Author: Sheri

This is my 195^thpost since I started my blog one year ago today. For those who have read some of the stories, I hope they have given you a reprieve from the events going on around us. Hopefully some of the tales have given you a smile and a glimpse of places you’ve never seen. Maybe some have been educational or prompted you to connect with your ancestors. 

Prior to starting my blog, I jotted down topics, notes, places visited, etc., to determine if I had enough material and stories to write about. I wasn’t sure, but thought I’d give it a try. Growing up in a family of story tellers, I was a bit jealous that I didn’t have wild tales and memories like they did. They always told stories of wild west adventures of those great pioneers who forged trails in the wilderness and survived to tell it. Little did I know that I would be able to muster up 195 posts, to date, and I have barely marked anything off the list! 

Since my first post, you have traveled with me across the country to swamps, deserts, oceans, streams, mountains, and National Parks. We have camped, cruised, hiked, backpacked, spelunked, skydived, rode in boats, fished, kayaked, and flown. We’ve met family, made friends, and seen lots of wild animals. We’ve gone on “destination unknown” adventures, eaten good food, took a trip to the moon, visited ghost towns and historical sights. We’ve chased bandits, walked among tombstones, met heroes, and retraced our ancestors’ steps. We have traveled over hills, mountains, buttes, and prairies. You have met some of my family, sat in my Granddad’s lap and dunked in his coffee, read stories by my Dad and other guest authors, made quilts, and shared memories of my childhood. 

Thank you for sharing my “Back Window Adventures.” I hope you will join me for more. I might have another story or two.

Stay tuned…..

I will admit that my sister was more of an avid fisherman than me. If I was getting a bite, I was all in, but if not, I could think of a million other things I could be doing. One of those things was exploring. I would wander off and climb on  logs, watch for animals, play in the water, examine various flowers and plants, pick berries, and simply enjoy the scenery. Most of our fishing was in the mountains by cold streams. If you haven’t figured it out by now, that setting suits me fine. As I got older, my wandering included a camera. That would (and still does) satisfy me for countless hours. 

One summer we headed to the mountains for a day of fishing and a picnic. My sister had good luck that day. She caught the biggest fattest trout. As soon as we got back to town, she pulled out her prize fish to show everyone. That was a mistake!

There was another fisherman, “Grumpy John,” who didn’t go with us and even though he wasn’t along, he didn’t like anyone to catch a bigger fish than he could – especially a scrawny little girl. His eyes were green with envy and he said, “I’ll take care of those fish for you.” Sis had decided she wanted to take her fish home. In fact, the whole mess was heading south. The fish were put in water and made into fish ice cubes. All the fish would fit in the cooler perfectly for the trip home.

Just a few days later, it was time to head home. Grumpy John said, “I’ll get your fish out of the freezer and put them in the cooler.” It was usually a three-day trip back home. Either the first or second night we stopped to get a room. Daddy was not a big spender when it came to motels. We stayed in a room that looked like a cozy home for bedbugs and other critters. The cooler with the fish was taken into the room. The fish ice cubes needed to be iced down a bit more for the rest of the trip. The lid came off and after a more thorough inspection, it seemed something was missing. Instead of the fish we caught, including the prize fish, there were smaller ones in their place that he had frozen previously.

“Where is my fish?” You talk about mad, my sister was mad! We were too far away to turn around and go back to get her fish. If she thought she could have gotten by without being slapped, she would have said a few choice words. “He did that on purpose!” she said. We all agreed. 

I’m not sure, but I think she might still be holding a grudge against Grumpy John for “stealing” her prize fish. After all, that was the one that got away. 

I thought my dad was a master fisherman, I guess just because he was my daddy. He used a casting rod in earlier years and then he graduated to a fly rod. I wouldn’t say he had the greatest form, but I sure enjoyed watching him fly fish. He cast out his line, then pulled and eased out the line with his other hand, letting it flow with the rippling river, teasing the fish and luring them to take his bait. Sometimes it even worked.

He didn’t mind taking us kids fishing – or his grandkids – even though I think he spent most of his time getting hooks out of trees or kids’ hats, or unsnarling a stick we caught. When it was time to go fishing, we were all excited. We gathered up our gear, piled into the back of the truck and headed to the mountains where the fresh streams were home to rainbow and brown trout. Daddy fished those creeks many-a-time. He knew where the good fishing holes were. 

