Part 3 of a personal account of homesteading in the 1920s by western author Cherry Wilson.
Grass, brush and trees had been steadily drying out during the hot months of July and August, needing only a spark to transform the peaceful land into a roaring furnace. Then fires were reported on distant mountains. Day by day the air grew more dense with smoke until the sunlight was unable to penetrate the heavy blanket, but lit it up a dull ugly red. Climbing the Lookout, from where on clear days the far distant British Columbia mountains were visible, we could now scarcely see a mile—our mountain was an island, surrounded on all sides and above by a screen of smoke. Nearer raced the fire, until the entire community was alarmed. Calls came in for more and still more men to combat the flames. Towns and ranches were emptied as men left their work to fight this common foe, while always came fresh reports of neighbors’ homes destroyed and hamlets hemmed in.
To the east, the fire had burned to within half a mile of town, only constant vigilance saved it. Blazing cinders and bits of glowing bark, carried by this wind, fell on our homestead. It was necessary to patrol it regularly. But with all our precautions we discovered, one morning, a fire smoldering by the spring. Had it escaped notice a few minutes longer, or been in a less favorable place, our home, timber and crop would have been destroyed. As it was both of us put in a hard hour, with water handy, extinguishing it.
Nights we climbed to the summit to watch with worried eyes, the miles of burning forests surrounding us. Beautiful, fantastic, could one only forget the ruin to follow. Greedy tongues of flame leapt with incredible swiftness from tree to tree, licking the dried feathery moss suspended from the branches, and instantly each tree would be enshrouded in flame—to fall soon, with a shower of sparks, a burning corpse.
For three weeks the fire raged, but at the crucial time, rain mercifully fell. The destruction done to miles upon miles of beautiful cathedral pines in the national forest all about saddened us for weeks, although we had the selfish joy that our own were, for the time, saved. One sad phase of the fire was the destruction of much of the wild game, and what survived were driven into unburned territory. When hunting season opened our ranch swarmed with hunters, making it extremely dangerous to work in the woods. Twice bullets whizzed in the underbrush near me and I discarded the khaki suit worn in my tramps until the season was over. Even Bob— though protesting much—went about the place with a bright red scarf tied around his hat. The mountains roundabout are so thinly settled that they afford an ideal game refuge. Bear and deer are very plentiful, so this district is the mecca of sportsmen for states around—few returning without the limit.
It was about this time that we were given “Cuff,” a dear little cub bear, orphaned by a murderous bullet. He was about the size of a half grown dog, with eyes that fairly sparkled with mischief, and his bearing and actions uncannily human. In nowise cast down by his new environment, he climbed trees, porch logs, or tumbled about the yard in quite as irrepressible spirits as though in the wild haunts from which he came. In wrestling with Bob, it was comical to watch the little fellow scheme for a clinch. He was very affectionate, but curiosity was his strongest trait. Nothing could be kept out of his reach; he would spend hours peering inquisitively about the house.
One day on going to the spring, I came upon Cuff drinking from a jug of milk put there to cool, the cork lying on a stone nearby. Then to my horror, beheld the butter out of its crock and coated with mud. I tried to scold him but he clung to my shirt so apologetically that l gave him an apple instead. Finally we gave him to a family in town, whose children wished him for a pet. Though now perfectly domesticated, soon he will hearken to the call of the wild, returning to the forests – legitimate prey for hunters.
The winged months since that cold December day we filed on our homestead have flown swiftly, and these little incidents that seem so poor in print were, because new, very thrilling to us. We were now eager scholars in the school of life, with barely the alphabet learned. There were many hardships that I have passed over lightly, because the telling would do no good and they would doubtless have been matched had fate lead us elsewhere, but we played the game.
Then September arrived, bringing the most wonderful experience of all —we were lost in the mountains! In a country like this that is always a serious affair. Many an ill-fated person has set out into the wilds never to return, dying, no doubt, a lingering death from starvation and exposure. But it was with no such thought that we galloped away that warm morning, permitting our horses to choose their own trail until 10 miles from home. We were at the heading of Sunset trail, blazed by forest rangers, and leading up the face of a towering cliff, where it passed from sight. At once I became imbued with an insatiable yearning to climb it, all other trails had lost their attraction. So up we went, alighting on the summit to allow our horse to fill up on the buch grass which grew stirrup deep.
In the shade of a pine thicket we lunched on the sandwiches I had brought. But if we had had one inkling of coming events, that are supposed to cast their shadow before, they would have been cherished carefully. From here the panorama was so entrancing that, lunch over, I begged to extend the ride a little farther. So we rode on, taking no heed of passing time, steeped in the mystery of whispering woods, or pausing by mountain lakes gleaming like jewels in the green bosom of the earth, our horses hoofs sinking noiselessly in the thick carpet of pine needles. Bob it was who first noted how the shadows were lengthening.
“We must turn back. It will be dark now, before we hit the main road.”
“Let’s ride on just a little farther,” I entreated, “and see what’s over the next rise.”
“Perhaps it will be just as well to go on. We ought to strike the trail that leads to Iron Mountain soon—it will take us as near home as the way we came.”
