I think I’ve reported before about reading my first full-length novel at about age seven…a Western novel. I can’t remember the author’s name, but the story sparked a latent penchant for the romance of the mountain men and the wild men who came before them. There was something about the notion of wandering wild country without the interruption of roads, fences, or power lines which just seemed the right state of things.<\/p>\n
When I reached the ripe old age of nine, I was allowed to wander the hills up behind the house, the western edge of an area some ten miles square. I didn’t know as a boy it was manged by the Bureau of Land Management. I thought of it as wild country, a place to explore. And I came to think of it as my personal possession. At any rate, it was my private domain for the next six years.<\/p>\n
I built lean-to shelters in various places in the hills…just in case I got caught out in the hills and couldn’t get home before dark. I explored the head of each little creek that trickled down the canyons, found salt licks and hunted for caves. The best caves were simple rock overhangs, although I did find a mine shaft dug into the side of a hill up Indian Creek. When I told Dad about the mine, he told me to stay out of it, especially since it hadn’t been shored up. I did as he said. (He had a way of keeping me in line. He’d say, “If you want to go hunting with the men this Fall, you better behave yourself.” That was enough to do the trick.)<\/p>\n
When I joined Boy Scouts, I took the boy scout motto to heart: always be prepared. So I learned knot tying, how to sharpen an axe and a hunting knife, and I learned to make laces from round circles of leather, and how to make moccasins. I was in love with the notion of owning a pair of moccasins. I was pretty sure if I wore moccasins I’d be able to slip silently through the woods and sneak up on any critters living there. And when I saw a kit for making moccasins, I saved my allowance and bought it. When the stealthy moccasins were finished, I was pretty proud of my handiwork.<\/p>\n
The Saturday routine at our place on the Rogue River was to get our chores done in the morning because that meant freedom for the rest of weekend. So one fine Saturday afternoon, chores done, I laced up my new moccasins…home made, sort of…at least I could say I made them even if it was from a kit…strapped on my hunting knife, stuffed some prunes in a jacket pocket, along with my snake bite kit, filled another pocket with .22 shells, matches, and salt, then grabbed my .22 rifle and headed for the hills.<\/p>\n
I thought I’d take the first canyon upriver from the house and hike east over the top and into the canyon running below Bear Mountain. I figured to hunt the salt lick and then come back over the mountain and walk the cattle trail down to the Old Ferry Road.<\/p>\n
It didn’t quite work out. The first thong on my left moccasin broke along about the time I crested the first ridge. I knotted it back together and started on downhill to the salt lick, and then the leather thong on my right moccasin broke. Before I had gone another two-hundred yards, the laces in the seam of the left moccasin broke, and I cut a piece of thong and tied what was left of the moccasin to my foot. You can probably guess the rest of the story. By the time I reached the salt lick which was up high on the north edge of the canyon below Bear Mountain, the thongs I’d used to tied each moccasin to my feet were worn in two, and I was barefoot. I guess you could say my new moccasins just disintegrated, and I hadn’t walked much over two miles.<\/p>\n
There was no going back over the ridge barefoot, but I figured if I could reach the old road running down the bottom of the Bear Mountain canyon from the old cinnabar mine and out to the Rogue River, I’d have an easier time of it, even if it was about four miles further. I spent a lot time watching my step and cussing a little at the people who sold me the moccasin kit, but I finally got down to the old road. I can still remember the rocky road and how tender my feet were. I can also remember a long muddy stretch and how much better the mud felt than the rocks.<\/p>\n
It was dark by the time I hooked up with the sandy trail running alongside the river, but the soft sand made for easier going, and I jogged the last mile home, hoping like crazy I wouldn’t step on a rattlesnake. I can tell you I was really hoofing it along the river. I figured I’d be gone before a snake could bite me.<\/p>\n
The house was lit up when I got home, and I think Mom and Dad were a little anxious before I opened the back door. Dad asked me what had happened, and I sheepishly reported my moccasins gave out. My parents tried hard not to laugh, but they just couldn’t hold back, and before it was over, I was laughing, too.<\/p>\n
I’ll confess I felt a little dumb for trusting my homemade moccasins, but I never lost my love of wild places, or the desire to explore new mountains and country sides. I blame it all on the romance of Western writers. Now, if I could just find better leather for the next pair…<\/p>\n
Rod<\/p>\n
p.s. The “salt lick” was a place where the chemicals in the soil were concentrated. The deer would actually eat the soil for the chemicals. At the time of my story they had eaten quite a chunk out of the hillside. I hope you’ll trust my memory when I tell you the area was about twenty feet wide by thirty feet long and a couple of feet deep in places. You could tell the deer had been at it quite a few years. It was the only one of its kind in my part of the world.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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