The rule was, “You clean what you catch.” Another rule was, “Bait your own hook.” We would catch grasshoppers or buy a little cup of worms if we weren’t able to dig some out of the garden or from under a rock. I’d bait my hook and some of the worm’s guts or grasshopper brains would squish out. After we caught and cleaned a mess of trout, it was time to eat them. The best fish were fresh and cooked over an open campfire. They were pretty good just taken to the house, battered with seasoned flour, and fried in a cast iron skillet. 

We ate the trout like a sandwich. We held the tail in one hand and the head in the other (unless it had the head cut off). Gingerly, lightly, our teeth sank into the back of the trout. It was so tender the meat slid right off the bones. Yum, yum. By the time we were done, there was a pyramid of intact fish skeletons with tails and heads still attached.

The fishing bug passed down the family tree. My nephew is a master fisherman. He can catch a fish almost anywhere. One year, while traveling out west, we stopped to mine for gems at a roadside stop. We bought a bag of gem gravel and poured some onto a screen. After shaking out the excess dirt, then came the process of dipping the screen in water to wash away the rest of the sediment. We found several sapphires, garnets, and other gems. My nephew shared a bag with some of his family. He shook his screen and dipped it in the water, shaking out the extra dirt. When he lifted his screen, lo and behold, he had caught a fish! No fishing pole required.

In my next stage of life, I plan to take up fishing again. My husband will be joining me. I need someone to get the hook out of my hat or my britches. After all, I did learn some great skills from my daddy. Here’s to you, Man of the Mountains!

I awoke to the soothing song of the ice-cold mountain stream as it leapt from rock to rock on its journey to the plains. Everything else was still. The tent sagged from the moisture that rested on top. It was so quiet I could almost hear each little drop of water that beaded up and fell. I gently pulled back the flap of the tent and was greeted with the sun already smiling as it approached the valley. It was only 5:00 am but the day was anxious to make its grand entrance and shake us from our rocky beds. I emerged from the tent that shook just enough to shower me with the night’s dew.

Soon the fire was started. Flames licked the sky as tiny sparks shot out from the burning wood and flew into the air. A kettle filled with freshly dipped water from the creek was placed near the fire to get hot. Campers emerged from the tents and lean-to, some clad in long johns, some already shimmied into jeans and wiping sleep from their eyes. They backed up to the fire then found a rock or stump to sit on for their first tin mug of hot Tang or coffee.

Rocks that served as burners had already been strategically placed within the fire ring. Before long, our breakfast was cooking. A few Snow Under the Mountain roots were sizzling in the skillet over hot embers. Those were shifted to the edge of the pan to make room for the hotcake batter. Squeeze butter and honey sat on ready to be slathered over fresh hot hotcakes. We ate our breakfast and discussed where our path would lead us that day and whether or not we would have fresh trout for supper. I never depended on that and carried a supply of other supper options. You eat what you catch, you know, and usually that was nothing.

Fresh cool air filled our lungs and our spirits as we packed up our gear and started up the trail edged with bluebells. Some of the path was smooth and carpeted with evergreen needles. Other parts of the trail were rocky, steep, and jagged. Narrow wildlife trails led through alpine meadows donned with lupine, sticky geraniums, harebells, penstemon, Brown-eyed Susans, and an occasional Indian paintbrush among other wildflowers. As we hiked deeper into the mountains, alpine lakes that looked like they were formed from a giant’s footsteps came into view. They sparkled as a myriad of diamonds danced in rhythm with the breeze on the surface of water.

The sun sank lower in the sky, giving the signal to set up camp. We pitched our tents and started the fire to cook the evening meal. It is a good thing we did not rely solely on the fishermen’s skill (or luck). We managed to salvage enough from the campers’ packs to supplement the meager catch of the day. With the meal finished, everything was washed up and food items hoisted high in a tree to avoid any unwanted furry guests. The evening fire was a time for reflection on the days behind us and expectations for the morrow. Retelling of the day’s events grew with vivid animation and laughter. As the fire died down so did our energy. We banked the embers to keep enough spark alive for the morning kindling.

As the last light faded behind the mountains, I bid the day farewell. With a smile of satisfaction, I pulled back the flap of the tent and crawled into my rocky bed as the mountain stream sang its evening lullaby.

The pictures are from 4 generations