But we did not strike the trail to Iron Mountain, for although we were then unaware of it, a new trail had been blazed by rangers leading in the opposite direction. Dusk prevented our seeing the freshness of axe marks on the trees At last it was evident that night was overtaking us.
“We really ought not to travel any more till it is light,” Bob remarked, “but I’m sure this is the Iron Mountain trail.” We were climbing steadily up the face of the highest peak I had ever seen in the country when darkness closed in about us—there was no moon. We lost all track of blazes. From time to time Bob lit matches and examined the trees. We were far from the trail, but on some sort of path, so kept on in hopes it would land us somewhere.
When it became too dangerous to ride we dismounted, leading our tired ponies, Bob in the lead, trying to pick out a secure foothold. In the dark I was nearly frozen, nights being terribly cold at that altitude, with an icy wind sweeping the mountain. Neither of us wore any wraps, but thin summer clothing. When at last I felt unable to take another step Bob lit his last match to look at his watch. “It’s 1 o’clock,” he said, “we ought to be near the top — blamed if we couldn’t have climbed Pike’s peak in this time!”
We went on again—the horses stumbling up the perilous grade. I was in mortal terror lest Rob’s pony fall back on me—also I was hungry. Another interval of torment and I gave out utterly. We had reached a little shelf on the mountain’s face, so Bob unsaddled the horses, hobbling them, and wrapped about me the saddle blankets now reeking wet with sweat,
Side by side we sat with chattering teeth, awaiting the dawn that was never so slow in coming. Once we heard a cougar scream in the distance and with every nerve tingling, I thought of the woman who had perished in the mountains two years before while searching parties vainly scoured the forests for her, of the man whose skeleton was found near town, beside that of a mountain lion he had killed, but not before being fatally wounded by the beast. Such reminiscences did not tend to soothe my fears. Then, as if our cup of misery was not already full, Bob’s horse fell and rolled some distance sustaining terrible rope burns. In the gray light of morning we found ourselves within a few yards of the summit of a great mountain that reared head and shoulders above all others. Simmering clouds floated serenely below and when these had dispersed the ridges that had loomed so high the day before lay now like pigmies, their tree-covered slopes identically alike.
Looking down over the way we had come, I shuddered involuntarily. Surely only a merciful Providence could have directed our feet up that incline. I dreaded the descent, but felt anything preferable to the cold and inaction. We set off slowly.
Now come on however we adopted the rule of mountaineers for those lost without a compass—to always go down, never up, depending on the valleys and streams leading to civilization.
As a sort of anticlimax my pony ran into a yellow jackets nest and, becoming maddened with pain, ran wildly through the underbrush before I could quiet him. Soon my face and hands lost all proportion from numerous stings.
Due to the crippled condition of Bob’s horse we had to travel very slowly, but the sun was out and I was no longer cold—but I was hungry.
Late that afternoon we ran unexpectedly across the Ranger at work, who informed us that we were over 40 miles from home and put us on the right trail, not before serving us however, the most delicious coffee and biscuits ever. So our adventure was brought to a happy termination, and oh! how good the little cabin seemed.
We worked hard and we played hard while days sped by, our second winter drawing near. Summer died suddenly; one morning we woke up to find it was no more. An early frost had given our forest land the chill kiss of death. Tamarack leaves were yellow and falling; vine maples and Oregon grapes burned in scarlet patches; and my flower garden hung its head in shame at the caress. Even our feathered friends had left, except the hardier few who remained with us the year around. It was still a beautiful world—more strikingly so, perhaps—but summer had died, and we took the warning. All through autumn we worked ceaselessly, and when winter enfolded our mountain top we were prepared. In many ways nature had compensated for summer’s death by wonderful hazy days, when each mountain was clothed in purple mists, by snow-berries, scarlet rose-berries and the ever beautiful kinnikinic.
It was not until after Christmas that the first snow fell to stay on but once started it came with a vengeance. Unlike the first winter, there was a surfeit of it. Whan it became waist deep Bob made us a pair of skis of cottonwood, patterned after those used by an old French trapper nearby. With these we could skim anywhere—overcome the snow. What glorious days spent in our stilly woods weighted down with snow—a God-made study in white and green! Thickets of fir and jack pines bent almost double under their pure blankets; stumps graced with glistening caps, “not a snow-gemmed twig a-quiver,” and over the diamond crust the sunbeams danced with a million points of light. The slightest breath of wind, or brush of a coat sleeve, however, would free the smaller trees of their burden, causing them to spring erect and precipitating a shower of powdery snow.
It is still two years before we can make final proof on our homestead and obtain the deed—but I shouldn’t care were it twenty. For we have found health, self-reliance, a wonderful love for each of God’s creatures, however humble. Nature has initiated us into many of her intimate secrets in this association with the essentials of life.
Operas and theaters may draw their pleasure loving crowds—the wind and the pines will be our sweetest music. Others may flaunt their costly limousines before envious friends or whirl through the marvels of nature with unseeing eyes—with our saddle ponies and inviting trails ahead, we will only pity them. Truly our home is our kingdom and we are content!
That’s the end of Cherry Wilson’s account of homesteading.