Temperance Creek. Pamela Royes
At last, one end-of-April morning, Skip fastened a large Swiss bell threaded on a leather strap around Candy’s neck to help us keep track of the herd during the night, and we were ready. We left Camp Creek with no backward glances—well, maybe a tiny one at the orange Volkswagen now containing my pillow, towel, extra clothing, slippers, flashlight, and wristwatch.
“I’m bringing the dress,” I’d insisted, folding and tucking it next to two contraband pair of underwear.
Letter home—April 5, 1976
Dear Mom and Dad,
First and last, I love you and wish you were here so I could give you big bear hugs and tell you how good everything is. I’m going on an adventure! I know it’s no use asking you not to worry, but don’t! By now I think you’re conditioned to expect just about anything from me and hopefully you will be able to accept what I am about to tell you. You know how difficult it is for me to make long-range plans (I know, I’m too spontaneous), but like I said on the phone, I’ve met this guy named Skip, he’s kind of a gypsy himself, and he’s asked me to go down to the Snake River with him. Both of us are tired of traveling alone. Skip has two horses and just bought two more. He’s been exploring this part of the country for a couple years, and we’re headed for a place called Battle Creek. Fishing will be fine and we’ll set bird snares too. I will be gathering herbs to dry and sell in the co-op next fall, and there are all kinds of abandoned fruit orchards we’ll be picking. We have a puppy! Well, we’ll be gone a couple months and I will write whenever I can. Let my friends in Medford know what is happening. I love you, take care, and hope to see you come fall,
—Packer Pam and Sling-rope Skip
The birds were singing as we belted out, “Sixteen ton, what do you get, another day older and deeper in debt, Saint Peter don’t you call me cause I can’t go . . . I owe my soul to the company store . . .” Half a mile out of camp, Pearl’s pack turned completely under her belly.
“Shit oh Friday,” Skip said.
I was dumbfounded. How, with the yards and yards of rope we’d wound around her, had things come loose?
I held Pearl’s lead rope and made soothing noises while he untangled the lash ropes and repacked her, this time jerking the ropes so tight her legs splayed. She “slipped her load” twice more before making camp that evening, and by then I’d memorized the full sermon on why high withers are necessary on a packhorse and the sooner we broke her to ride, the better, especially if we wanted to see the Snake River during our lifetime.
The next day we slipped a few more loads, giving me time to absorb the landscape. Late April in the canyon, the air stirring with secret and enticing fragrances. Sweet cottonwood leaves, familiar, nourishing, and deeply comforting. Delicate scented sprays of white serviceberry. I broke off a bloom and tucked it behind my ear. On the hillsides, emerging wildflowers in creamy yellows, purples, and pinks. Balsamroot sunflowers nodded in passing, nestled among the feathery tufts of bunchgrass, now turning from tan to green in the spring sunshine. Overhead, mashed potato clouds bunched and then broke up, undecided whether to stay or go.
When I asked Skip to identify the wildlife, the plants or trees, sometimes he would say their names, but often he didn’t know or would say I just had to find out for myself.
One afternoon, Skip stopped me, pointing to the base of a large ponderosa tree. “See those marks?”
I rode abreast him and looked. Starting eight feet or so up the tree were deep scratches, about four feet in length. “What are they?” I asked.
“Cougar’s been sharpening her claws here.”
“Do you see one?” I asked, swiveling my head in both directions.
“They’re here, but difficult to spot. Nothing to worry about.” And we moved on.
Once, kneeling, he pointed to a newly shed rattlesnake skin, thin, transparent, and cylindrical, explaining that each time they shed, they added another rattle segment, and to give them a wide berth when this happened as a snake shedding its skin was as cranky as a woman with a sunburn. He said the shaking of the rattle made a sound like a castanet and was your only warning that it was coiled and prepared to strike. And that a rattlesnake could strike faster than the human eye could follow. He said that if they lost a fang, they could actually grow a new one.
I said I hoped to God I’d never see a live rattlesnake. Skip just laughed.
On some mornings I heard a sound I couldn’t identify. It reminded me of a ping-pong ball dropped on a concrete floor. It would begin slowly then speed up. I made guesses. Someone was tapping on a log or cutting wood. A distant motor on the road far below. Something the spring air was bringing on, a conversion of some sort. An insect. A rock rolling in the creek. But I could not discover the source of that sound.
Skip would only say, “It’s the earth waking up.”
One morning while Skip fussed over a skillet of fried potatoes, I heard it again. Clutching the camp shovel I crept up the draw, silently working my way toward the sound. When I heard the sound, I stopped, and when the sound stopped, I crept. Creep, creep, stop. Pong . . . pong . . . pong, pong, pong, pong. Creep, creep, stop. Pong . . . pong . . . pong, pong, pong, pong, pong. There was a little movement in the underbrush, and I saw a bird on a log. The sound was unmistakably coming from this chicken-sized, brownish-gray, wing-drumming bird. I had found the source, by myself, and now I needed Skip to tell me its name. I raced back to camp.
“It’s a bird. I saw it up the draw beating its chest with its wings. What is it? You have to tell me now.”
“It’s the ruffed grouse, trying to attract a female. Good work,” he said with a wink and handed me a steaming plate of potatoes.
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