RIVERS OF GOLD: chapter three

Tales from the hermitage

 digitalscapes by starchy

On this foggy detour away from the stream, it wasn’t easy picturing the Doc, even as a younger man, bushwhacking and prospecting alone in this wild land. I had the luxury of following a detailed map, and written instructions. He had neither, and still was able to make his way. His ancient axe blazes were few and far between, forcing me to rely heavily on modern technology rather than his meager trail markings. 

 My respect for him never seemed to diminish, rather it deepened to very profound levels. Until your actually out stumbling around alone in the bush, miles from hearth and home, do you begin to really know yourself. And only then can you truly understand your brothers and sisters. Some of his blazes were now almost completely healed over, and when I did actually did come across them, I always felt a strange sense of comfort. 

 I probably missed many of his markings by following the easier contours of my topo map. Rather than his sometimes senseless wanderings, caused by his use of compass and intuitive range finding. But more often than not, his crooked trail was the result of the hunt for gold. At one point while following his trail, we came full circle and crossed back over the trail. After some head scratching I could only conclude that he had become lost at one point. However, unlike me he had no agenda or restraints of time. It must have been confusing, perhaps even frightening for him at that moment? I could easily visualized him standing here rubbing his chin and tapping on his compass. Never the less he eventually prevailed, because If you have no destination, you can never be lost.

 Since I had the advantage of relatively accurate maps, I decided to find his dry gold stream on my own. Actually back at the cabin, I had planned out an easier softer route to his diggings.  With the convenience of the map and in the comfort of my cabin, it was easy to get bold. Eventually the decision was made to play it safe, and I plotted a path that coincided with his written directions. Knowing full well, I was adding hours to my hike. 

 Standing alone in the bush I had to admit that, had he this technology, he would have done the same. We hacked our way off from his old trail, to the next way-point. It still coincided with his directions and trail, it was just going to be a major shortcut, or so I thought. When I arrived, I confidently boiled up some tea and munches and carefully reset my GPS to my original route. 

What looks good on a map in the comfort of ones home, can be very different than what actually exists in real-time. Misreading a contour elevation or not having a real sense of the topography intuitively, can cost you time and even your life. Orienteering takes study and practice. I was self taught, which means I had an idiot for a teacher. I was now going to pay for it. Pushing your finger alone a paper map, while the other hand holds a mug of coffee, makes the terrain look easy.

  The famous words “ You cant get there from here” rang in my brain over and over again. Try as I may, I couldn’t plot a coarse over to my original easy direct route from this way-point. The land would not permit it. At the very least, not without a lot of backtracking.  Because of the harsh terrain, I had to either return to the Docs trail or hike back to the cabin meadow and follow my original route. Neither was acceptable. 

 If I had gone on my first initial direct route at first light, I probably would have been three quarters of the way there by now.  I decide to humble myself and return to the docs trail. Since I had bushwhacked it, and the mist burnt off, the track back was well marked and a lot easier. Poor Zibby, simply and quietly tagged along without complaint. I had lost almost three hours and it would be nightfall when and if I got to the doc's gold fields.

 Thankfully I hadn’t deleted my waypoints and the topography was now basically downhill,  so I was able to make time. With the GPS, I was able to sidetrack and cut corners off the trail, which greatly improved my pace. I began to hear the river, before I reached the next waypoint and was surprised at how accurate my plotting was. I ended up on the riverbank, exactly where I had plotted it on the map. From here it was simply a matter of following the creek upstream. Which is easier said than done, for I had to make several short detours along the way. 

We came upon a lovely stretch of gravel sandbar, in a shallow wide section of the stream. It was almost a luxury and made walking easy for a time and we relished in the refreshing gentle breezes there. Climbing over a giant windfall, we spotted a family of three river Otters. My joy was short live as they must have scented us, for they quickly slipped into a deep black trout pool and disappeared. No mater how hard I tried to locate then again, it was not to be. The pool must have been a local hang out. I also saw a Wilson's warbler flitting amongst the riverside bramble, his sweet song filling the air with love. He was soon interrupted by the nervous twitter of a Tennessee warbler. Which was only the second time I had ever seen this free bird.

I tried panning in a few spots but found nothing. Here in this pristine and idyllic spot, I fired up my “Bush Buddy” and made tea. 

 We both sat chewing my homemade Jerky and marveled at the fantastic scenery, while watching the river flow. If I had followed my original route I would have missed this lovely place and I had no regrets about the time lost.

 As I was contemplating the thought of building a cabin here, a mated pair of Ring neck ducks drifted by.  Only a few feet from us in the currents, they looked ever the handsome couple in their bright clean markings. Until Zibby moved, they didn’t seem to be able to recognize us. Then they lifted into explosive flight, and kept up a continual bickering until rounding a bend upstream. leaving us to the silence again and the soft chatter of talking creek.  

 Within a few hours we arrived in twilight in the general area of the Doc’s old river bed. Zibby began acting uptight, growling and whimpering under her breath. II was to pooped to deal with her and decide to make camp on an open patch of beach. And while collecting driftwood, I came came across a set of large foot prints in the sand.  Single pair of tracks of either a lone wolf or a coyote., and obviously the cause of Zibby's concern.

 After a quick dinner of bannock and beans, Zibby and I settled in for the night around a marvelous beach fire. One that I kept well stocked and burning bright. I made lots of noise and anything for miles around knew we were there. As I stoked the fire, the smoke drifted up through the pines, and dissolved into a starlit night.  Zibby sat up, hackles raised on her neck, as a lone wolf howled from somewhere back behind us. Thankfully there was no reply.

starchy [:)

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