Читать книгу Dutch Clarke - The Early Years - Brian Ratty - Страница 3

My gut had said no and my head and heart had agreed, so why was I on this miserable trail? Lost in the remote recesses of my mind I knew the answer: family.

Dirty gray clouds drifted across the landscape, changing shape as they traversed the blue-gray mountains and billowed across the tree tops. What lay underneath this dingy canopy was my fate.

Relieved that I had started, but upset that I had given in, I was blindly following this unforgiving path. At least the next year would bring closure to this foolish family notion.

A solitary eagle flew above me, its high-pitched shriek piercing the morning silence with needlelike shrillness that seemed to tell me to get off its trail, turn around and go back. The magnificent bald eagle reminded me that I was an intruder in its habitat, a visitor at best. As it flew over trees in the distance, I became aware of all the sounds around me. The breeze moving through the trees as it tried to chase the clouds from the tops. The sounds of my animals as we moved down the narrow game trail, the rhythm of their hooves striking the solid ground, the breathing of my horse and the two pack mules that followed. The swishing and scraping of the dew-covered underbrush as it snapped across my chaps and then against the packs of the mules behind. Loud yet muted, these rich sounds reminded me of the lonely silence that was to come.

The morning was cool, damp and steel-gray, with diffused sunlight filtering through billowing clouds that hung low in the eastern sky. There was no rain yet, but it looked like it might start any time. One thing I knew I could count on, over the next year, was rain, drizzle and more rain. This was no surprise, as it was springtime in Western British Columbia. Whatever Mother Nature had in store for me, I had made provisions for, or so I hoped.

Tugging on my watch chain, I reeled the cool, gold case into my hand. As I did so, my fingers brushed the engraved back, giving me solace. It opened with a solid click. The time was 8:11 a.m. I’d been on the trail just over two hours. With dawn brushing our shoulders, I had said goodbye to my Uncle Roy in front of the old hotel and café in Firvale. Roy had traveled along to see me off at that small, isolated logging village, serviced only by the Canadian Pacific Railroad.

As I turned to leave he simply remarked, “Dutch, life is full of tests and I guess the trail before you is one of yours. I wish you fair winds and following seas. May the wings of providence bring you home safely… see you this time next year.”

Shaking his hand, I nodded my sad agreement and started the long ride towards my destiny. Somehow, it didn’t seem possible that had happened only two hours before, and I had a foreboding sense that the year ahead of me could be longer than expected.

Shaking ferns some sixty yards ahead of me was Gus, also affectionately known as “the dog.” He was mostly out of sight because of the tall underbrush, but every now and then he ran back down the trail, just close enough to see me and make sure I was still coming toward him. Without knowing a thing about it he seemed to relish this adventure, as he’d spent the first couple of hours barking out a staccato cadence to our steps. Now he was noisily breaking trail for my little pack train.

I had found Gus, and all my other animals, in New Mexico. He had been an uninvited ranch dog, half wild, with only the name of “dog.” He was a beautiful animal. I guessed his breed as half German shepherd and half wolf. His ears, nose, chest and three legs were dark brown, while the rest of his body was light caramel. His eyes were bright and alert, his speed and agility brutally powerful. I named him "Gus" from one of the few Latin words I could remember after two years of high school Latin: "Augustus," which means "of stature.”

I didn't consider him to be my dog, as Gus had little use for people and less use for any animal that crossed his path. He was one dangerous and tough creature. I placed his age at about four years, which I couldn’t confirm as he wouldn’t let me touch him, let alone check his teeth. The folks at the ranch told me that he had appeared there about three years earlier. They guessed that he’d been abused as a pup and then abandoned by his owner.

For some reason, Gus and I had formed a bond of sorts, back in New Mexico. The cowboys at the ranch had been surprised when “the dog” started following me around, and Gus had astonished all of us by jumping into the trailer as I loaded it with my other animals to leave. He was not part of my original plan, but I knew I wouldn’t have to care for him, as he hunted for his own food and found his own water. I figured, why not? He would be better off with me than on that dusty, dry rangeland.

As I moved my little caravan up a steep slope, I became aware of steam coming from my horse’s nose in the cool morning air. He, too, was a proud and magnificent animal. His name was Blaze. I’d been told that he was five years old and had been a saddle pony at the ranch for the last two years. He was a gelding, half quarter horse and half appaloosa, sixteen hands tall, of a gentle but determined nature. He had a white stripe on his face and two white stockings on his hocks. His mane and tail were dark while his body was a light chestnut with a few darker spots on his rump. The appaloosa in him made him sure-footed; the quarter horse gave him great stamina and strength.

Blaze was indeed a muscular and intelligent animal. But I hadn’t picked him out of the herd, he picked me. One of the ranch hands was showing me an older sorrel, since the cowboys felt that an older horse would be more dependable, more sure-footed. Standing with my back to a group of younger horses, I was examining the mare when Blaze came up behind me and gave me a hard nudge in the middle of my back. Almost falling to the ground, I spun around to find him staring at me with a curious look on his face. I’m sure he’d smelled the carrots in my back pocket, but I like to think that it wasn’t just the treats he was after. Perhaps both Blaze and Gus knew that I was preparing for an experience that was not to be missed. These two remarkable creatures would prove to be the most memorable animals of my life.

Twisting in the saddle I looked to the rear. If Blaze and Gus were unforgettable, I would soon forget the two mules, Harry and Harriet, or as I liked to call them, Dumb and Dumber. Their good points, and there were few, were that each carried four trail bags and a bag saddle, with a combined weight of over 250 pounds. They were strong animals, each gray to light gray in color, standing about fourteen hands tall. Their bad points, and there were many, were that they were stubborn, dumb, and smelled bad. Another thing: when a horse "whinnies," its sound has dignity; when a mule "whinnies," it sounds like an old woman cackling. And cackle they did, over miles and miles of trail. It about drove me crazy.

The path on which we traveled was a rough game trail that seemed to point in the general direction I wanted to go, north-northwest. The trail itself snaked through thick undergrowth but was pretty much out in the open, as the area had been logged off some years before. There were hundreds of large old-growth stumps scattered on the hillside. The old forest had not been replanted, but over the years it had started to grow again on its own. Here, new trees ranged from knee-high to over twenty feet, but the forest floor was mostly littered with tall, heavy underbrush.

A stiff morning breeze had come up, blowing the low-hanging, milky clouds higher in the brightening sky. Visibility improved and soon I could see my first objective: Thunder Mountain, some ten miles ahead. Its peak was over 6,500 feet and still had snow showing near its summit, which was in and out of view due to the moving clouds. Below the mountain's peak was a dense rain forest. That was to be my first obstacle.

After Thunder Mountain and a long trail northwest, I would turn south to cross another mountain. Comet was 6,300 feet high, and along the way I’d traverse three major rivers and many streams and creeks to get to my final destination, Nascall Valley. It would take all of six or seven days to travel those 90 miles. Had I been able to travel "as the crow flies," it would’ve been just a little over 50 miles.

It was May 15, 1941, the first day of what my grandfather called my "mission" and what I called, among other things, a stupid family legacy. I was to spend one year totally alone, in the wilderness of my choice, taking only what I could pack in. There were to be no boats, no planes, no modern conveniences, just what a horse and two pack mules could carry.

In this way, my family hoped that I would find my inner self, my destiny, or as Uncle Roy had said many times, “Maybe, just maybe, this adventure will clip that chip off your shoulder.”