Legacy

Hello, my name is Jerry Jenson.  You know most of us including myself have been told sometime or other in our life to “Take a Hike”.  Well that might be good advice, especially when one gives it to ones self.

I’m a Midwestern fellow age 52, and that’s the advice I gave myself.  I’d taken a sabbatical from my profession as a high school teacher and decided I’d visit Appalachia or the more North Eastern part of the United States.  I’d wanted to most of my life but just could never seem to have time.  Normally I’d have taught summer school, but not this year, it was time for some adventure.

I decided to hike the back roads of the more rural New Hampshire areas.  I paid a taxi driver from the airport a small fortune to drive me up into the White Mountains for about 50 miles in.  I figured that the somewhat higher elevations would be on the nippy side at night even in the summer; so I started in the mountains and figured on working my way down to lower elevations before fall hit.  I was in no hurry so I shouldered my backpack, sleeping bag and began the journey.  Figured I’d sashay to and from as the mood or interest struck me.  No need to make a beeline out of the mountains.  I wanted to take in all the sights I could.

Indeed I was pleased with what I saw, such backwoods unspoiled beauty is a wonder to behold.  The trees were of infinite variety, the wild flowers, the woodland creatures, all amazing.

There was the occasional babbling creek running under a rustic bridge, a now and again water wheel at an old mill.  Some still operational, fancy that.  The roads were mostly dirt or gravel with an occasional stretch of asphalt paved ones, all narrow, but navigable by vehicles.

As I was walking I came across a farmer in bib overalls and a straw hat.  I though how charmingly typical of the area residents.  As I got closer I could see he was crying his eyes out.  He sat there at the entrance to his farm on the running board of a beat up old pickup truck.  I ask what the trouble might be.

He said “a most terrible thing has happened, he has a small windmill that pumps water to round open water tank for his milk cow to drink from“.  He went on to say “the stupid cow stuck its head in the framework of  the windmill and got it stuck there; and that he was going to town or a neighbor for help and got as far as the gate when a tire went flat.”

I said, don’t you have a spare tire?  He said “yes, but my jack is broken.”  I couldn’t let him use mine because I didn’t have one in my backpack.  So I said let me go with you and look over the stuck cow situation.

We got thereat the windmill and sure enough his cow was stuck, and mooing with great distress.  I looked things over and said well why not just remove one of the cross pieces holding the cow and she can then back right out?  He said “Can’t”.  I said why not?  He said because that brace is a how you say, keystone brace, remove it and the whole mess will collapse.”

Now I admit that complicated things quite a bit. I thought and thought then I had an idea.  I said to him to you have some hand tools and wood and nails around anywhere?  He said “I sure do, right over there in the barn.”  I said why not make another brace piece and mount it two or three inches above the one that’s holding your cow in.  Then you can safely remove the lower one and your cow with a little urging can free herself  just by backing up.  I thought his jaw was going to drop so low it would bounce of the ground.  That seemed like a most wonderful idea.  We teamed up went to work and in no time the cow was free.  He put the old brace back and it was now double braced and stronger than even before.  That was one happy farmer.

I said I also think we can change your tire.  He give me the old, that I’d like to see look.  I said do you have a shovel?  He did.  I told him to dig a hole under the flat tie for clearance to take it off and put the good one on.  After that is done, then fill the hole and back the truck up.

It was a pleasure to watch him go at it as he was very energetic.  That problem solved he turned to me and said ”mister, what do you do for a living?”  I told him I taught High School.  He said   “that’s interesting, what subjects do you teach?” I said woodworking and shop.  He said that’s not surprising after seeing what you can do.  He then asked if I’d been raised on a farm.  I said I hadn’t but always wished I’d had because I thought such would have been a fine life.

His name was Bill Brown and he sure did like my answer. He invited me to stay for supper and the night.  Sounded good to me.  While the dehydrated camper food I was carrying was good, it wasn’t exactly home cooking. And a soft bed to rest my back from the hard ground was nice also.

In the morning I had a classic fantastic farm breakfast with all the trimmings.  Mr. Brown and his wife bade me a fond farewell in the morning as I continued my hike.

I had a spring in my step as I continued down that dirt road, and why not?  I’d had a great breakfast to start me off and a sense of  having gained a meaningful event in my hiking.

After a few more miles down the road I came to another rustic bridge.  This on was a bit longer than I’d been over so far and it spanned a decent sized fairly fast flowing but somewhat shallow stream.  I stopped in the middle to look down stream a ways and the visage was spectacular.

There were three Black Bears, two of them along the bank eating blackberries, and the third bouncing around in the middle of the stream.  As I watched it became apparent he was trying to catch a Trout.  Bears do like them I’m told.

Anyway, I decided to name him Mr. Bumbles because while occasionally he would bat one out of the water, the Trout would always fall back in and swim away.  I guess Mr. Bumbles didn’t quite grasp the idea that he had to catch the trout with his mouth or bat it hard enough to make it land on the stream bank.  He entertained me for an hour, but then I knew I needed to move on.

I walked a few more hours and it was starting to get dark, so again I made camp for the night.  I bedded down to the sound of Loons, owls, crickets, frogs, which all contributed to the nature’s symphony.  I made the campfire twice the size I had been, because after noting bears around it seemed a good idea and I kept me and my aromatic backpack real close to it.

Next morning was crisp and sunny, just a slight breeze.  I made good time and about mid day I came to a very small town; maybe town is an exaggeration, it was small. The sign going into said “Bogstown”.  Well at least the residents thought of it as a town.  Come to find out it was so named because of an abundance of Bogs in the area; which by probably no small coincidence was where the locals grew their Cranberries.  The towns economy was pretty much based on Cranberries.

