Dutch Clarke - The Early Years. Brian Ratty
Roy looked over at me with a slight grin, "It was the same with your father. Do you think he was born with all those outdoor skills here in the east? No way. Senior sent him out west for training. You remember us talking about the Lazy K Ranch in New Mexico? I still know Red Reed, who owns and operates the ranch that trained your dad. I'm sure he’d do for you what he did for your father. It was your dad who told Red there just might be oil on his property, and sure enough, he found oil right were your dad told him to look. He might be a little older now, but I am sure he and some of his cowboys can get you trained."
He was smiling a bit now, but he still looked determined and his eyes were burning my soul.
"All right... O.K." I replied, trying to find a new excuse. "Maybe I can be trained, but we are overlooking one little problem. From what I read in the newspapers, the government will soon be requiring all men from 17 to 35 years old to register for the draft. Seems there just might be a little war in Europe."
Roy turned serious again.
"Look, any war in Europe will be Mr. Roosevelt's war, not ours. Both your Grandfather and I have listened to Charles Lindbergh on this subject and he thinks the Germans and English will soon come to peace terms, making all this war talk just so much bunk. In any event, all men will have a maximum of one year before they have to sign up. If Congress, and that's a big if, passes the law before you leave, you can sign up. And if it's passed after you leave, you can sign up when you return. That is, if you feel you must sign up for Mr. Roosevelt's war."
I knew how both Grandfather and Uncle Roy felt about President Roosevelt and his administration and Uncle Roy wasn’t going to let me use that as a way out.
Now I was in a bind. I didn’t want to give in and was furious that even in death, Grandfather could still dictate my future. I didn’t know what else to say or do. Standing up, I started walking around the room again, my mind racing. Who in their right mind would do such a mission? Was I to find more gold… more oil? No… no. If only life was so neat and simple. Uncle Roy had always been there for me, and like he said, maybe it was time I thought about someone other than myself. Just maybe there were too many “I’s” in my excuse.
As I sat back down across the desk from Roy, my mind was still reeling. I started to talk, but he cut me off.
“I have something for you, Dutch.” Reaching into a side desk drawer, Roy pulled out a gold pocket watch on a gold chain and slid it across to me. “When I was going through Senior’s personal effects, I found this old watch. It’s the one he gave to your father when he went on his mission.”
Picking it up, I clicked the cover open. Inside I found a clear crystal protecting the face of a very old moment with Roman numerals. Above it, inside the cover, was an etched lighthouse, with the engraving of my dad’s name and date of birth. Turning it over I found two more words etched on the back. The first word was Rimor and just below it, Votum. The words looked to be Latin.
Closing the cool golden cover, I looked up and across to Roy. “My Latin is a little rusty. Do you know what the words mean?”
Soberly he replied, “Rimor is ‘explore,’ or ‘search’… something like that. And, if I remember right, Votum means ‘vow’ or ‘prayer.’ The words had great meaning to your grandfather, but the exact meaning is a little foggy to me, right now.”
Slowly slipping the watch into my pocket, I forced a smile. “Well, I guess Grandfather will have my obedience after all. If this was once my father’s, it’s mine now. I’ll use it with pride on my adventure. You better send Mr. Red Reed of New Mexico a telegram to see if he’s ready to take on another tenderfoot.”
Roy rose from behind the desk and extended his hand, which I took. Clasping my hand in both of his, he held onto me with a firm grip for a good long time. Looking right into my eyes, he finally said, "You know that Senior did this on purpose. He knew how I would feel about the Mormons and how you would feel about me. We both have been manipulated from his grave."
We both laughed. But it was a laugh of resignation, not joy.
All that night, I tossed and turned and reflected on my decision. Where would be a good area for my “mission?” How about some distant desolate island? How about somewhere up in Alaska? How about the same desert area where my father had roamed? How about that place in Canada the guys on the boat had talked about?
The next morning I sent a wire off to Captain Skip asking him to send me the charts and any maps or other information he might have on Nascall Bay in British Columbia.
Uncle Roy and I spent the next three months planning and outfitting my trip. I was to leave for New Mexico for "on the job" survival training in the middle of October 1940. I enjoyed this time with Uncle Roy, and I grew to know all the new faces around Fairview; they all turned out to be good folks.
Thunder Mountain
It was midday when I stopped at a large grassy ridge atop the last foothill before Thunder Mountain. Using my binoculars, I had a good view of the mountain some three or four miles ahead. The top of the monolith, 6,500 feet high, was hidden in a shroud of dirty white clouds. The place where I’d cross would be almost 4,500 feet up. I’d been told by an old trapper that there was a rough game trail that snaked up the east side of the mountain and down the west side. Unpacking the mules and taking the saddle off Blaze, I wanted all of us to have a little rest before our ascent.
With the animals safely hobbled, they began to graze on the thick grass. Pulling a bite to eat out of my pack, I began planning my climb up the mountain. From my perch on the ridge, I munched on a sandwich while looking north-northwest with the glasses, making mental notes of the terrain. The weather was looking threatening, with large black clouds moving down from the north. These dense clouds hid the top 1,000 feet of the mountain. Below the clouds I could see an outcropping of gray granite rocks. Here, I believed, I’d find the pass that would lead me to the other side.
Another 2000 feet below this outcropping was the timberline. In this rough and rugged region, there really was no distinct timberline, as some wind-blown trees had grown up to the top of the large mountains. But there was a place, about two or three thousand feet up, where the dense forest slowly blended with the much thinner trees that grew out of the granite face. Most of this high surface was blue-gray glacier-type rocks with patches of green. Through the binoculars, I could see areas were there might be a rocky trail leading up and over the pass. It looked like the last thousand feet above the dense timberline would be quite steep and that I’d have to walk and lead my animals up the trail. The path to the summit looked to be a narrow passage, some 1,500 feet below the top of the mountain. I took a bearing with my sighting compass and made a mental note of the general direction we’d have to take through the forest to emerge at the base of the rocks that would lead us up to the pass. As I packed the animals, it started to rain, light at first, then heavily within a few minutes. Pulling my poncho from the saddlebag, we began our wet ascent from the ridge.
The trail in the forest got steeper and steeper as we rode up the base of the mountain. I could hear the mules and even Blaze breathing heavily as we moved through the trees and underbrush. The temperature must have dropped 20 degrees since we’d left the ridge. It was still raining hard, but with the dense forest canopy we didn't seem to get as wet. A familiar pattern emerged—I’d lose the trail, then find it and lose it again. We settled into this kind of travel pattern for most of the afternoon. Late in the afternoon, we emerged at the thin timberline. From my recollection on the ridge, we were just below where the pass should be. As I looked up the last thousand feet, I couldn’t actually see the pass, but knew pretty much where it should be. The trail up looked a lot steeper standing at its base than it did from the foothill. The route would wind up through outcroppings of rocks with some trees and brush growing out of the crevasses in the granite. Moving my little pack train to the foot of the trail, I started up slowly. This time Gus didn't take the point and instead wanted to follow