By this evening’s camp, I hoped to be on the other side of Thunder Mountain.
From The Grave
In Seattle I changed airlines and flew a new American DC4 to Denver and then on to New York. The plane was full again, not a spare seat to be found. As when I’d traveled from Ketchikan, about half the men on the flight were in military uniforms. This made me think about the war that was raging in Europe and how this event might affect my future. I’d wired Uncle Roy from Ketchikan, telling him the date I thought I’d arrive, and I planned on telephoning him from Denver with confirmation. These last two trips via air were new to me. During all my other trips to and from Alaska, I’d taken the train and the ferryboats, which had taken almost seven days of traveling time. From my departure at Ketchikan to my arrival in New York I’d figured it would take about 16 hours of airports and flight time, barring any delays. This was indeed an improvement in this new era of modern travel.
In Denver, I called Uncle Roy to tell him that my plane would arrive at the New York Airport at 11:30 p.m. He assured me that he would be there to pick me up. When I got to New York it was past midnight due to weather delays. As I got off the plane, I scanned