It was a very primitive place.  Most of the houses and buildings hadn’t seen paint since who knows when.  As I walked around simply entranced by the simple life of these hill folk, I noticed a lot.  One of the more interesting being a very old Granny in her front yard doing the wash in an old wooden tub washing machine where you had to hand crank the agitator.

I hadn’t seen one of those since I was six years old visiting my Grandmother in a very small rural town.  It was so old that even she hadn’t used it in forty years. Now that’s really primitive for today.

If I hadn’t known better I’d have thought it part of a show put on for tourists.  But no it was for real.  I stayed that night in the Bogstown Hotel.  It was a two story three room hotel.  Probably thought to be large by the locals.  Facilities were out back of course.  In the morning I had breakfast at the Bogstown café.  I was beginning to wonder if anything here didn’t have the word Bogstown attached to it.  Anyway it was a two table café and the owner, cook, and waitress was all in one the same person.  The food  was plain, but good.

I departed Bogstown an hour after the cock crowed, which was the free wake up service I’d guess.  I concluded that Bogstown was one of the more interesting places I’d passed through.

Again I was making good time, yet moving leisurely enough as to not miss anything.  I was starting to get out of the mountain areas and into the lower foot hills.  Of course there were indications here and there that I was getting back into less primitive areas.

I went past an old bill board that was well weathered but one could still make out what it was advertising. It was for a movie playing at the Bijou Theater in Whitesville.  It was a Bob Hope, Bing Crosby and Dorothy La’mour movie, I mused  to myself that made it a classic trip’ a road trip without Bob and Bing popping up somewhere, even if just on a billboard is what pulls it all together.  I laughed about it for the next mile.

Just before getting to Whitesville I  came  across a strange visage. It was an abandoned concrete fixture company. On the grounds were   numerous five foot diameter, eight feet long storm sewer sections, also about half a dozen concrete septic tanks.  The tanks were sizable and a whisp of smoke was coming from a couple of them.

I investigated and much to my surprise they were occupied.  Turns out that four Iraq and Afghanistan vets and their wives were making due temporarily in them for shelter.  They had busted a doorway through the ends.

Actually they were homesteading fifty acres each adjoining which they planned on turning into a large vegetable truck farm.  That’s a big undertaking, but very profitable if successful.

They took me up the hill a bit and showed me the cabins they had started to build and the viable well they had dug.  They said there would be indoor plumbing and showed me how they had laboriously dug a large pit and ran PVC piping from each cabin to the pit, then laterals with weep holes out from the pit.  With modern chemicals there was little danger of it ever filling up, and the outer lateral pretty well took care of rainwater.

That was primitive, but effective.  I knew of some farms back in Kansas where that was permitted in lieu of a septic tank.  They said things were nip and tuck and it was difficult to hold on and make progress.  I ask them what the biggest impediment to progress was.

They said it was lack of any vehicles, especially a pickup truck that they could haul material and supplies in.  They said there was a farmer three miles down the road with an old but mechanically sound pickup for sale at a bargain price.  They went on to say they saved every penny they could spare towards buying it, but still fell a bit short.

I asked how short?  They said $200.00 short. Now that don’t seem much in today’s money, but if you haven’t got it you haven’t got it.

I never saw military service myself, but I’ve always appreciated what the vets did for me.  Not being short on trip money I was able to spare that with no effort.

So I gave it to them and said you have your truck now, and I wish you the best.

They could hardly contain themselves, its hard to see grown men cry, but they did and I said stop that or you will have me doing it.  That put some control back and after many hugs I continued my hike.

I went through Whitesville and figured that from the looks of the magnificently colored trees  that fall was upon us.  That is probably the most beautiful time of the year in that part of the country.

I figured another fifty miles and I’d come to a big enough city that I could get commercial transportation home. I was about ten miles on farther down the road I heard this pitiful mewing from the side of the road.  My heart just about broke, someone had abandoned four little kittens; three of them already dead, probably from dehydration.  The third one was a short haired female of the gray and white persuasion.

I picked her up and she made a feeble attempt to give me what for.  Can’t say I blamed her.  I had a bit of a pouch with a sling that I carried over my shoulder to put rocks in.  I’m an avid rock hound so I thought I might find a few on my hike.  I did, but now I had to throw them away to make room for a more precious cargo.

I knew I needed to get some liquid in the kitten very soon as she was weak and close to succumbing.

I had some dehydrated chicken soup in my backpack.  So I made a small fire and heated up some soup.  Then I drained off a fair amount of just the broth, let it cool to just warm.  I presented it to the kitten and she took one whiff and gobbled it up like a kid with a new toy, I mean piece of candy.

Having gotten her fill of soup which hydrated her and gave nourishment at the same time, she began to look a bit sleepy.  She was a little less scared now and I gently placed her in the pouch.  It wasn’t long till she was sound asleep and I thought I could detect a subtle purr.

We became fast friends and communicated well with each other.  If she was hungry she would meeow a certain pitch. but if she needed to potty a bit different pitch.

I named her Clawdea, spelling expressed the first thing she tried to do to me, and the phonetic was like a known girls name.  I knew I couldn’t fly home because they inspect everything about carry on luggage, and x-ray you also. So a cat under the coat wouldn’t get by.  But not to be unable to find a way, I took the train back home.  Train people aren’t nearly as nosy as airport people.

It’s been about a year and a half since I finished my Take a Hike trip. I’m just now getting around to setting the details to writing.  Oops! What is that I hear from behind the couch?  Sounds like a cat choir.  Well I’ll be, Clawdea has surprised me with five kittens.  I guess our little family has expanded.  Now that’s a nice way to end a tale.